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Author’s Notes. Names
Bibliographic Citations
Acknowledgments
Introduction
The Journey Begins
A Family Tragedy
A New Life
Abundant Inspiration
A Maturing Practice
Autumn Light
Tassajara
Learning the Ropes
Full Immersion
Community as Mirror
The Mirror Cracks
Sangha Encounters
Rope’s End
Save the Body
Study the Self
Fifty Years in Zen
Glossary of Terms
Bibliography
About the Author
The Buddha taught that all beings are interconnected and interdependent. We influence and are influenced by each other and by every experience we have. So it is that many beings, both intimates and authorities, have made it possible for me these past fifty years to follow the Buddha Way. In this memoir I use the real names of my family members with their permission. I use the Dharma names of my Zen teachers over the years and of friends who had roles in my ordination and Tassajara experiences. I use the real first names of friends from my early years of practice. I use fictional names for the two Tassajara monks with whom I came into conflict during practice period. I refer to the Tassajara practice leaders by their iconic role names—Abbess, Tanto, Director, Lay Entrusted Teacher, Shuso, Tenzo, Ino, and Jisha. Their influence on us monks was almost mythic.
Where possible, I have cited bibliographic sources for the Zen chants and verses I have quoted. However, much of Zen liturgy has been handed down over centuries and modified by different teachers. Where I can provide no definitive bibliographic sources, the chants and verses are those used by the Red Cedar Zen and San Francisco Zen centers.
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I enjoyed my classes and teachers. I joined several extracurricular activity groups—Pep Club, Ski Club, and Honor Society. I made new friends and started dating. By the end of freshman year, socially cushioned by this unexpectedly positive reception, I was elected one of three school cheerleaders. It seemed I was on my way, free at last from bullying.
The early summer between freshman and sophomore years passed quietly. I babysat, rode horseback, swam in Lake Washington and enjoyed the welcome Northwest summer sunshine. One evening in July I was babysitting down the street with the two little kids I often sat for. At dusk, I heard a knock at the front door. When I opened it, there stood eight or nine girls with mean looks on their faces—the gang from eighth grade. Among them were two girls I considered good friends that first year in high school. I asked what they wanted. They sniggered they were having a slumber party nearby (to which I hadn’t been invited), and they thought they’d “pay me a little visit.” They pushed their way into the house and stood around in the small living room, joking and poking each other. I asked them to keep the noise down so they wouldn’t wake the children asleep upstairs.
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