I'd like to take a moment to introduce Wendy Johnson, but before I do that, I'd like to say that this is the beginning of a sequence of lectures on the environment, and there'll be Wendy's lecture, and then on the 31st of this month, there'll be one on water by Mikhail, Tayo, and Humphrey, who comes and helps us with the water, and then on that date, there'll be one on birds by a woman named Jill from the Point Reyes Bird Observatory, and then on August 7th, there'll be the one on water, and then I hope there'll be one on stream life, life in the stream, by Bill Cox in October. Big jump there. So I think when I think of Wendy,

[01:11]

I think of her welcoming us back to Green Gulch when Mik and I moved back here. She just welcomed us, and I felt we were going to be comfortable at Green Gulch, because Wendy said hello in such a warm way, and I see that as part of Wendy's way, her ability to make people comfortable, and she's a longtime Green Gulch resident. Many of you know her here in this group, but I know many of you don't know her so well. I mean, she is Green Gulch, even though you don't know her. She lived here since the early 70s until just a couple years ago, and she's still part of the community, even though she lives at Muir Beach now, with her husband and her two, well, with her daughter Elisa, and now and then her son, yeah, and she was head of the garden for many years, for 15, for 12, for 15, I don't know, she's been in the garden forever, one way or the other, and she created the garden as it is,

[02:14]

in large part, and I feel through her ability to harmonize different personalities and different elements, and she can just make it happen, and I really appreciate that in her, and I want to just take a minute to just do a little mini interview, and ask her, she has many, you know, her life is very full and goes in many directions, and I want to ask her just briefly, what brought you to Zen practice? It was really a surprise, I was not looking for Zen practice, I hadn't studied or thought about practicing, but it happened that I was introduced to a wonderful

[03:16]

teacher, and I never stopped sitting, you know, without looking, it was nice to come in that way, through a trap door, and was that a teacher here? It was a teacher in Jerusalem, Israel, you know, one of Son Roshi's primary disciples, who'd been, was serving in Jerusalem as a, you know, an emissary, so there'd be a Zen presence in Jerusalem, he was living in a little tiny house on the Mount of Olives, and I was living in Jerusalem, and began, and a friend took me there to meet him, it was not all I was interested in, but it was fortuitous for me, at least. So she's been on a Zen path for a long time, and I went to somebody who's had a lot of different kinds of teachers, she meets people, and she takes them very seriously, and they're her teachers forever, and I wonder if you could mention a couple of other teachers in your life? I think certainly

[04:18]

my, you know, gardening teachers here, two giants, Alan Chadwick and Harry Roberts, I mentioned them, but there are so many people that helped support them in their teaching, so, and we all learned so much from them, they actually formed this place in many ways, you know, the physical place, very much, and I was lucky enough to be here and be young and be able to work with them really closely, so that's, those were primary people, but I think probably the strongest teacher here has been the natural world, the land and the people together, land and people together, you know. And then also she's had an active life in outreach, she's done so much for people in many ways, and I wonder sometimes where that comes from. I just think it's, I remember Norman Fisher saying years ago, it's just your karmic affinity, you know, you take up, you take up your connection to teachers and to work,

[05:23]

comes out of your, all the braided strands of your life coming together. And now she's... There's no questions Zippy. Now she's doing outreach in a big way, she's actually writing a book, and you know, she's going to reach people. Yeah, I'm going to read you a ton, I'm going to read you two pages of it tonight, because it's connected to the topic. And it is finished, you'll be happy to hear. We've got three full drafts. The very final, I think it'll probably take just a couple of more months till it's submitted to Bantam Press, which will be, it's been a long time, a long time coming, but yeah, that's exciting. So tonight, Wendy's going to talk in general about a sense of place, and we're really happy you're here. You know, I realized it's important for me to let everybody know that I've trained at Zen Center for 30 years, and had wonderful teachers and friends. I think more

[06:25]

lateral friendship has been my real teaching at Zen Center, and tremendous inspiration from the land and from the lateral web worker friends. And I am an ordained practitioner in the lineage of Thich Nhat Hanh, so that's important for people to know. So that means I've had a long relationship, not always easy, with my root teacher, who is Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hanh, living in France, teaching in this country, and very involved in activism and meditation. Yeah, so that's, now that that's over with, let's get going. Have you finished torturing me? I've finished torturing you. Thank you for doing that. It's wonderful to be here. This is a topic, a sense of place, is such an important topic, especially for our times, and living and practicing in a place like Green Gulch, we have such an incredible opportunity to deeply cultivate awareness of place. Place, it's a great word. It's a rich, rich word. Finding your place, getting the

[07:35]

notion of seeking for a place, finding a place, taking your place. The title that Norman, for years, Norman wanted his book about mentoring young people to be called Taking Our Places, because as we grow and learn and become part of the land where we live, we all take our place, not just those people who are matriculating and growing older, but everybody together takes, we take our place together. So taking our place, finding a sense of place, looking for our place, keeping your place, you know, there's that kind of notion, too, of kind of being placed in a certain position. And I think of all the words that are connected to it, implacable, placard, place. I was just thinking about them walking up tonight from home. What a rich word. It's both a noun and a verb, too, to place yourself and to find your place. Wonderful. One wonderful line that I've

[08:40]

always loved from the Shobo Genzo, from Dogen Zenji, 13th century Zen teacher, when we find our place where we are, practice begins or practice is or practice exists. I think that's a wonderful reminder of core Zen work, to find our place. And of course, in true Zen fashion, it's never static, never holds still. Place is always developing because we're so integrated, so much a part of the place that we're studying and looking at. In the garden book that I've been working on for close to eight years, isn't that embarrassing, but it's just the way it is, the beginning of the book comes out of this particular valley, which a friend, when walking through years ago,

[09:47]

a good friend who's a Zen person, noticed. He said, my heavens, we live and work and practice in a valley of ancestors. Green Gulch Valley is a valley of ancestors. And that's really true. You know, it is extraordinarily rich and changeable and a minefield of practice and of possibility of change and of teaching. It seems to me so essentially important that practice, sitting practice and walking practice, our daily practice evolves with a sense of the place where we're practicing. So that just seems quite primary. Years ago, when we began the first apprenticeship program, I remember one of the things we did, I don't think any of the apprentices, they probably all passed out of here from this exercise that we did, but when we welcomed apprentices, the first

[10:48]

thing we did was ask them to spend a morning in the field finding their place. And those of us who've read Carlos Castaneda know about looking for your situal, where you are cited, how you cite yourself, finding that particular subtle place that is yours. So I remember in particular Kevin Rell trying to find his place. Big man, about 18 years old, like a puppy that didn't have a choke collar on and needed one. Coming here and bounding over the fields. And I thought, he will never settle. First we went to the altar, we offered incense, we sat a little bit in the garden and then we invited them to go out and look for their place and said that in two hours I would walk through with the bell and ring the bell and we would reconvene and just talk about what the experience was of staying in one place for a couple of hours. And it was wonderful. We used to do this faithfully to open up the practice period

[11:55]

or the practice period of welcoming apprentices for six months. Those of you that don't know, we welcome people to come here and train in gardening and farming and Zen meditation. It's a wonderful opportunity. So I remember this particular class dispersed and of course everybody's gone. It gets really quiet. It was a Saturday morning, there wasn't much happening. It was April. It was kind of chilly. The ground was wet. I sat in the garden just kind of close to the altar. It was wonderful. I remember that. I remember those sitting days. They were really spacious, timeless days and full of possibility. Here are 10 new people coming to practice with their lives will be so deeply intertwined in the community on and on and on. Then getting up after two hours and walking mindfully with the bell through the fields and there was this large masculine shape lying between the crop rows face down. I think I'll damp the bell so he doesn't

[13:00]

hear. Maybe he'll stay there. This is probably going to be really good for him. It was Kevin. I have such a vivid memory of him lying on the field with his face in the ground. He said it was a wonderful period of time and he wasn't asleep. He was fully alert and practicing face down on the ground. Finding your place is risky business because you don't know if you're ever going to come back. The world that looks like the same world every day depends on each of us to make it fresh, make it new. I think poet Ezra Pound says, make it fresh, make it strange. There's something good, make it strange in the sense of coming to a place as a stranger, as someone who's never been there before. Zen practice teaches us so

[14:00]

deeply that each moment is a fresh new moment, a new beginning, a new opportunity for seeing. Somehow spending that time in the garden was wonderful. Our teachers always encouraged us here, especially our gardening and agriculture teachers, encouraged us very deeply to know our place in new ways that hadn't been explored, hadn't been expressed. I'll read you a little passage from Harry Roberts from the last address that he gave on Arbor Day in 1981. He gave the address in February. Actually, he was too weak to read it and Yvonne Rand ended up reading his remarks. I'll just read you what he said because it's quite wonderful. Here we go. The work you do today may not be realized in your lifetime. He's talking to people who've come

[15:11]

together to plant trees. There are a couple of hundred of us there planting the cottonwoods that are down by the reefer box. We planted them from just single whips that a few of us had gone up to the mouth of the Klamath River where Harry grew up to collect. We'd collected this extraordinary array of cottonwood whips which we'd started growing in the creek. You'll notice when you go down through the field, if you notice the cottonwoods that are actually growing in the creek opposite the third field are from early whips that we cut and brought back in the beginning of the 1970s. Then we took cuttings off of those, just branches, and poked them in the ground in 1981. So in honor of that work and placing ourselves there and creating a line of trees for the future and for all beings as shelter belt, he had to say this. The work you do today may not be realized in your lifetime. Zen is not just for this moment in time, not just for this lifetime. Make sure you

[16:13]

remember this today. We are working for those who haven't yet been born. Everything we do that matters has a lifetime of about 100 years, 300 years, 500 years. If you work with this in mind, then these trees will grow and find their real place in this beautiful valley. These trees themselves will guide you and remind you of who you really are. They will show you again and again where to walk and how to live your life. They'll show you how to garden for 500 years. It was a wonderful teaching from Harry, you know, to garden in the present moment, actively, fully engaged, and understanding that the work that you do may not ripen, probably will not ripen in your lifetime, but in the fullness of time, the work will ripen. Taking your place with that

[17:17]

kind of notion is fairly radical. You know, we don't do many things that have that kind of longevity and reach, but you know, when we do take the time, it makes a big difference. So having a sense of place depends quite a bit on an expanded sense of time and commitment to live fully in the present moment, to act fully in the present moment, and to know your place in the present moment and see that knowledge ripen in the fullness of time. I have to pass around this great relic. For those of you that haven't had a chance, it's been sitting on the Zendo altar for years, which is a wonderful place for it. But I think today it's a good, tonight is a good night to pass it around. I'm going to give it a little hug and a kiss. I love that we have this extraordinary fossil on our Zen altar, because

[18:26]

it actually comes from mindful attention and aware walking. Rob Weinberg, a student who lived here many years ago, had on his day off, was walking in the upper creek, where we're going to be doing some restoration. We'll hear about that from the speakers that talk about the creek. Probably the water people will talk a little bit about the stream restoration. Anyway, Rob was walking in the upper reaches of the creek and noticed this stone and dug it out. It was in the soft, sandy backwater of the creek. Dug it out and asked a few people, what is this? And people said, I don't know, it's amazing. It's something important, there's no doubt. And it was kind of late in Harry Roberts' life and he was a little unpredictable, never really 100% tame. Anyway, Rob took the stone to Harry and said, Harry, what is it? And Harry kind of felt it and looked at it a little bit like what Martha's doing now and just kind of, you know, felt the weight of it and said, it's a mastodon's tooth.

[19:30]

A mastodon's tooth. And Rob was really excited, I found a mastodon's tooth. And he took it to the senior staff and asked for permission to go to the University of California at Berkeley and have it, have this corroborated. And said what Harry had said and the senior staff kind of went, oh my god, it's really. He loved to drink anchor steam beer, which he called fairy piss and he drank quite a bit of that. And for years, poured that over his memorial stone, would hiss with cheap beer. I don't know if it's that cheap, but it's not cheap. What do you think this relic is? Never mind. So we took it to Cal, to paleontology, not only is it a mastodon's tooth, it's the top third of the tusk of a mastodon. This is an incredible find. And of course,

[20:41]

it was discovered, uncovered, revealed through mindful attempt of walking on the land. And through careful analysis and honoring. And that it's been on the altar was great for a number, for about a year. Tayo and I did a little dance where he would take it off the altar, doesn't belong on the Zen altar. I would scurry through and find it, put it back on the altar, then it would be gone. It was when he was, you know. But the mastodon won, it's older than both of us and wiser. But you know, it's a wonderful being actually to have on the altar because it reminds us of the ancestors, the Valley of Ancestors that includes the ancient ones, mastodons, mammoths, mammoth mastodons, dire wolves, saber-toothed tigers, the horsetail ferns that we pull out of the field. They're such incredible medicine for kidneys. Our ancestors, they're ancient plants.

[21:42]

They grew at 150 feet high in the tropical rainforest that this valley was, millennia, millennia ago. So a Zen student can dream deep, long dreams that are laced with commitment by settling ourselves in our place and getting to know it and then breaking open the container that we create, the spell that we create. It's so important to do. When you look at a landscape, it's a wonderful thing to approach land by noticing the mountains and rivers. These mountains and rivers, these mountains and rivers, the mountains and rivers of this moment are the actualization of the way of the ancient and modern Buddhas. A line from the Mountains and Rivers Sutra by, again by Dogen, these mountains and rivers of the present moment

[22:44]

are an actualization of the practice of the ancient ones. That is a very radical statement. Could we learn, could we teach ourselves, could we make a commitment to look at land with that kind of awareness? What a radical act that would be. It would, I think, adjust very much how we approach the natural world. So when you look at a landscape, and Green Gulch is a perfect example of a mountains and rivers landscape, notice the mountains and the rivers. We say the mountains are, in classics and iconography, the mountains represent the masculine principle, Fudo Myo, the, it's a wonderful surname for Fudo, the immovable wisdom king, fierce like a mountain, you know, unmovable, strong, eternal, foreboding, omnipresent, you know, huge.

[23:50]

And then the waters that cut through the mountains soften the paths and open, of course, the walkways through the mountains represented by Kanon, by Avalokiteshvara, Kanzeon, regarder of the cries of the world, the one who sees the ocean moving, another ancient name. So I love thinking of this valley as a mountains and rivers landscape, and the Garden Book opens with a long tribute to that, and to these mountains and rivers of the present moment, and knowing them, knowing them inside out in every way. And, you know, we have this amazing opportunity while we're living here, briefly, 25 years is a very brief time, it's one generation, but it's enough time to recognize that we are actually made of the land where we live in practice. We drink the water from here, the deep water, thanks to all the people that help us keep it pure and potable. We eat the food that's grown in the mountains, the crumbled mountains that are

[24:53]

gathered up at the base of the hills, ancient, ancient soil, extraordinary soil, actually it's heaved up sea bottom, we're growing lettuce on the bottom of the ocean in a way, crumbled mountains, the waters have crumbled them, and we're eating the food that's grown in this very place. So that in itself is a profound teaching, if we slow down enough to actually feel it. And what will it take to do that? In a way we're, Thich Nhat Hanh likes to say that practitioners who follow a deep practice are actually seed people for many other beings, we're like seeds on open land, because we have a stomach for deep sitting, for getting up and walking slowly, for paying attention, and for not clinging too much to what we notice. I really believe that this is a radical

[25:55]

act in our times, to have this opportunity that we have here. And so much of it is provided by the mountains and rivers of this present moment where we live. So it helps tremendously to both do what we did with the apprentices when we welcomed them, sit still on the earth, find your place, or lie down depending on who you are and how you're inclined, no pun intended, to sit still and to get up and to move through the landscape, to walk. Do you know, I didn't know this, but in my research for our talk tonight, I learned that the word mile is from ancient Roman, meaning one thousand footsteps. One thousand footsteps make a mile. Now, a good, solid, mindful Zen practitioner ought to be able to approximate

[27:02]

what a mile is and count one thousand to one thousand, but you have to be by yourself to do that and test this and think, is it true? Let's just see. Depends on your pace, your steps. But the ancient practice of walking a landscape, walking through the mountains and rivers of the present moment, to know your way, to find your place, is a timeless practice and very important. And we have it here, you know, we can, in the Zen Dojo, we practice kin-hen, and when we go out, we practice mindful walking for the benefit of all being. To slow down enough to actually walk mindfully on the earth and print a print of peace and awareness as you go, make the vow to know your place in every way, and then to unknow it as you walk, is truly a radical act. I can tell you from working in the last two years, I've worked one day a week every week with children who do not

[28:05]

practice this, 13, 14-year-old middle school children who have 90-minute sessions in a marvelous garden over in North Berkeley, and I watched them moving through the garden and they are, they move so quickly. It's amazing to actually slow down your pace and join your awareness with the awareness of the land that you're walking on. It is incredible. It goes a great way toward having a sense of place. In Daito-koji Monastery in Japan, in the Book of the Yearly Tasks, there are numerous, numerous references to monks walking, going on walking pilgrimage, going on what Gary Snyder translates, Anya, is going abroad, going abroad on foot, traveling through the countryside, receiving the blessings and wisdom of the land by walking slowly and mindfully. So many, many traditions have this practice of walking.

[29:08]

It's a wonderful way to get, to get the good tidings of the mountains and rivers. I, another fact I couldn't resist bringing to you from, also from poet and writer Gary Snyder, to guess how long it takes if you were to walk mindfully, not hurriedly, but with awareness every day. You'd have to walk every day, all day. How long do you think it would take to span this continental North American turtle island where we briefly find ourselves? A thousand days. A thousand days. That's pretty close. How would that, how would that translate into months? Tell me in months so I don't have to do the math. Think how many months it would take, and I've already given you a hint. Thirty-five. Six months walking every day, coast to coast. Gives you a sense of scale and size.

[30:12]

That would be every day a delightful walking, you know, not, not hiking, you know, not rigorous, but delightful walking. When we settle ourselves on ourselves, as Category Roshi always used to say, and let the flower of our life force really bloom, then we have a sense of our own scale and place in the landscape where we live. And the structure of landscape, as poet Charles Wright says, the structure of landscape becomes infinitesimal. Landscape softens the, how does he say it? Landscape softens the sharp edges of isolation. And I think we know this on some very profound level, deep level. But sometimes we need to remind ourselves, even those of us who love meditation and love the culture of meditation, that we can become like sleepwalkers. Maybe that's just me. Have

[31:15]

others of you experienced that? You become so relaxed. So it's good to shake up the container a little bit and let it resettle. And especially that comes to walking too. One thing that happens, helps, that I try to do periodically is before you go into a place that you know really well, turn yourself around two or three times and then turn yourself around the other way two or three times and try to go in through the gate backwards and then see what happens. You will lose your bearings. Or have a friend guide you in after they turn you around a few times and then let you loose and see if you can't come to a fresh awareness of the mountains and rivers of this present moment. Green Gulch is such a wonderful place to practice all these sneak practices to help us know where we are. Years ago, when I first started working on the book, Linda Ruth gave me this beautiful

[32:23]

statement from Yuan Wu's compiled Blue Cliff Record, from the compilation of the Blue Cliff Record. The essential point he writes, the essential point he teaches, the essential point in learning Zen practice is to make your roots go deep and the stem firm. Root yourself deeply, keep your back, your body straight and firm. 24 hours a day, be aware of where you are and what you do. This is the true nature of this place, Green Dragon Zen place. A dragon is not a safe being. This valley is like a green dragon, you know, from reading the bell when you ring the bell. With the tail of the dragon in the sea, stirring the mists of the ocean and the head up in the top of the mountains. The tail, stirring Kannon's kettle and the head, breathing fire on Stowe's mountains. This valley is an expression of the present moment and of our own awareness,

[33:32]

when we take the time and care to fully know what we're doing and where we are. Now, let me drop down a level and then I want very much to, I have a special exercise for us to do. I think it'll be, I hope it'll be enjoyable. So walking, sitting, watching the land, knowing the land in every way, eating the land, becoming the land, recognizing the mystery of the place, takes us to a kind of anchorage that is extraordinarily important and also very temporal, very tenuous, especially in our times. About a year ago, Martha gave me a beautiful article by a poet and philosopher. Her name is Catherine Gein Moore. She wrote a book called Holdfast. Do you know what a holdfast is,

[34:40]

anybody? Holdfast is a structure, a plant structure, that kelp uses to anchor on the ocean. You know, how would a kelp plant be able to withstand the force of the tides without some kind of rootedness, make your roots deep and your spine straight? Well, the kelp does that, and the holdfast is the actual botanical name of the root structure that kelp has to hold in rip-roaring tides so that the kelp can grow. So this woman is a modern philosopher, and her writing is very close, I think, to Zen writing in many ways. She asks us to really look deeply at what's happening in our times and to find a philosophy and a practice that relates to a sense of place and a sense of a loss of place that characterizes our times. And we sit here tonight with huge populations of the world's people living separated from their place. The

[35:44]

upside-down pear tree that Suki put in the garden years ago after we cut a large pear out, you know, the kids have climbed on it. It's structured over by the kids' play area. It's now covered with beans planted by the children's program with Leslie and Michael and Nancy, and the whole gang of gaggle of kids planted these beans to cover that structure. Now those beans are taken from Kosovo. They're beans that children and people in Kosovo have not been able to plant for two or three years because they've been dislocated from their place. They do not have the luxury and largesse that we have here to develop the kind of stability because they've been uprooted. And in our time, this is a feature that characterizes our times right now. And I think Zen practice helps us see that this is the case and hopefully helps us make some kind of active

[36:44]

response to what this means. So two questions worth thinking about when we think of a sense of place. First question, I'm just going to ask you to spend some time this week pondering, and maybe I know there's discussions or opportunities for talk, but think of these two questions because they're very important ones. First question is, how do we develop a real sense of place when it's so difficult to stay in one place anymore? That wonderful song, No One Stays in One Place Anymore. Isn't it James Taylor singing that song? Carolee. Who is it? Carolee. Thanks. Whoever sings it, it's a good question. So how do we develop a sense of place when so many of us are not able to be rooted in one place? It's a somewhat academic question for us because I think practice teaches us that in the present

[37:49]

moment you fully exist where you are. And yet, I want to acknowledge that for many people they don't have the comfort and protection that we have in this place. So for us to ponder this question is important. How do you develop a sense of place when it's very difficult to stay in one place? When you've been removed, uprooted, whatever. And second of all, a very deep and potent question for our times, how do you develop a sense of place when a place you love and know very well has been destroyed? And I think many of us, I would wager that every single person in this room has had some experience of a place that's been seminal, absolutely fundamentally important to you in your life. That place has been disrupted, changed, paved over, lost. These are the kinds of questions that a modern practice-based, meditation-based philosophy

[38:58]

wants to grapple with. The mountains and rivers of the landscape nurtures us, asks us to examine these questions, to really examine them and to carry them in our practice so that we don't get too comfortable, familiar, grounded, placed. So I offer these questions to you to consider. And, um, how late do we go? 8.30, 8.25. Okay. A little bit over that? Great. Because I'd like to do, um, I'd like to read, uh, to read you a couple of pages with your indulgence from the book and, um,

[39:58]

and use this reading as a kind of springboard to an exercise that we'll do together, a kind of interpersonal exercise, and then we can have some questions. Um, one of the, one of the important, um, aspects of knowing our place or finding our place, you know, taking, taking our place within a mountains and rivers landscape, um, is, uh, recognizing the edges of what we know, you know, what's safe, what's familiar and what isn't. Because we find ourselves positioned right on the edge of where solid land meets the ocean and where, uh, where the edge of the world is changing all the time. We're also about within a 30 mile radius of the, um,

[41:01]

or 30 mile range of the San Andreas fault line. So we are affected by, uh, what is seemingly solid becoming unsolid. This piece has to do with that. Okay. So this is the end of the first chapter, first section of the chapter of the garden book called, The Valley of Ancestors. For each of us, finding our place will be a different, um, we'll see, I'm, I'm having to bridge this because I don't want to, it's, it's a, it's an excerpt. Let me see if I can do this. Finding your place depends on staying in one place long enough for the voice of the watershed where you live to claim you in its own unique tongue. I know this because this kind of claiming

[42:08]

happened to me one night years ago when I stood on the edge of Redwood Creek and watched it break free into the ocean. Only that once in the more than 25 years that I've lived and worked at Green Gulch Farm, have I been fortunate enough to actually see the sandbar at Muir Beach break through with winter rain. Only once was I there at the sucking mouth of the river as it rushed out into the sea and sweet and salt water mingled in the dark. And the voice of the watershed where I live became my own. Every season the powerful Pacific Ocean deposits huge drifts of black sand up against the wide shoreline cove at Muir Beach. Eventually the rain subside, the land dries out from the winter storms, and these sand deposits seal off the oceanward flow of Redwood Creek. That's where we are right now. Those of you who've been down to the beach know that pretty well.

[43:10]

The water level of the creek drops down underground into the beach, under the beach sand, and the mouth of the creek is barred closed with a heavy spew of sand. This sand, the sandbar cleans, dams back the fresh waters of Redwood Creek until the rains of the next winter season flood the creek again and push out the bar. That winter the rains came early. It must have been close to Thanksgiving because we were still bringing in our groaning squash harvest. I had been working alone in the rain all afternoon, one of the charming features that we had in the early days, when we had two acres of squash. I'm not kidding, two acres. We had so much squash we stored it underneath the tans in the sandbar. Pumpkins, zizazas, and they did. Okay, so let's go back to that rainy afternoon. I'd been working alone in the rain all afternoon, cutting the soggy vines

[44:11]

of our huge flat-headed French Cinderella pumpkin, Potiron Rouge des Pompes, and carrying those heavy pumpkins out to the edge of the road where they would cure for a few days before going into the dark cellar beneath the Zenda where we store our winter vegetables. I remember the gleam of vermilion squash in the cold rain. They were almost red in the stormy light, the same color as the living embers at the base of the bonfire we build every New Year's Eve to welcome the fresh year. In the distance, I could hear the sound of rain on the shore at near beach. The pumpkin field that year was the last field before the beach. It was almost dark when I finished the harvest. I was wet all the way through my heavy yellow oil skin slicker. I wiped my muddy harvest knife on the matted grass and laid it across the glowing Cinderella pumpkins as the thick seas pulled me out to the beach.

[45:13]

I stood there on the edge of the Pacific Ocean at the mouth of the swirling torrent of Redwood Creek, the river boiling black and surly in its chute. The wolf ocean gnawed at the narrow bone of sandbar that separated salt water from sweet. Cold needles of rain pocked the cold, dark sea. High above on the cliffs overhanging the beach, the lights of evening were being lit in the homes at near beach. Behind the curtain of rain, one by one, lamplight flared up. The reflection of those lights shook yellow and deep on the thick waves, like warm golden pumpkins bobbing on the black sea. I watched from the mouth of my watershed address with my back to the rain, and when the river broke through the bar with a soft, heavy sigh and thousands of gallons of water mingled at the mouth, I walked home alone in the dark." So that's a description of

[46:19]

the edge breaking away and the borders changing and the mind opening up. Show, don't tell, says Natalie Goldberg. I want you to call up in your sitting a place that has some meaning to you, a place that's formed you. It could be here. It could be anywhere in your world. And give yourself about a minute, and then turn to, I'm going to ask you to turn to the person next to you, and if you know each other in every way, then don't talk to each other like you two should talk to each other. Break that up. And we'll spend a few minutes. I can guide us with a mindfulness belt, just reflecting a little bit about what we're made of and where we come from.

[47:24]

And you know, it doesn't have to be an actual physical place. Perhaps you're thinking of a dog that was part of your life when you were young, that changed your life or opened your life up. Perhaps you're thinking of a certain stony cliff. You don't even remember where it is, but it's so much a part of who you are. And let your remembering include the possibility that this place may not be any longer in your life or available to you, or that you didn't live there really long enough to know it in the way you'd want to. So let your memory include the grief, and don't think too long. So let's enjoy a minute of just sitting. I'll ring the bell twice. Enjoy your breathing. Let your first image be your guide.

[48:25]

Don't rehearse. Just let it come up. Place yourself. The memory you didn't expect come up. And how many people experienced that kind of fresh memory or place that you didn't necessarily expect? Kind of surprising how that happens. Great. And I wondered, would anyone like to talk about what that was like? We have six minutes or so. Five minutes. And how this relates to knowing place. Anything you'd like to bring up? I'd like to share that the place I shared, the person I shared it with, is very familiar with. Oh, that's amazing. It was an extra synergistic effect, value for me, sharing the same frame of reference.

[49:32]

And my place was Lands End, and looking out at the ocean, which is probably the only thing, everything's impermanent. That's the only place that I have a feeling of permanence, because it hasn't changed looking west. So when I turn around and look east, it's changed. That's where the change, the end of the ocean and the beginning of the land, and that was my experience. It makes me think of a line from poet Charles Olson. He says, it's undone business I speak of this morning with the sea spreading out at my feet. A beautiful line. Thank you. Please, John. I found it interesting that one of the places, the main place that came up for me was a place that I didn't, I don't have roots in at all. It was just a place on the other side of the planet that I've been to that just had this very strong connection.

[50:37]

Interesting. It was not there for very long, but it was there. Is that it? It was this planet. It lit up. It's great to be able to trust what comes up into our minds and bodies. It's so connected to knowing who we are somehow, to trust that surprise. Who knows where you'll go next? Yes, Kyle. I didn't actually even remotely settle on a place until I started talking about it. I thought it was really interesting. I just got a cascade of images from at least the last five years of tons of different places and situations that I didn't feel.

[51:39]

They're nostalgic memories, but I no longer feel normally necessarily connected to them. I just thought that was interesting. The place of my past I feel no roots with. It's great. It's unexpected insight when you put your roots down and straighten your spine, make a pledge to look and listen. It's always amazing. Please, this is not to do with my place that came up, but one thing that you said that really struck me as really important is acknowledging what a privilege it is to be able to anchor into a place. To me, the appreciation of a place that I thought about was really significant with that

[52:42]

sense of privilege in mind as well. I just feel like it's so important to go hand in hand, to bear witness by acknowledging the privilege that we have to reach down when there's so many millions of people that can't do that. That's true. No matter what, even though we are somewhat protected, Zen practice is not a safe field. Understanding that privilege can be very unsettling to actually acknowledge that. Then you have to take your place again within the privilege and do something with it, which I know is happening. Thank you for your insight. Anyone else? Liz? I knew I had a memory of painting a garden as a kid, just a little patch of sweet peas, but I didn't know that I remembered what the soil looked like.

[53:43]

When it came to me tonight, it was a memory of what the soil looked like and the color of it, the way the water soaked into it. How old were you? I'm 11. Also, this acceptance that I had as a kid, I had no urges to improve it at all. When I think about it, it was poor soil. It was a tract home. The topsoil had been scraped off and didn't have any organic matter. But I loved it. Also, an interesting part of the memory was feeling a place as a kid in this house in a tract home. It felt perfectly spacious as a kid, but as an adult, when I look at that memory, it seems very boundary and square and closed in.

[54:44]

Actually, the feeling I had as a kid was a lot of freedom. There was a field nearby where we made forks and the mustard. I remember that feeling of freedom, having a place to play outdoors. Really, really fearlessly, which I think about now. We'll see how many parents worry about their kids being out on their own. We were just able to play without saying where we were going, being out a long time. I don't know what we did, but it was fun. Timeless time. Yes, Shannon. I started thinking about one of the houses I grew up in and I was thinking it was going to be a very literal, I remember this room, I remember that room. But as I talked, the thing that became more important was how I grew up in St. Louis where it's really hot in the summer and I would always go out after dark. All my friends had to be home when the streetlights

[55:48]

came on, but I didn't have that rule for some reason and I would just wander around the city streets at night and kind of look in people's houses as I walked by and see what they were doing. I feel like talking about it, I realized why I'm so comfortable just going places alone or moving places alone and setting up house wherever because I felt so much freedom and autonomy at like age 9, 10, 11 just walking down the streets and nothing bad ever happened to me, so I just felt really safe in the world. I will never forget Sean Gregg moving here to Green Gulch from the city and standing at the garden gate and just running down through the fields. It's like, it was such a vivid memory. He was really little and I think his whole life changed when he and Antoinette moved here and he could have that sense of freedom,

[56:50]

which is really rare and not available to so many children now. It's a beautiful memory. St. Louis night. Well, Danny? I was just going to say, I thought of Live Oak Park, which is a block from where I grew up in North Berkeley and then I just started, when I started talking to Todd about it, I just started realizing that like up until I was probably in eighth grade, I was pretty much doing almost everything in that neighborhood. I was going to school, I went to a day camp three blocks away, I was just everything. Interesting. And so when I'm, I really, I'm still very attached to that place and there's been a lot of changes, but a lot of places, you know, the cheese board's still there and there's a lot of things, you know, a lot of places have really stayed and it really feels like a solid, stable place. How many of us retrieved memories from when we were young?

[57:55]

Isn't that interesting? Very interesting. Well, thank you very much for this. I want to close with a beautiful, two, I find inspiring comments. One from writer and naturalist and actually restorationist Freeman House, who's been very active in the Mattoll River watershed restoration, the author and editor of a great newsletter called Up River, Down River. Anybody know that newsletter? I hope I can see it. It's worth waiting for, I promise you. This is a story of, it's called Totem Salmon, this book, and it's the story of the restoration

[58:57]

work that Freeman and his community did to protect and reintroduce salmon to a really depleted watershed in the Mattoll River. In one ancient language, the word memory derives from a word meaning mindful. In another, from a word to describe a witness. In yet another, it means at root to grieve. To witness mindfully is to grieve for what has been lost. That's a powerful statement. To witness mindfully is to grieve for what has been lost and to celebrate also. And then the last word from poet and writer Gary Snyder. This is a poem that Martha gave me yesterday or Tuesday on our way up to meditation. She goes to sleep every night reading this section

[60:00]

from a poet and I think it's good to go out with a little irreverence. Coyote says, you people, hmm, I really can't read this. You people should stay put here. What does that say? Can you read that, Rosie? Or is it just me? Oh, you're struggling to learn your place. Okay, Coyote says, you people should stay put here, learn your place, the good things. Me, I'm moving on. Right? Do good things. Do good things. Thank you. And a wonderful reminder for the children, stay together, learn the flowers, go light, become one with the knot itself until it dissolves away, sweep the garden any size. Thank you very much. I know this conversation will continue.

[61:03]

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