98 Sesshin

In February I registered for a two-day sesshin, an intensive Zen meditation retreat on Saturday and Sunday.

"Do you think I can manage this?" I emailed the master. "Am I ready?"

"Yes," the master replied.

I arrived at the temple at 4:20 a.m. Edward, who I had learned was ino, the head student, was already there preparing the zendo and buddha hall for the scheduled activities. Several people who had obviously spent the night there were using the tiny downstairs half bath and the sink in the kitchen to wash their faces and to brush their teeth.

By the time Edward hit the han at 4:50 there were nine of us present, ten when the master joined us at 5:00. I was determined to do well. I understood little of what we were doing or why but I persevered. Since I was new I had not been assigned any of the jobs which required instruction and experience—doan, shoten, and server at meals—so I just followed along and tried to do what others did. Just as they had my first few times at services at the temple, others present quietly showed me and the two other novices where and when and if necessary how to proceed. By late afternoon of day one my legs hurt no matter which leg, left or right, I put on the bottom or on top, but I felt competitive even though I knew how ridiculous that was and I forced myself to sit with the pain for at least ninety minutes before I got up to stretch my legs in ten minutes of kinhin. At the conclusion of the final period of zazen we did not chant Dogen's "Universally Recommended Instructions for Zazen" as we normally did in the evening. Instead we stood in gassho around the statue of the sitting Manjusri, personification of wisdom, on the central altar in the zendo. The master offered a stick of incense and then together we chanted.

"I take refuge in buddha," said the master.

"I take refuge in buddha," we repeated.

"I take refuge in dharma," said the master.

"I take refuge in dharma," we repeated.

"I take refuge in sangha," said the master.

"I take refuge in sangha," we repeated.

"I take refuge in buddha as the perfect teacher," said the master.

"I take refuge in buddha as the perfect teacher," we repeated.

"I take refuge in dharma as the perfect teaching," said the master.

"I take refuge in dharma as the perfect teaching," we repeated.

"I take refuge in sangha as the perfect life," said the master.

"I take refuge in sangha as the perfect life," we repeated.

"I have completely taken refuge in buddha," said the master.

"I have completely taken refuge in buddha," we repeated.

"I have completely taken refuge in dharma," said the master.

"I have completely taken refuge in dharma," we repeated.

"I have completely taken refuge in sangha," said the master.

"I have completely taken refuge in sangha," we repeated.

To bells and bows we filed out of the zendo and to bed there at the temple or—for me and five others—at home. I had hardly slept the night before and my legs, back, and neck ached, but I felt more wired than tired, and that night again I barely slept. For months I had been slightly troubled by my being expected to participate in chants that I did not understand or—even worse—that I thought I understood but with which I believed I could not agree. Now the word "perfect" was stuck in my mind and all night long and then for several weeks after the sesshin I wondered and worried about its meaning.

The perfect teacher? The perfect teaching?

The perfect life?

These were concepts that I had been taught about Jesus and Christianity and from which I had freed myself. If there were or had ever been a perfect teaching and a perfect teacher, would our world be still at war?

Perfect—

It made no sense to me and I tossed and turned.

I had again set my alarm for 3:30 so that I'd have time to make coffee and ready myself before I left for the temple. On day two of the sesshin both of my legs were totally shot by noon and during the final period of zazen I could sit only twenty minutes at a time before I had to get up and walk.

We sat.

We sat.

We sat.

With the usual bells and bows at 4:50 in the afternoon we followed the master out of the zendo and assembled in an uneven line in front of the main altar, our hands in gassho, and three times we chanted the Three Refuges in the original Pali language. "Dudyampi," the master had explained to us on another occasion, simply meant "for the second time" and "tatyampi" meant "for the third time." In each line the final word was sung to one of three variants of a simple, beautiful, and mysterious minimal melody.

We chanted.

Buddham saranam gacchami

Dhammam saranam gacchami

Sangham saranam gacchami

Dudyampi buddham saranam gacchami

Dudyampi dhammam saranam gacchami

Dudyampi sangham saranam gacchami

Tatyampi buddham saranam gacchami

Tatyampi dhammam saranam gacchami

Tatyampi sangham saranam gacchami

We bowed.

The sesshin was over. The master thanked us, we thanked him. Doan and shoten and others familiar with the drill did what needed to be done to put the temple back in order. We gathered our things, said goodbye, put on our coats, and sat on the porch to pull on our shoes. I felt both satisfaction and relief as I drove home to tell my wife all about it. My fellow practitioners and I had sat, we had walked, we had eaten, we had washed and dried the dishes and put them away, we had cleaned the temple, we had listened to dharma talk by the master, we had chanted, we had bowed, we had even taken short breaks though we were not permitted to sleep, to talk, or to read, but mainly we had sat.