With Patty gone, I busied myself with school and work. I still had to take a few classes to finish my undergraduate degree in painting and I was working part-time painting signs to pay for my education — which was easier in those distant times when rents were low and tuition at California universities was next to nothing.
I also sold paintings. In fact, almost everything I did was bought by someone, albeit for fairly modest prices. Starting at the age of eleven when my father took paintings I’d done and hung them at the University, where they sold surprisingly well, painting was a source of both monetary and psychological support. To take simple, portable raw materials, canvas and paint, and making something that people would want and even pay for, was immensely satisfying.
I came to deeply identify with the role of painter. I invariably had a pair of “paint pants” with so much paint encrusted on the front that they were waterproof and could almost stand up on their own. Wherever I lived, I became the familiar paint-splattered figure in the neighborhood — the mad artist.
Shortly before I graduated, the head of the Art Department took me aside and offered me a full fellowship if I stayed on and did graduate work at San Jose. This came as a complete surprise to me, since I felt like an underachiever, who usually did a semester’s work in a frantic last week of all-nighters. But my grades had been good and many of my teachers had asked to keep my paintings for their “files” — a subtle form of extortion that I was happy to engage in.
I knew that a fellowship was a fast-track to a career as a college art instructor, but I’d already applied and been accepted into the graduate program at San Francisco State. I was tired of living in San Jose, with its oppressive summer heat and lingering memories of my time with Patty.
San Francisco, “the city,” was calling me. So despite feeling flattered and grateful, I regretfully declined the offer.
I sometimes wonder what my life might have been if I’d stayed in San Jose and eventually became a professor of art in the painting department. Things might have turned out very differently.
When I traveled to San Francisco to scout out possible places to live, I answered an ad for a flat in the Haight Ashbury district. Nestled between Golden Gate Park and the surrounding hills, where wisps of fog floated up gray streets lined with ornate, once-prosperous Victorian homes standing upright side by side like faded but still beautiful women, the “Haight” whispered of something subtle and mysterious, stirring in me a delicious sense of hidden possibilities.
It was a diverse neighborhood. Russian and Armenian immigrants, who still owned most of the retail shops and restaurants on Haight Street, had moved in when the once spacious homes were first divided up into flats. Young people, attracted by the low rents and funky ambiance, were beginning to arrive, bringing with them a culture of art and music, along with LSD and marijuana. The term “hippy” had yet to be coined, and the beatnik era, of coffee houses and jazz in North Beach, was just coming to a close.
The house in the ad was a huge, imposing, cosmically ornate, three-story structure standing at the corner of Ashbury and Page. It had once been painted white, but the delicate woodwork gracing its lofty exterior, complex patterns of ornamental swirls and scallops, was weathered and graying like driftwood in the moist ocean air.
Haight Street was a short block up a slight hill. In the opposite direction, just down Ashbury, was the Golden Gate Park Panhandle, a wide strip of tall trees and lawn between two streets.
The house was owned by a bank in Palo Alto, which meant the owners wouldn’t be a cumbersome presence there. I met the agent out front and followed him under an ornate arch at the entrance and up a winding flight of stairs to a landing on the second floor, where he unlocked the door to the flat.
It was complete mess — littered with trash and debris from the previous tenants.
As I looked around inside, I experienced a subtle feeling, almost like being on LSD. For an instant I sensed the previous occupants drug experiences still hanging in the air, like a lingering perfume. Most people would have been put off by the atmosphere inside, but I found it oddly attractive.
The flat had two large main rooms. From the first room, a small round balcony jutted out from under an overhanging arch above page street. The second, larger room, through double french doors, was lit by a huge vertical window that looked up Ashbury towards Haight Street. Next to that a tall bay window projected out around the corner of the room to an ornate fireplace with ornamental mantels and intricate tile-work framing a small gas heater with an open burner behind its decorative metal front.
Past a full length, inset, beveled mirror, was a small kitchen that looked to have been a walk-in closet at one time. Another door led into a commodious bathroom, where a high ceiling soared up above an extra long, claw-foot bathtub.
Since it was such a mess, the agent offered it to me for fiftyfive dollars a month, with no deposit. I took it on the spot.
After thoroughly cleaning the flat, I proceeded to paint the two main rooms a pale olive green, with a darker shade for the woodwork and trim, mixing my own paint to get just the right hues. I painted the bathroom a rich shade of vaginal, reddish pink with darker red trim, and did the tiny kitchen in deep blue.
On Mcallister Street in the Fillmore district down the hill from the Haight, a trove of secondhand furniture stores provided me with mission oak furniture for a few dollars apiece and old oriental carpets in soft, faded shades with sensuous, intertwining floral patterns, whose psychedelic quality I never tired of looking at.
While I was hauling furniture up the stairs, I met the lady who occupied the flat opposite mine on the same floor. Her name was Mary Pat and, as I was to learn later, she was an LSD dealer of some repute. She was nice looking, about my age (twentythree), petite but voluptuous, with sharp features, short, black hair, eye-shadow and heavy makeup over pale skin. All she ever wore were short black slips, dark patterned nylons and shiny, black pumps. When she went out she put on large, dark sunglasses and donned a black trench coat over her slip.
I immediately felt a certain sexual attraction between us, but I was hesitant to get involved with someone living right next door. I also found her a little scary. Ned, who lived upstairs in the attic flat, would tell me in a hushed tone that she was a witch. But then Ned also had a reputation as a warlock, which I think he cultivated. Mary Pat never had anything good to say about him. When she did refer to Ned, her eyes glanced up at the ceiling in his direction and she spat out his name in a venomous tone.
Ned’s flat, at the very top of the building, was graced with a round turret and cupola, where he liked to hold court, surrounded by walls decorated with colorful but cryptic pictures of occult subject matter. A cut-crystal globe hung from the center of the ceiling, refracting rainbow colors in all directions. He was a follower of Alister Crowley, one of the original renegade hipsters, who spurned the social and sexual mores of his time.
Like Crowley, Ned reveled in all things magical and arcane, hinting of mysteries beyond the kin of ordinary mortals. Women invariably described Ned as “creepy” and were afraid to be left alone with him. He was of average build, angular, with a high, pointed forehead and straight, greasy-looking black hair. He told me he’d been discharged from the army on psychological grounds, but he made it sound like it was all part of some larger, hidden plan.
On my visits to his turret Ned invariably had something amazing to reveal to me, which he prefaced by squinting his eyes and rubbing his hands gleefully together while chortling like Igor about to unveil some new monster on an unsuspecting populace. I don’t think I ever saw him smoke or ingest much in the way of mind-altering substances himself, but he liked getting visitors high so he could regale them with his various discoveries in the dark arts.
Ned introduced me to the Tarot cards. As an artist I found their suggestive imagery and associations fascinating. I immediately went downtown to a tiny “magick” store and bought several different versions of them.
Lacking curtains, I’d been thinking of painting something on the big, south-facing window with water soluble tempera paint, as I’d done on the windows in my last apartment in San Jose. Playing with the Tarot cards, it occurred to me that they would be a ideal subject to paint on the window, which was just the right shape for a tarot card — over six feet tall and four feet wide.
I shuffled the cards and picked one at random — “The Lovers.”
I held the card up towards the window and squinted. Perfect. The two large widow panes exactly fit the composition. In the lower pane, two naked figures, Adam and Eve, stood on either side of a distant blue mountain. In the upper pane, under a yellow sun with descending rays, an androgynous winged angel with autumnal leaves for hair, sat on a cloud with hands out-stretched, as if to join the pair of lovers below.
I’ve always been good at copying things freehand, so painting the large image on the window, using high-quality tempera colors, was easy. When it was finished I thought it looked even better than the original, especially from down below in the street at night when the interior lights lit it up like stained glass.
I think it became something of landmark in the neighborhood and I even imagined it set the tone for what was to follow.
When I first encountered Wolf he was standing on Haight Street sucking on a lemon half — which I was to learn he did whenever he was fasting.
“Do you know where it’s at man?” he asked
From the way it was uttered, between sucks on his lemon, the question of where “it” was “at” had vast implications. Here was a fellow seeker and spiritual friend.
Although I’d been reading zen books since high school, Wolf was my first introduction to living Zen, or Zen as embodied in real people. With his simple, direct manner, he sometimes struck me as a total idiot, or at best a god-intoxicated holy-fool. But he could come up with surprising insights into a situation or relationship, uttered in three or four words — that would “stun the common crowd and shut the mouths of the Patriarchs and sages.”
Stocky, with a large squarish head and chiseled features under ringlets of brown hair, Wolf had once been a member of the Gypsy Jokers motorcycle club. More artistic than menacing, the Jokers were much admired for their grubby style and charisma, for which they were even respected by their ruder, more violent brethren, the Hells Angels.
A man after my own taste in sartorial matters, Wolf would find a distinctive article of clothing, such as his thick, khaki-colored coat with a fur collar, and wear it continually, until it became a part of him, absorbing his energy (along with food stuffs and various other substances) and it had acquired a delicate patina of age and venerability, like the robe of some wandering mendicant. He wore that particular coat until it was hanging in shreds down the backs of his legs before finally relinquishing it.
Wolf had a placid countenance, a calmness that gave the impression of great weight and gravitas. There was also a subtle sadness in his large, liquid, brown eyes that belied his gruff exterior. He was an orphan, but when he told me of being shuffled from one foster home to another as a child, he said it matter-of-factly, as if it was of little consequence.
In a neighborhood that was awash in marijuana and psychedelics, Wolf was unusually cautious with drugs, especially LSD. I sensed that he felt somewhat fragile in regard to the ingesting of such substances. I only heard him mention having taken LSD once and when I saw him shortly afterwards, he was visibly shaken by the experience. He said that a homosexual had come on to him in the park while he was on it.
Wolf had found the perfect employment for a former motorcycle gang member — driving a Harley Davidson delivery motorcycle around the city.
One day I was treated to a dizzying display of his motorcycle prowess when the sound of a horn honking vigorously outside my flat drew me out onto the small round balcony overlooking the corner of Ashbury and Page.
The street below was empty.
Then I heard the roar of an engine coming up Page Street. An old, black delivery motorcycle shot into view and zoomed around and around the four-way intersection, from curb to curb in a speeding blur, the side-car compartment lifted almost vertically into the air.
As he sped off up Page street, Wolf grinned back at me and honked his horn again.
Wolf’s lair, a few blocks down Page Street from my place, was at the top of a flight of steep, narrow stairs in a drab Victorian apartment house. On the wall at the top of the dingy stairwell, dwarfing all the other nondescript stains and scribbles, was the word “AT,” crudely painted in large letters.
On my first visit, he reverently handed me his worn copy of “The Three Pillars of Zen” and guided me to the translation of an essay by the Japanese Zen Master Dogen, titled “Being Time” — one of the most profound works by that most abstruse and complex of religious philosophers. “THAT’S where it’s at,” Wolf breathed, patting the page tenderly with a big, blocky hand.
It turns out IT was at many places and no place at the same time.
Wolf showed me through his squalid, disheveled, sparsely furnished apartment like a tour guide in the Sistine Chapel. I couldn’t see what he was so proud of — until he lifted a rear window and gestured for me to climb out onto what I soon realized was a level section of roof, high above the streets.
Stretching out below was a magnificent panoramic view of the city, with precise rows of buildings shining in the late afternoon light, and the bay and Berkeley hills in the distance.
It was there that I first met Hugh Banks, whom Wolf spoke of with rare respect. Huey, Wolf intimated, was some kind of Zen adept, who periodically shaved his head and engaged in long bouts of deep meditation with Suzuki, a Zen priest who had recently arrived in San Francisco from Japan. Suzuki had a temple in Japantown on the other side of the Fillmore District, almost visible from Wolf’s roof.
As the three of us lounged on the roof and passed a thick marijuana joint, I took a closer look at Huey. His hair, barely a quarter inch long, was just starting to grow out again. In an era when most of us sported long locks and thick beards, his cropped head gave him the mad look of someone who had just escaped from a prison or insane asylum. In fact, he was a certified schizophrenic (with delusions of grandeur) who had spent most of his early years in mental institutions.
But it was more than simple insanity that set Huey apart from anyone else I had met up to that point. He had a certain presence that I found strangely appealing. He always seemed to be “on,” like an actor who must pay attention to his every movement in order to fit the part he was playing. He even had a peculiar way of walking, slowly and deliberately, as if watching himself from some distant vantage, with his weight back on his heels and his feet turned outward, like Charlie Chaplin’s character, the little tramp.
Later, when his stringy, blond hair had grown down to his shoulders, leaving a round bald spot at the crown of his head like a medieval friar, with a thick red beard flowing down from either side of his face, his chin tucked in and his eyes gazing upward, he was the image of Bodhidharma, the founder of Zen Buddhism.
When Huey first visited my flat he said that life itself can become a work of art, which summed up my philosophy precisely. His highest compliment was to say that someone was “real,” the implication being that most people were not really real — an estimation which I also tended to agree with.
Huey and Wolf adopted me, informally, as their apprentice. I became their straight man, the foil and audience for their Zen antics. They reminded me of the two legendary Zen cutups, Hanshan and Shidei, popular subjects of Chinese ink painters, whose inexplicable banter pointed to deep cosmic truths.
I was happy to let them show me their favorite hangouts around the city — beat generation holdovers, like the graffiti and candle wax encrusted Blue Unicorn Coffee House, where poetry was spontaneously recited aloud and intense philosophical discussions routinely occurred.
Finally, Huey proudly escorted me to Japantown to sit with Suzuki. After what was, for me, an exotic and delicious first taste of tempura in a tiny street kiosk, we approached the ornate wooden facade of the “Soto Zen Mission,” which had formally housed a Jewish Synagogue.
Suzuki met us just inside the door. After we took off our shoes and exchanged silent bows, he ushered us in, moving smoothly about like a solicitous host. He was very small in scale, but with an impressive presence, an erect but relaxed bearing, crisp dark robes over a spotless v-shaped white collar, and a smoothly shaved head.
He and Huey seemed to have a special relationship, circling in stylized movements and eyeing one another like two combatants, but with obvious enjoyment.
Since I was a newcomer, Suzuki escorted me to a sitting cushion for initiation into the Soto Zen style of meditation. Although Huey had shown me the basic posture, I let Suzuki gently place me into position, basking in the warmth of his attention.
I had already meditated sporadically for short periods over the last few years and could sit in the half-lotus fairly comfortably and even get into the full lotus for a few intense minutes. But I was unprepared for what lay ahead.
Gradually, in my rapidly expanding peripheral vision, others silently entered the room, bowing from the waist with palms together towards round, black sitting-cushions, each on its own wide, flat pad, arranged in a precise row along an expanse of wall. Turning and bowing again to the room, they sat down on their respective cushions and spun smoothly around to face the wall in meditation posture.
Suzuki moved silently about the room adjusting peoples’ postures, his hands touching their bodies with a tenderness that was remarkably natural and unselfconscious.
I checked my position: half-open eyes gazing slightly downward, the natural forward curve of my lower back slightly accentuated, chin tucked in, the crown of my head pointed toward the ceiling as if suspended by a cable, shoulders and arms relaxed downward, elbows out and hands resting lightly on my topmost foot with palms up and thumbs barely touching at a point just below my navel, making a circle or “cosmic mudra.”
A surge of pride came over me. This wasn’t so difficult.
I went over Suzuki’s instructions, counting my breaths from one to ten, starting over at one whenever my mind wandered into fleeting thoughts or sensations.
After awhile I went to the next step — watching my breath, simply letting it go slowly in and out through my nostrils, slightly emphasizing and prolonging the outbreath. Whenever my attention strayed, I pulled it gently back to my breath.
Finally, I felt my concentration was sufficient to attempt the final step — Shikantaza or “just sitting,” the ultimate goal, the pinnacle of Soto Zen practice. Concentrating on the blurred light coming through half closed eye lashes, I explored the feelings in my body.
My body! Holy shit!
My body was screaming at me, “What are you doing, have you gone mad!”
My folded knees were being pierced with hot steel rods of pain and my feet were turning into huge, numb blocks of wood. My shoulders and neck contracted like vises cranking tighter and tighter. I broke into a sweat as time ground to a halt, the ensuing minutes crawling painfully past. I repeatedly imagined standing up abruptly and dashing for the door.
Just as I was convinced I couldn’t stand another second, a deep, resonant bell sounded. I bowed to the wall with palms together, following along with the others on either side. We rocked from side to side, got off our round, black cushions, fluffed them up with both hands, stood up stiffly, bowed again, turned, and very, very slowly began walking forward, each step taking us only a few inches as we snaked slowly around the room.
I looked over the line of shoulders. Up ahead was an exit that I decided I would bolt out of the instant I reached it. But as the line painstakingly flowed past the doorway, I was unable to make my move, as if I was being pulled along, like an object on a conveyor belt.
The sharp sound of a wooden clapper signaled the line to speed up to a normal pace — until we each stopped again in front of our black pad and round cushion, bowed, turned around, bowed to the room, sat, swung around and faced the dreaded wall again.
I nervously folded my legs into the half lotus. To my surprise, I felt refreshed and comfortable as I renewed my efforts to count my breaths and relax into “just sitting.”
When the second forty minute period neared an end, time once again slowed to a halt. The minutes stretched out like hours and I began to wonder if the timekeeper had fallen asleep on the bell. As the pain became unbearable I did what I’d done many times on LSD when things got too extreme and threatening — I gave myself up, surrendered, and threw myself into the void. The pain didn’t go away, but I stopped fighting it, relaxed, and merged with it. Before I knew it, the bell sounded and I stood up, exultant to have survived.
Afterwards, I felt buoyant and naturally high, my feet seeming not to touch the pavement as we walked back through Japantown. I marveled at how something as simple as just sitting still for a length of time could have such far-reaching religious implications. Facing the wall, there was no escape. It was like facing the vast pain of humanity. I thought of Jesus nailed to the cross. Everything, all creatures, the great earth, the entire universe, all of time, was contained within the simple practice of zazen.
After that I started going to the afternoon sittings in Japantown, often walking all the way from the Haight, through the Fillmore, to get there. My own meditations received a huge boost and a renewed focus. Every morning when I first got out of bed and every evening before going asleep I sat upright in the half lotus and meditated in the manner Suzuki had instructed — for the length of time it took a stick of incense to burn down (about half an hour).
I also went to Suzuki’s weekly talks. I felt like he was talking directly to me — as I suspect many of us did. I’ve since heard people say that his English was poor and he was hard to understand but all I remember is how simple and clear were his explanations of often subtle and recondite matters, even to a neophyte like myself. Unlike the recollections of many of his students, some of whom insist that he never even mentioned the word “enlightenment,” my memory of him is of urgent exhortations to develop a “way-seeking-mind” and to practice with all our might, “as if our hair was on fire.”
COMING BACK TO ME
It was odd, but I rarely thought of Patty and we didn’t write to each other. It was as if a part of me had been anesthetized and surgically amputated, leaving only a vague, lingering feeling of something missing, like a phantom limb. I had several brief relationships with other women, but I always felt like I was using them. They in turn could see there was a part of me that was missing in action.
When she came home for the holidays that first year, Patty visited me in San Francisco. We smoked some marijuana in my flat while I regaled her with my collection of new music by the Grateful Dead, Quicksilver Messenger Service and other local bands. She got up and danced, slowly doing a seductive striptease until she was completely naked. She seemed intent on pleasing me and I was happy to oblige.
Later, as we lay on my carpet after making love, she did a strange variation on her old theme of “You won’t love me when…”
“If I died, you’d probably forget all about me and find someone else,” she said.
“I could never forget you, even if I wanted to, ” I replied, before adding, “And if I died, I wouldn’t want you to forget me either — but I would want you to find someone else and be happy, because I love you. I’ll always love you.”
That seemed to satisfy her and we curled up in my bed and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
The next morning we walked up Haight Street, which was just beginning to blossom into the hip center of the universe. We stopped in a little shop run by a jeweler friend and I bought her a silver ring with intricate entwined vines. I asked her to wear it so as to remember to return to me soon. She seemed pleased by my gift and put it on her left hand ring finger.
Later we took LSD together in my flat. When it was coming on I felt like I was returning to familiar territory while Patty exclaimed wide-eyed, “I don’t know if humans beings were meant to experience this.”
We spent the rest of the day wandering ecstatically through Golden Gate park, grooving with the line of conga drums on “hippy hill” and riding the park’s big, ornate merry-go-round. It felt like we picked up our relationship where we’d left off, as if we had never been apart.
That night, driving her home over the Dumbarton Bridge, across the long expanse of the shallow, lower bay, we hardly spoke. A bittersweet sadness hung over us, like the heavy fog that rolled across the turbid, gray water below.
When I dropped her off at her parents house in Fremont I saw them peering out through the curtains. My long hair and beard, along with some hippy regalia, must have been a subject of considerable fascination.
After a last wistful look back at me from the light of the front door, Patty disappeared inside.
SUMMER OF LOVE
This is a likely chapter
One fine afternoon I’d taken a good dose of LSD and was “tripping” while sitting comfortably in the half lotus on my favorite chair — an old, faded gold, velour recliner.
In keeping with my radical idealism, I never locked the door to my flat. People came and went. That day my old friend Gary appeared and sat down in the Mission Oak rocker a few feet in front of me. He held a bible on his lap.
Tall and skinny with granny glasses, straight, shoulder-length brown hair and a full beard, Gary had a slow, meditative manner that I always admired. The two of us frequently engaged in intense, metaphysical discussions regarding the meaning of life.
An experienced astronaut of inner space Gary had reached a point where he was more at home on LSD than he was in the ordinary world. When he was still living with his parents they went away for the weekend and he and a friend decided to try LSD. They drove to Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, which was teeming with longhaired, countercultural types, some of whom were hawking drugs on the street. They purchased twenty hits of acid from a disreputable looking guy who assured them it was “potent shit.”
Back at his parents house they each swallowed a capsule. After what seemed like a long time (but probably wasn’t) they decided their suspicions were justified and that they’d been ripped off. Still, they did feel something. Thinking that perhaps the LSD had been drastically cut, they divided it up and took the rest of it.
Two days spent unable to see anything but swirling energy patterns convinced them that the LSD had been potent shit after all. Gary was never quite the same.
When he came of draft age the Vietnam war was raging and he was worried he’d be drafted into the Army. “If it was me,” I told him, “I’d just commit myself to Langley Porter Psychiatric Institute up the hill from here (the Haight). They can only keep you three days for observation and then they have to let you go. But after that the Army won’t touch you.”
“But what if I find out I really am Crazy,” Gary said.
Sure enough, when he got out of Langley Porter and had escaped the draft, his mental state gradually deteriorated, despite group therapy.
Like many desperate people, as he experienced more mental distress Gary sought solace in a highly structured religion. That’s why he had a Bible with him that day in my flat and it’s why he started talking about Jesus in a manner typical of zealous converts.
I can’t remember exactly what he said, except that hearing about Jesus triggered something deep within me, probably from my childhood when my mother had made me attend church every Sunday.
As Gary was going on about Jesus, I was suddenly transfixed by an ecstatic vision — not of Jesus, but of an overpowering, luminous light, both inside and outside, located above and slightly back towards the crown of my head. As it radiated down through me, time and space and the world around me was taking shape right before my eyes, accompanied by a rapturous elation.
When things returned to what passes for normal on acid, Gary was gone. I left the flat, went down the stairs and walked out the front door. Funky Page street, the sunlight through the moist air, the hills in the distance, my body as I walked in tight-fitting, homespun bell-bottom pants a girlfriend had made for me, everything was transformed by a beauty so exquisite that as I drank it in my senses joined together into a single voluptuous bliss that was to linger even after I had come down from the drug.
I’d been studying the Tibetan Book of the Dead, along with the other books in that series by Evans Wentz. The intense, clear light of the Mind is said to be hard to stay with after one has left the body at death, but those who had practiced and trained during their lifetime could enter it and experience supreme enlightenment. Reading and hearing about it I felt blessed to have experienced even a little of that divine light. But to tell the truth, like a lot of experiences on LSD, when I’d come down and it was gone, I couldn’t find a path back to it.
The main benefit (and danger) of LSD is that it is so disruptive. It throws you out of normal habits of mind and repetitious mental ruts. For someone who is training and striving to break out of conditioned patterns it can be like other extreme spiritual methods — opening up new possibilities for creativity and growth. But it can also be devastating for a person whose grip on reality is tenuous to begin with.
Gary’s mental illness continued to worsen and he ended up living on the streets. One day when I was visiting my folks in Berkeley I came upon him standing in front of Cody’s Bookstore on Telegraph, filthy and stinking, drooling and staring up into space in a kind of catatonic trance. I took hold of him and hauled him to my parents house where I got him into the tub and showered him off.
It was heartbreaking to see someone who had once been an intelligent, fairly normal person, come to such a pass. For the first (and maybe last) time in my life I sincerely prayed to Jesus to please help one of his own who was in such acute distress.
After I’d cleaned him up, I tried to bring him back to reality. But he was gone, unable to even talk coherently. Not knowing where else to turn I took him to the free clinic. They couldn’t do anything for him either and suggested admitting him to Napa State Mental Hospital where he would receive some treatment. As he was taken away I felt a tremendous sense of helplessness.
I visited him at Napa several times. They gave him Thorazine and other potent drugs to get him to function better. After he was released I tried to take care of him but gave up when he wouldn’t cooperate with my stringent treatment plans. Before long he was back on the streets again. Sometimes he would appear at my parents front door in Berkeley, disheveled and confused, looking for me or my brother. My mother claimed that whenever she thought of him or mentioned his name he would show up.
Over time, with help from his parents and stays in hospitals and halfway houses, Gary was eventually able to cope to a very minimal degree. But he was a shadow of his former self. The last I heard he was living in a little trailer in the desert.
Another likely later chapter
“She’s 144 years old and wheeled around on a dolly,” Andy exclaimed excitedly about the “Bruja” he’d heard of recently, “Very famous around here, a powerful healer.”
I was skeptical. Andy, our Mexican American buddy, was sometimes given to exaggeration, especially in regard to spiritual matters. The image of a 144 year old woman, a Bruja or witch, ensconced on a dolly, struck me as farfetched.
It was the spring of 1968 and we had recently settled into Oaxaca in Southern Mexico, where we’d come in search of Hongos, the fabled “magic mushroom.”
Andy and my brother Paul were renting a small, boxy, concrete room that sat atop the corner of a fortress-like home enclosing a large inner courtyard with an impressive, drive-through, wooden gate, which I’d nicknamed “Fort Apache.” They had planned the trip long in advance, saving money and getting the necessary paperwork. When I decided on the spur of the moment to come along, they were kind enough to let me join them.
I had recently resolved to give away everything and become a homeless wanderer. A trip to Mexico seemed like a good start to life “on the road.” Naturally I was without much in the way of money, so I slept in the car Andy had purchased especially for the trip — a dark green and black, ’47 Chevy sedan.
When we hit the border at Nogales I was worried they wouldn’t let me across without the proper papers but Andy assured me it would be OK. Sure enough, when he returned from a visit to the office on the Mexican side, he told me, “They only want $5 to let you across.”
As we drove through the check point the officer stopped us, gesticulated towards me, and spoke loudly in rapid Spanish, which Andy translated. “He says that for YOU they want $10.” I guessed that was because of my long hair and full beard — still a rarity outside of San Francisco. Andy and Paul had both cut their hair before embarking.
I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted or flattered at being worth twice as much with long hair and a beard. Throughout our trip through Mexico I was sometimes greeted with a hearty, “Heey Castro.”
After a few nights in Oaxaca, sleeping in the wide back seat of the Chevy, I was awakened by rapping on the window above me. It was one of the comically attired local policemen, who wore elaborate uniforms with epaulets and ribbons, reminiscent of turn-of-the-century European officers.
I sat bolt upright, fearful of what would be my punishment for sleeping in a parked car. The officer pointed to the lock button on the windowsill of the front door. I complied by lifting it to the unlocked position. He opened the door, put his nightstick on the floor, lay down on the front seat, and promptly went to sleep.
I guess I should have been relieved to have the law on my side, so to speak, but not only did he snore fitfully, he farted mightily, until the whole car reeked of recycled beans.
One morning I wandered away from the main part of town, along the dusty streets of the surrounding barrio. I reveled in the beauty of brightly colored, adobe buildings fading in the southern sun. Walking alone in such unfamiliar surroundings brought me completely into the present, where I felt wonderfully open and alive.
At a wide intersection I stood on the corner pondering which direction to go in next, when suddenly, on the opposite side of the street, a young man appeared wheeling a dolly. Near the ground, on a small platform in front of the wheels, sat a wizened old woman, whose legs were folded flat together and covered by a shawl or thin blanket. Except for a remarkable life-force that emanated from her, she looked to be well over a hundred years old.
The young man and his unusual cargo stopped abruptly at the corner. As I gazed at them across the expanse of dusty street, the old woman smiled, put her thumb and forefinger together and gently shook a gnarled hand in my direction — a gesture like a grandmother would make leaning over a crib to squeeze the cheek of a baby.
I was instantly overcome by a jolt of overpowering love, a love almost sexual in its blissful intensity, unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
In a haze of blinding light I staggered off down the street.
Later, along with a delicious warmth that lingered with me for days, I felt immense gratitude — even though I wasn’t sure exactly what it was she’d given me
*Shaktipat or Śaktipāta (Sanskrit, from shakti – “(psychic) energy” – and pāta, “to fall”) refers in Hinduism to the conferring of spiritual “energy” upon one person by another. Shaktipat can be transmitted with a sacred word or mantra, or by a look, thought or touch – the last usually to the ajna chakra or third eye of the recipient. Saktipat is considered an act of grace (anugraha) on the part of the guru or the divine. It cannot be imposed by force, nor can a receiver make it happen. The very consciousness of the god or guru is held to enter into the Self of the disciple, constituting an initiation into the school or the spiritual family (kula) of the guru. It is held that Shaktipat can be transmitted in person or at a distance.
BLOOD OF CHRIST
I’d always been fascinated with the Penitente Indians — Native Americans said to be indigenous to Mexico who converted to Christianity.
Isolated in the sparsely inhabited reaches of Northern New Mexico the Penitente developed their own austere form of Catholicism, noted for its ritual reenactment of the Passion of Christ on Good Friday. A procession of flagellants whipping and scourging their flesh, blood streaming down arms and torsos, accompany a young man chosen to carry the cross that year. The ritual is said to culminate in an actual crucifixion using sterilized steel nails. Thankfully the guest of honor is taken down from the cross before he actually dies.
When the mainstream church sought to interfere in their practices the Penitentes evolved into a secretive, mystical “Brotherhood.”
In the fall of 1968 I was circling around the Southwest, hitchhiking through Hopi and Navajo country, past false-front cowboy towns, through dusty barrios and along city streets of neon and concrete. Stone “Hoo Doo” people, embedded side by side in the rock walls of mesas like guardians carved in the pillars of Egyptian tombs, gazed down impassively as I went back and forth through Utah and Arizona.
I slept under freeways and bridges, in dry river beds beneath a star-strewn sky, and on park benches and picnic tables. Only occasionally was I taken in by friendly people looking to get high with a real hippie, or when I was really lucky — a lonely woman to lie with in a darkened bedroom.
I was a prototype for the legion of homeless wanderers who would follow in the years to come — wild-eyed madmen wrestling with personal demons on city streets and roadsides. It was one long, strenuous meditation, sometimes spent actually sitting in the full lotus on the sides of rivers or in mountains. I stayed for a short time in an old mining cabin beside a small creek winding through a meadow high in the Colorado Rockies where I awoke in the morning to little chipmunks perched at the foot of the bed seeking handouts. For a few weeks I worked pitching hay bales on a ranch.
Finally I ended up in Penitente country north of Taos, hitchhiking on a back road across an elongated plateau, with the range of Sangre de Cristo Mountains holding up the sky to one side. A series of short rides took me through tiny settlements of scattered adobe houses with old pickup trucks rusting under bare trees and dirty faced little kids staring wide eyed at the long haired bearded stranger going past. I was dressed in a tattered olive-green corduroy sports-coat and jeans, feet encased in old suede desert boots. It was already September and the wind had a sharp cold edge to it.
When I was dropped off late in the afternoon at a desolate crossroads just south of the Colorado border the gray sky was growing darker, the mountains disappearing in ominous clouds. The road was empty, devoid of traffic. Away from words and images to echo my feverish thoughts my mind too was finally empty and clear.
After a few hours without a single vehicle driving by I realized it was not only getting darker but much colder as well. Thin layers of icy snow started flying across the deserted roadway as an early blizzard blew in from the northwest. Far off in the distance a lone light flickered in a ranch house. For a brief instant my mind flew across the expanse of barren landscape and I was looking out through the eyes of a woman sitting inside by the fire.
The temperature dropped precipitously and low drifts of snow began to accumulate in the ditch by the roadside. Surprisingly I didn’t feel cold. In fact I wasn’t feeling anything except an overwhelming urge to fall peacefully asleep. The vision of a long dark tunnel opened up before me, with a glorious golden light at the end of it.
Just as I was getting ready to lie down in the snow by the side of the road a baby blue and white ’55 Oldsmobile hardtop, exactly like one I’d once owned, pulled to a stop in front of me. For a moment I thought it was an hallucination but as I stumbled forward I saw three Indians, black hair and weathered faces under battered cowboy hats, staring expectantly at me. The door opened and they beckoned for me to get in the back seat.
As we rumbled off down the road I was handed a bottle of sweet red port to drink from, followed by a partially gnawed head of green cabbage to chomp. The port, a wine that I’d never tasted until then, warmed up my insides as it went down. It’s been a favorite of mine ever since — as is cabbage, which I prefer cooked, but tasted pretty good raw.
After a few pleasantries I discovered my saviors were Penitente Indians. They seemed pleased when I told them I’d always wanted to meet genuine Penitente. Once across the Colorado border we pulled into a big truck stop at a busy highway intersection. By then a cold rain was falling.
My companion in the back seat offered to buy me a drink at the small tavern nearby. As we sat at the bar drinking whiskey and beer he told me he’d always wanted to meet a genuine hippy. “You look so much like Jesus,” he crooned while gently stroking my long hair. He said he’d taken LSD a few times and that I could stay at their place nearby and take it with them. The thought occurred to me that maybe they wanted to fatten me up for the “Ritual” in the spring. Although I was flattered, I wasn’t sure I really wanted to go there.
A psychedelic vision flashed before me of a smooth dirt floor inside ancient adobe walls, followed by a wave of paranoia as I remembered that the Indians of the Southwest had somehow determined that all hippies were homosexuals. The thought of taking LSD with a band of horny Indians who were also into bodily mortification was even less appealing than the cold highway outside.
I downed my drink and thanked them for their kindness but said I really had to be on my way. They looked on with bemused expressions as I backed nervously out the door and quickly hitched a ride on a big rig truck going west towards Alamosa and Durango.
I’ve since read that dying of hypothermia (low body temperature) is actually quite pleasant, like falling peacefully asleep.
THE BOOK OF CHANGES
Determined to live a life of simple asceticism, when I retreated to my isolated shack beside a pond in the foothills of the Sierras (bereft of electricity and such distractions as televisions and phones). I only allowed myself the bare minimum of reading material — books I thought weighty enough to provide for continued study and reflection.
I selected the Bhagavadgita and Lin Yutang’s Wisdom of India and China (with translations of the Dhammapada, Lao Tse and excerpts from various Buddhist Sutras). I also took a King James Bible, which I would finally read from cover to cover.
But the one book I considered most essential was the I Ching or Book of Changes.
I’d been introduced to the I Ching a few years earlier while I was living in the Haight Ashbury. A friend took me to visit Dusty Street, a DJ at KMPX, the new FM radio station that was featuring the unique music just starting to emerge from the San Francisco scene — an energetic blend of folk and blues that (when it was amped up some) became known as psychedelic music or “acid rock.”
After passing the requisite joint and listening to the Jefferson Airplane’s first album, which she said was just being released, Dusty took a yellow hardcover from a bookshelf. “This is the Ching,” she said solemnly, “The Book of Changes, the oracle, the oldest book in the world.”
She handed me three pennies and showed me how to “throw” the I Ching. As directed, I shook the pennies in cupped hands and then gently slapped them down on the cover of the book. Dusty examined the pennies following each of six such throws and wrote down the indicated “lines” starting from the bottom — a ritual I was to repeat countless times thereafter.
She silently consulted the I Ching for a few moments before announcing the results, “The Caldron, with no changes.” Then she handed me the book, open to Hexagram 50, Ting/The Caldron. The Ting, a bronze food vessel used in ancient Chinese ceremonial meals, is said to represent the spiritual nourishment dispensed by sages and teachers — which is what the I Ching itself would come to mean to me.
Shortly after that initial encounter, I purchased my own copy of the Wilhelm/Baynes translation, which would eventually be followed by several other translations. However, as is often the case with such things, that first version is still my favorite. It’s been criticized for taking a slightly Christian stance, but I think that only makes it more fathomable for Westerners like myself. Richard Wilhelm, a Christian missionary who fell under the spell of Chinese wisdom, translated the I Ching into German over the course of ten years, under the guidance of a traditional Chinese sage, who died as soon as the translation was complete.
I started by reading it from beginning to end, like any other book. I was intrigued to discover that in his introduction, Carl Jung, who was a close friend of Wilhelm, wrote that when he asked it about the forthcoming translation he also threw the Ting hexagram — a coincidence that cemented my high regard for that old Chinese book.
I still have my original, faded, yellow copy that’s starting to fall to pieces now, somewhat like me. I’ve been throwing it at least once a week, sometimes more, for over fifty years — until I’ve memorized all of the hexagrams and can consult the I Ching without referring to a text. I suspect it was originally an oral tradition that could be learned by arranging the two basic lines, yin (broken) and yang (unbroken), into eight possible “trigrams” (of three lines each) and 64 “hexagrams” (of six lines each), linked to numerous correspondences and interpretations. Over the centuries various sages composed commentaries, including Confucius.
Although it is first and foremost a book of wisdom, using it for divination is the easiest way to access that wisdom. Reading it straight through doesn’t grab you the way getting personally involved does.
I’m a diehard agnostic/skeptic when it comes to such matters and for many years my “readings” were often difficult to relate to, but as I’ve become better acquainted with the I Ching it has proven to be uncannily perceptive in many situations. I’ve acquired numerous personal associations around the individual hexagrams. For instance, in the Ting hexagram, the Caldron has come to represent the body sitting in meditation with legs tucked in and the “cooking” that takes place in one’s physical container with the application of time and heat (concentration) to provide spiritual nourishment.
Developing one’s own personal associations and interpretations is better than adopting someone else’s, especially for divination. It’s possible to use almost anything as a vehicle for channeling intuition. One could even come up with a system of divination based on something like random street signs. But the I Ching system is ideally suited for such purposes.
Plus there’s a wise old teacher in it as well.
I can’t remember for sure whether it was a dream, a vision or an acid trip, but there I was, a lone monk walking along a rutted roadway somewhere in ancient China when I was suddenly lifted up in a very cool, low-riding, fifties Chevy coupe, the same model as a rusting, abandoned vehicle that rested on a hillside not far from my shack. Cruising blissfully, I traveled over the countryside to a grassy knoll where a lone figure sat under a spreading oak tree. As I came closer I saw that he was drawing I Ching lines in the dust with an index finger. I strained to see what hexagram it was, sensing that there was an important message for me there, that this person was the I Ching itself.
Before I could make out what the lines might portend, I suddenly found myself standing again at my shack by the pond.
I’ve come to view the I Ching as a teacher and trusted counselor that I can turn to, not just for guidance, but for insights into human nature and the path of meditation.
In divination it has proven to be remarkably reliable, but I nonetheless treat the advice it renders as just one of several opinions. A few years ago I needed to drill a new well on some property where I was living — an expensive undertaking in an area where many neighbors had spent thousands without finding water. I threw the I Ching about the prospect of drilling at several different locations and only one was definitely positive, with the hexagram of Abundance. Although that location would not have been my first choice, after talking to someone familiar with local geology and looking at other wells nearby, I decided to drill there. Sure enough we hit great water at just the perfect depth.
I hate to admit it, but I can think of several important situations where I ignored the I Ching’s judgement, or wasn’t strong enough to follow it, and have lived to regret it.
I prefer using plain old American pennies for throwing the I Ching. The Chinese coins with the square hole in the center, which are often recommended, strike me as contrived. Pennies are aptly symbolic, with heads (yang) on one side and in older coins an open temple for tails (yin) on the other side. Plus copper is a good conductor of energy. I’ve used the alternative yarrow stalk method but I don’t feel it works as well and it’s more labor intensive.
I get the best results when I consult the I Ching about a specific situation or course of action. I also throw it about people. When a new person enters my life the first throwing about them usually proves to be significant. However, I try to keep in mind that the I Ching is a book of “Changes,” so nothing is cast in stone — quite the contrary. What appears negative at first can turn out to be positive later on. Change is the only thing we can really count on.
THE MAGIC FLUTE
Bamboo is admired (and feared) for it’s tenacity. It’s steel-like roots can even penetrate concrete. In fierce winds it simply bends rather than breaking — a model of perseverance under pressure.
It is actually a giant, primitive grass, a holdover from an earlier prehistoric period. Although each stalk or “culm” is distinct from the others, they are all one interconnected plant under the ground. They might appear to be separate individuals — but not far beneath the surface they are living just one life.
Bamboo has many practical uses. The tender shoots can be eaten and the hard wood-like stalks are used to construct everything from fences to flooring.
It can also make music. Since earliest times bamboo has been fashioned into flutes of various types. In many traditional cultures the flute was a favorite instrument for young men out courting. There is nothing so attractive, and penetrating, as the solitary sound of a flute on a moonlit night. The god Krishna is pictured holding a flute to the side of his lips, standing with one leg causally crossed in front of the other. It’s said that the sound of his flute was irresistible to the gopi (cowherding) girls he favored.
MAKING MY OWN MUSIC
What prompted me to think of constructing a flute from a length of bamboo I’d found was the lack of electricity in my little hermitage in the foothills and my consequent inability to play music on a radio or phonograph. Not that I really missed those “conveniences” but I did miss music and I was excited by the prospect of making my own with an improvised bamboo flute.
When I spied a thin steel rod connecting the radiator to the firewall on an antique pickup truck, one of the old rusting vehicles that dotted the landscape in the vicinity of my shack by the pond, I immediatly thought of the lovely white-hot coals that the narrow fire chamber in my cook stove produced.
I took the rod from the old truck and filed one end to a sharp point. Then I sawed off a length of bamboo and reamed out the thin nodes that separated the inner chambers, leaving one end closed. After heating the steel rod in coals until the tip was glowing red, I pressed the hot point on one side of the bamboo near the closed end. The rod burned smoothly through, emitting a satisfying sizzling noise and a light, fragrant smoke.
Holding the piece of bamboo to one side, I blew down into the hole with pursed lips. Then I blew some more. I blew and blew. After a few hours, when I was about ready to give up, a deep, reedy sound suddenly flowed out of the flute with my breath.
Ecstatic, I wandered about for the rest of the day blowing that one low, mournful note, a sound much like an owl would make.
One by one I burned four finger-holes along the top of the flute and finally one for my thumb on the bottom side, adjusting the pitch as I went along. Soon I was tootling happily around, composing simple melodies which became “variations” as I tried to repeat them.
Later, after I’d made a few of those side-blown or “transverse” flutes, I tried my hand at shakuhachi, which are blown from the end like a clarinet but without the reed and mouthpiece — just the open end of the bamboo with one side cut at an angle to make a sharp edge to blow against, similar to blowing on a bottle to get a sound.
Although they can be constructed in a variety of lengths and diameters, producing deeper or higher sounds, the shakuhachi is named for its most popular length of one and an eighth “shaku,” or just over 21 inches. They were developed in medieval Japan by Zen Buddhist monks who formed a sect all their own — wandering mendicants called “Komuso,” or “priests of emptiness and nothingness,” who wore baskets over their heads as a form of self-effacement on their begging rounds and practiced “Suizen,” or “blowing zen.”
Focusing on sound is an ancient method of meditation. It is especially favored in zen, with its emphasis on the present moment. Avalokiteshvara, or Kwan Yin (one who hears), is said to have experienced great enlightenment reflecting on sound, along with the question “who hears?”
After making my first shakuhachi flute I soon learned why it originated as a way of meditation practice. Its main feature is the quality of the sound produced and the intense concentration necessary to bring forth any sound at all, much less the vast range of subtle nuances that are possible with these simple instruments.
I discovered that the shakuhachi was almost impossible to play without a quiet mind. But after prolonged meditation it seemed to almost play itself, my body and the flute forming one unified whole, with the sound coming from deep in my gut and spontaneous music flowing out with surprising quality and depth.
But if I was distracted and lost in thought the shakuhachi refused to play along.
JAMMIN’ WITH THE BIRDS
When I drove around on my landscape painting expeditions, I kept an eye out for bamboo. The shakuhachi is ideally made from the thick, root-end of Japanese bamboo, which can be difficult to find.
On one of my trips I stopped to investigate some bamboo growing beside a tiny stream. It was the typical bamboo usually found growing in California, more like corn stalks than the hard wooden culms of oriental bamboo. However, as I peered into the small grove an odd stalk caught my eye. It looked to have broken and died long ago and was almost completely black in color, but the root end was hard and intact. I carefully dug it out of the ground. There was not enough for a full length shakuhachi — only about a foot of good wood, with a few rings of root to give it thickness and a nice taper.
When I returned to the foothills I shaped the small piece of strange bamboo into a short flute. After I’d finished burning the holes and I blew into it, I was astonished at the timbre of the notes. Shakuhachi are normally rather low in pitch and their music is slow and haunting, almost mournful at times. But this shorter version was light and joyous, the notes fairly flying out in birdlike trills.
I’d already made several shakuhachi and each one had it’s own personality. Some seemed to have more music in them than others. But this small black flute was something else entirely. The quality of the sound and the music that flowed effortlessly out of it was truly magical.
One day I meandered downstream playing my little flute. It was springtime and carpets of wildflowers were appearing everywhere. At a place where the creek flowed through a grove of tall Digger Pines, I stopped and sat on a huge log. The sound of the flute soared up exuberantly in every direction.
Before long I noticed that birds were landing in the pines above me and chirping merrily along with my flute. The surrounding trees filled with hundreds of birds, all singing at the tops of their little lungs, a delirious chorus in a multitude of different chirping voices.
When an old friend visited me and heard the sound of the new flute he was naturally entranced. He was a musician and could play shakuhachi fairly well. He deeply desired that little flute.
I was trying, at the time, to live the life of a renunciate, giving up all attachment. I never locked my door when I left home and always gave what little extra cash I had to panhandlers. I tried not to desire anything that others had and to only accept things that were freely given, without aggressively seeking anything for myself. I often sold my watercolors for less than I could have gotten and deliberately didn’t promote myself or make much of what I did.
So, of course I felt compelled to give my beloved flute to my friend when he departed.
A few months later, when I saw him again, I hesitantly asked about the little shakuhachi I’d given him. “Oh, I forgot it somewhere,” he said casually.
I kept my disappointment to myself but the saying, “Pearls before swine” came to mind.
Not long after that I managed to make a longer, mellow-toned shakuhachi that also had some natural music in it, although nothing compared to the one I’d given away.
Another friend came by and when he heard the sound of my playing he deeply desired that shakuhachi. He’d never played one before, so I told him that if he could get a sound out of it, he could have it. He spent the entire day blowing and blowing, until he was exhausted, but he never got a single sound. So I declined to give it to him.
A few weeks later I caught that same shakuhachi in a car door and shattered it.
After I moved back to the city I continued to make shakuhachi for awhile. I soon discovered that those random-length, unrefined flutes I’d been making were looked down on as “backyard shakuhachi,” not worth playing. When I visited one well-known western shaukuhachi player, he at first commented on the beauty of the bamboo and the quality of the sound of my flute, but when he took it and attempted to play it himself, he frowned and dismissed it as “not in tune.”
I tried making shakuhachi in the prescribed way, with a smooth coating of resin on the inside bore and an inlay of ebony on the mouthpiece, but the results were not worth the trouble and I soon lost interest in flutes altogether.
Now, decades later, with a nice grove of Madake bamboo growing outside my meditation hut, I’ve started to fool around with shakuhachi again. After a little research I discovered that the unrefined shakuhachi I’d been making are called jinashi (unfilled) for their lack of a precise resin-coated bore and the necessary two-piece construction that characterize most modern shakuhachi.
Many jinashi shakuhachi are said to be “in tune with themselves” and not meant for playing with other instruments. Apparently, as shakuhachi began to be used in performances with koto and shamisen, rather than in solo meditation, they had to become uniform and tuned exactly the same. But a certain quality and essence was lost in the process. Now, at least in some circles, the old style jinashi shakuhachi are coming back into fashion.
“All beings are evolved from food” Bhagavadgita
In the late sixties, while on an extended retreat in the foothills of the Sierras, I experimented with fasting. I was inspired, in part, by the fact that I didn’t have much money to buy food. I reasoned that since fasting was reputed to have some spiritual benefits, I might as well take advantage of the opportunity to see what it was like to go without eating for a period of time.
My first attempt ended after just half a day, when I wolfed down the remains of a bag of granola, which tasted fantastic, even without milk. Undeterred, after several more attempts, I finally managed to go an entire day and night without consuming anything but spring water from the nearby well.
I soon learned that it was easier to fast if I stayed busy and didn’t linger when one task was accomplished but immediately moved on to something else that was mentally and physically engaging. I also found that fasting is like any other activity — it becomes easier with practice, almost like exercising some muscles that hadn’t been used much.
Recent research indicates that periodic fasts are actually conducive to health and longevity. Humankind apparently evolved in an environment where food was not always readily available and fasting was normal. Our bodies, ever adaptable, learned to make the most of it.
Over the course of several months, I slowly lengthened the duration of my fasts. I discovered that after three days my entire organism shifted gears. Suddenly I no longer craved food. I felt as if I could go on fasting as long as I liked.
Up to that point, the only benefits I’d noticed was an increase in self-discipline (not to be underestimated) and a new appreciation for the subtle flavors in even the simplest fare. But after three days of fasting, my mind, as well as my body, settled into an indescribably relaxed and peaceful state — a peace that “passeth all understanding.” Suddenly I could sit in meditation, almost indefinitely, without being pulled this way and that by flurries of impulses and thoughts.
My fasts gradually became longer, until one summer, intent on going for two weeks with nothing but spring water, I was overcome with severe leg cramps on the twelfth day — to the point where I could barely stand. I learned later that my cramps were from a lack of salt and other minerals, brought on by walking the surrounding hills in the hot sun — despite drinking plenty of water.
I decided, henceforth, to be more moderate with fasting. I hadn’t noticed any additional benefit after three days and eventually the body will start consuming itself. Vital organs can fail. Longer fasts, of more than a week, can be dangerous.
I eventually settled down to just two fasts a month, on the days of the new moon and the full moon, for a full day and two nights each time.
After several months on that regimen, I was intrigued to discover that not only did I know when the moon was new or full without consulting a calendar, but my appetite disappeared on those days, and fasting was effortless and natural.
After returning to the workaday world it has become increasingly difficult to fast every fortnight. But even when I can’t fast, I still observe the new and full moons by examining my habitual patterns and resolving for the next two weeks to eliminate, or at least cut back, whatever habit I deem might be negatively effecting my health and well-being.
Usually my fasting is from things like alcohol, sugar or marijuana, but I also frequently “fast” from other habits that have become excessive, such as the internet and TV. I’ve even thought of fasting from talking for two weeks, if it ever became feasible, just to see what effect it has on my inner life, and perhaps to tamp down my tendency to jabber excessively.
I think it was Gurdjieff who said that “impressions” are food. This is an interesting view. We can picture ourselves as a very large, one-celled organism, with our senses and mind making up a circle of awareness — like a huge mouth which consumes all of the impressions that enter it, chews and digests them, stores them if necessary, and eliminates them when they are unhealthy or used up. In this scenario, internally generated impressions, such as thoughts and feelings, are essentially the same as external sense impressions, they are also food.
Negative impressions that we consume (or generate), such as violence or hate, have a negative effect on our system, like a psychic belly ache, while positive impressions, such as beauty and peace, are nutritious and conducive to long term health.
With that in mind we might be more careful about the impressions we seek out. I think it is possible to become addicted to the stimulation that negative and violent impressions generate. We don’t have to run away from difficult situations, but we can learn ways to digest them without bad effects and “fast” from them occasionally by retreating to places where impressions are healthy, such as into beautiful natural surroundings.
MEDITATION AS FASTING
To meditate is to fast from impressions, particularly thoughts. The circle of awareness is allowed to return to its natural state, which is clear and open. The incessant stream of accumulated impressions are digested and eliminated — simply by letting them disappear into that original clarity. Eventually they empty out and there is recovery and renewal.
When I’m meditating, if I’ve been over-stimulated by meeting lots of people or from surfing the news on the internet, those impressions, the dialogues and storylines, tend to come back up on me, like acid reflux of the mind. It can take some time to digest and eliminate them.
So if I stop posting on this site sometimes, it might not be due to writer’s block, but simply because I’ve decided to fast from the internet for awhile.
“…the external world is only a manifestation of the activities of the mind itself, and the mind grasps it as an external world simply because of the habit of discrimination and false reasoning.”
In the late sixties, while I was living in a shack by a pond in the Sierra foothills, I visited my old buddy Mel and his new girlfriend, a slender little redhead. They were living on a small, secluded island in the Sacramento River Delta, in a ramshackle house that hung out over the water’s edge on tall stilts that provided support for impressive spider webs woven by large yellow and black spiders, each sitting motionless in the center of her shining orb.
A narrow, floating, wooden dock reached out into the placid, green water where an old boat, which had deposited me there earlier, was tied up. It was not much more than a rowboat with an outboard motor on the back, but we went put-putting merrily around the delta channels that stretched out in every direction, the three of us sitting naked in the little boat with the hot summer sun beating down, occasionally stopping to jump into the river and swim around to cool off.
At the end of the day I walked with Mel to the garden behind the house to pick some vegetables for dinner. The center of the little island was lower than the perimeter on which their cottage rested. As we walked down the path we went past a round bush, almost as tall as myself, festooned with white, trumpet-shaped flowers with soft yellow centers. When I passed close by the bush I felt a familiar psychic rush, which I immediately took to be an LSD flashback. Although I’d never experienced flashbacks, I’d been warned that someday I would.
He explained that it was a Datura bush, grown from seeds he brought back from a trip to the Grand Canyon when he was teaching at an alternative high school and he took the kids on a field trip to the Colorado River Basin. He said they picked some leaves from Datura growing nearby and mixed it with hamburgers they barbequed at their campsite.
After that things got really crazy, with real-looking people appearing out of rock formations and everyone hallucinating and staggering around. Some kids even fell into the river and Mel had to go in and pull them out.
“We were lucky no one died,” he exclaimed.
On the way back to the house I stopped at the bush, reached in and picked a green seed pod, about the size of a golf ball, with little spikes sticking out the sides that reminded me of the explosive, floating mines used to destroy ships. I brought it with me when I returned to the foothills and placed it on a shelf over my desk, where it sat for several weeks. Until one day…
I awoke that morning feeling like I wanted to get high and do yoga. I searched everywhere for some marijuana, but couldn’t even find a roach. Then my gaze fell on the seed pod on the shelf. “Aha,” I thought.
Excited by the prospect of trying something new, I made a hot mug of home-grown peppermint tea, with a generous spoonful of honey, and proceeded to break open the seed pod. Inside was about a half cup of small flat seeds similar to poppy seeds. I chewed up several mouthfuls, washing them down with tea.
“Doesn’t taste too bad,” I thought, as I finished the last of the seeds and sat back with anticipation to wait for the Datura to take effect
It didn’t take long. With unexpected force, wave after wave of body rushes enveloped me, similar to LSD coming on, but way stronger — huge waves of energy that made every hair on my body stand on end.
I noticed that the mug I was drinking tea from was becoming unusually heavy. It was a large hand-made ceramic piece, somewhat weighty, but nothing like this. It felt like it weighed about thirty pounds. In fact, everything, my body included, was getting very, very heavy — as if on the planet Jupiter, with way more gravity than what we’re used to here on earth.
“This is too much,” I thought as I sank to the floor under my own weight, “I’ve got to get rid of it.”
I crawled on my belly out the front door into the morning sunlight and stuck two fingers down my throat as far as they would go, hoping to vomit up what I had swallowed. I gagged a few times but nothing would come up.
Resigned, I crawled back inside. “I can handle this,” I told myself bravely, “I’m a Yogi.”
Taking big doses of LSD had taught me to let the ego die, relax into the fear, and go out the other side to a place where nothing could touch me because I‘d given myself up completely.
As I always did before yoga practice, I slipped out of my clothes, only this time I did it while lying flat on the floor, like a snake shedding it’s skin. I grabbed the thick canvas gym mat, with the red, four-peddled lotus chakra I’d painted on it, and rolled it out into the center of the room where the old floor curved gradually up to a slight peak.
I crawled onto the mat, folded my legs into the full lotus, straightened my back, and gazed over at the undulating, silky, white curtain that separated the main room from my small kitchen. It was a relief to be back on my usual meditation spot. The repressive feeling of excessive weight dissipated.
I don’t remember much after that, except that I know I wasn’t passed out or unconscious. I spent the entire day sitting there, tripping wildly, hallucinating like crazy, leaving my body and showing up in different places. It was jumbled and chaotic, one disconnected episode after another, with memory blackouts in between.
I was to learn later that sitting in the full lotus, with legs locked so that the body can’t get up and run around while the mind is tripping elsewhere, was apparently a good thing to do and might have even saved my life, or at least spared me major embarrassment. Like Mel’s field trip students who fell into the Colorado River, people on Datura (or Jimson weed, as it is called in the Southwest) frequently run off cliffs or onto busy highways.
When I finally stood up, the sun was going down. I’d been sitting in the full-lotus the whole day, way more than what I was used to (I was to learn later that datura was once used as an analgesic for bone setting and surgery).
The drug had apparently worn off enough for my memory to start functioning again.
The next thing I knew I was in Berkeley. I was walking up the sidewalk past Live Oak Park towards my parents house, as I’d done numerous times. Everything seemed normal. I completely forgot I was on Datura. I went up the steps and rang the doorbell. No one answered. The front door was unlocked, so I went in.
As I often did when visiting my folks, I walked through the house to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and peered inside to see if there was anything good to eat. Sure enough, a big, beautiful, red apple beckoned from one of the shelves. I reached for it and in an instant I was back in the foothills again, my bare legs painfully tangled up in a barbwire fence on a hill overlooking the few buildings that made up the town of Copperopolis.
Somehow I managed to extricate myself from the barbwire and stumble back down the hill in the dark. I was grateful I’d returned to my body before I got to the highway — where I probably would have run naked through the town, whose residents were already skeptical of me.
I realized later that without my awareness, my body had walked up a hill that was about the same slope and distance as walking up the sidewalk to my parents house, which apparently was a mental projection in a duplicate body — a parallel hallucination that had seemed perfectly real, even ordinary, with nothing out of place or unusual. The pain from the barbed wire must have provoked an abrupt return to my original body
Once I was back in my room again, I lit the kerosene lamp — only to discover I was bleeding profusely from deep gashes across the top of each thigh from the barbed wire. I didn’t even have a Band-Aid and this looked like it would require some stitches.
I did the first thing that came to mind. I visualized myself drawing light energy from my solar plexus into both hands and then I glided my open hands above my thighs while directing the light down into the wounds. It was a healing ritual I’d come up with and practiced on many an ailment, but never with such success — the bloody slashes closed up and disappeared, leaving behind a clean white scar across each thigh.
I’d write it off as an hallucination, except for the fact that both scars, several inches long, are still visible almost fifty years later. A little memento from the Datura Lady.
I’d hardly had time to compose myself, when headlights shone through the window and I heard a car coming down the hill. I looked out the window. Sure enough, a small Hillman coupe was pulling up outside. It didn’t occur to me that there was no longer a road to my place and I hadn’t had a visitor in over a year.
“What a time for someone to show up,” I thought, “When I’m totally out of my mind on some exotic drug.”
I peered out the corner of the window as three people got out of the car. A younger man who was the driver walked around the pond and disappeared into the woods. An old man with a white beard went and sat down near the edge of the pond and gazed into the water. The third person, a woman, came in my back door, through the kitchen, and walked into my room.
That’s when I remembered I was still totally naked. I grabbed my pants but every time I tried to get my legs into them I fell over backwards like I was drunk. After several clumsy attempts, I laughed sheepishly and stood up to confront my visitor.
She was a stout, nondescript, middle-aged woman with dark hair, possibly Hispanic or Italian, quite unremarkable — like she could be somebody’s mom. As I looked at her, she suddenly changed into a life-sized, color photograph on a cardboard cutout, such as might grace the aisle of a grocery store next to a stack of canned beans. I blinked, and she changed back into what appeared to be a real, normal looking person.
I tried to say something, to explain or apologize for my lack of clothing, but my words came out garbled and high-pitched, like a raccoon, as if I’d just inhaled helium.
I finally gave up trying to talk when I realized that my visitor was speaking with her mind, her words appearing directly in my head as if I were thinking them myself. She said she was the plant I’d eaten earlier and explained in great detail who she was, who I was, how it all worked. She revealed the profoundest secrets of existence, what seekers like myself long to realize, everything.
Unfortunately I forgot most of it immediately.
One thing I did remember is that near the end she said something to the effect that every person was like a drop of water, and that each of those drops eventually flowed into a little stream. The streams flowed together until they became a river and all the rivers eventually flowed into the ocean, which was one, huge, all-encompassing being.
She said that she was like a mighty river. With that she changed into a different person, then another, and another, both male and female, each one distinctly real and unique. Countless faces, one after another continued to appear and disappear — even after I realized I was lying on my bed, fading into a deep sleep.
I awoke the next morning, and sat bolt upright. Was I still on Datura? I cautiously got out of bed. Everything seemed like it was back to normal. I opened the front door and stepped out into the sunlight. For a moment it looked like any other summer morning in the foothills, when suddenly, in a flash, the entire scene turned red, like a red filter had been placed over both of my eyes. I gasped, turned, ran back inside, got back into bed, closed my eyes and tried to relax.
After awhile I ventured out again. This time the colors were normal, but my relief was short-lived — I realized I’d become incredibly farsighted. Picking up a matchbook, I couldn’t read any of the words on its front cover until I’d placed it on the ground about ten feet away from me. I could see a car going up a ridge several miles away, in almost perfect detail, even the people inside, along a road I’d not been able to see at all before.
“Shit, what have I done?” I thought, almost laughing to myself, “I’m an artist. I depend on my eyes. I’ll have to get special brushes ten feet long,”
As the day wore on I was relieved to see that I was getting less farsighted each time I placed the matchbook cover on the ground in front of me. By nightfall my vision was back to normal. Later, when I went to the Optometry Department at the University of California in Berkeley and had my eyes tested, they were perfect, even better than they had been before.
It was interesting to read Carlos Castaneda’s book, The Teachings of Don Juan, when it came out a few years later. He also saw Datura as embodied in a similar woman, but one who is just as evil and dangerous as the plant. Don Juan warns against ingesting any part of the plant, especially the seeds, because she can easily kill you. In the book a paste made from Datura root is spread on Castaneda’s legs that causes him to fly and have various hallucinations. “Allies,” or strange, very real-looking people who appear out of nowhere, also figure predominantly in the book, but not connected directly with Datura — while that’s the only time I’ve seen such beings.
After taking Datura I realized that LSD, Psilocybin mushrooms and Peyote or Mescaline, are in an entirely different class when it comes to Hallucinations. Those drugs merely alter the perception of the immediate surroundings but are unlikely to create completely separate experiences of being somewhere else or of seeing people who did not exist before ingesting the drug. That’s what was so remarkable about Datura — each event, and the people who appear, are ordinary and real, rather than ephemeral or distorted, but they are still total hallucinations, or at least not a normal part of this reality.
Unfortunately the experience of Datura is so disconnected and disorienting that it is both unpleasant and without much benefit in the way of insights or transcendent experiences, such as psychedelics can sometimes reveal. The one thing I did learn from Datura is that the mind can create an entire reality out of thin air. We are dependent upon our senses for a perception of reality. That’s all we know. When we meet someone or find ourselves in a particular physical location, we assume it’s real. Datura showed me everything might instead be “only mind.”
Please be advised — if you’re thinking of trying Datura, don’t. The tropane alkaloids responsible for both the medicinal and hallucinogenic properties are fatally toxic in only slightly higher amounts than the medicinal dosage, and careless use often results in hospitalizations and deaths. The amount of toxins varies widely from plant to plant. As much as a 5:1 variation can be found between plants, and a given plant’s toxicity depends on its age, where it is growing, and the local weather conditions. Additionally, within a given datura plant, toxin concentration varies by part and even from leaf to leaf. In traditional cultures, a great deal of experience with and detailed knowledge of Datura was critical to minimize harm.
Another later perhaps final chapter —
“Treading the secret path, you shall find the shortest way.
Realizing emptiness, compassion will arise within your heart
Losing all differentiation between yourself and others, fit to serve others you shall be.”
Milarepa, at his death.
THE ROAD TO TASAJARA
Mrs. Gretzinger’s old Toyota Corolla hardly seemed capable of climbing the steep, dusty road up out of Carmel Valley to Tasajara Hot Springs and the Zen Monastery that had recently been established there. The little car vibrated and jumped around as I drove us up over row after row of washboard ruts, around sharp corners (hoping we wouldn’t meet someone coming the opposite direction), until finally we reached the top of a high plateau, where panoramic views of blue ridges fading in the distance and the clear air made me imagine we were on a journey across Tibet.
It was the summer of 1971 and my friend Mrs. Gretzinger had taken it upon herself to make sure I got out of my little hermitage in the Sierra foothills in order to visit what she considered significant places and people. I teased her about being “spiritually promiscuous” because she was personally acquainted with every type of religious practice imaginable, from various, often exotic, forms of Christianity, to psychics and yogis — and now Zen Buddhism.
As we drove along a ridge towards Tassajara, she made me pull over by a huge, very singular oak tree growing right on the edge of the road. The trunk looked to be over ten feet in diameter, with huge spreading branches.
Mrs. Gretzinger got out and circled the tree, lovingly caressing the rough bark and putting her face close to it. She had recently lost her job as a teacher in the tiny foothills town of Copperopolis because she had taken her grammar school class out to gather around a notable local oak tree and “listen to what it had to say.”
I think the townsfolk were already suspicious of her for visiting the hippy hermit (yours truly) who lived in the old pump house beside the pond outside of town. “Talking to trees” must have been the final straw.
She didn’t seem to mind losing her job and it hadn’t deterred her from continuing to converse not only with trees, but with various other denizens of the natural world. She said she was ready for retirement anyway and was about to take up permanent residence in her home at Capitola on the coast. Once there she would doff a little bikini every morning, her skinny old body wrinkled from sunbathing, walk down to the beach nearby, wade into the freezing water of the North Pacific and swim until she was out of sight and then back in again.
I would miss her occasional visits. When she first hiked over the hill from where she rented a room from a local matron in Copperopolis and walked through the graveyard and across the meadow to my door, I’d already been residing in my remote shack beside the old pond for several years.
I must have impressed her, because not long after that first visit she brought another old lady with her, who was apparently wealthy and well-connected. They offered to set me up in an ashram for people to visit, where I could, presumably, impart some of my hard-earned wisdom.
I found the idea preposterous and laughable. Granted I’d been meditating and practicing yoga quite strenuously for some time, but I’d only had one moment of real insight and that lasted just a few seconds. Although it was enough to keep me going, it hadn’t left me with much real understanding.
Looking back, I do think that my power of bare, concentrated attention had developed to a higher degree than I realized, because the offer to turn me into a guru didn’t engender the least bit of ego in me (as it probably would now) and I just laughed it off as absurd.
As we drove down the incredibly long, steep grade into the narrow Tassajara Valley, I was careful not to lean on the brakes too hard, lest our little car end up like the rusting vehicles in ditches along the roadside that conjured up images of dedicated seekers abandoning their disabled autos to rush into the monastery, never to come out again.
Once inside Tassajara, Mrs. Gretzinger disappeared into the women’s side of the hot baths.
Left to my own devices I walked up Tassajara creek and found an isolated spot beside the rushing water to meditate. I especially like sitting beside a stream, where the characteristic downward slope provides the same effect as sitting on a meditation cushion, with the added benefit of fresh air and sunshine.
When we’d checked in at the office earlier I’d overheard that Suzuki Roshi was currently in residence. My inclination to sit zazen (meditation) whenever I was alone was given renewed purpose by the thought of his presence there.
I hadn’t seen him since my days in the Haight Ashbury, but he remained an ever-present inspiration. His simple method of counting and watching the breath and “just sitting” had informed my meditations ever since, and I intended someday to become his student.
I remembered how he spoke once of “really meeting someone.” He said that most of us had never actually “met” anyone, that what we thought of as meeting, was not even close to what it was like to really meet someone.
Meditating beside the stream I had an intense vision of Suzuki sitting in zazen. I saw him from outside and inside simultaneously, like I was both myself and him at the same time. His life-stream flashed before my eyes, first in Japan, then coming to America, and then right up to the present moment, as if he were running across time towards me.
I stood up and wandered downstream to the mineral baths. Along the wall at the entrance was a faded mural of a Native American chieftain cradling his daughter. Legend has it that the healing waters of Tassajara hot springs came gushing up out of the ground as a result of the chieftain’s tears and fervent prayers for his sick daughter who was dying as he carried her towards the ocean for healing.
I went into the main bath on the men’s side. The smooth plaster in the big hot pool was a unique turquoise blue characteristic of hot springs from the early part of the twentieth century when Tassajara and similar resorts had enjoyed great popularity. I marveled at the color and how whoever had built the baths had managed to create such a perfect hue, like the blue of the sky in landscape paintings from the same period.
I had the large bath all to myself. Between plunges into the fiery hot, sulfurous water, I was doing hatha yoga and meditating naked in the full lotus, my body flexible from the bath — when suddenly a tall shaved-head monk entered the bathing area, holding a smoking stick of incense between raised palms.
Following behind him was Suzuki Roshi.
I jumped up and asked if I was supposed to be there, or if it was the monks bathing time. The monk assured me it was OK and to just continue what I was doing. Then he left me alone with Suzuki.
I slid into the bath and looked up as Suzuki disrobed (literally) and somewhat awkwardly got into the hot water, one hand held politely over his genitals. With his small body and shaved head he reminded me of the little guys in Japanese wood block prints wearing breech-cloths and running with water buckets.
Neither of us spoke as we faced each other across the steaming water. Normally I’m shy and non-confrontational but there was something about Suzuki so calm and accepting that my agitation and anxiety quickly melted away.
The surroundings faded into a round orb of consciousness, like “seeing” with eyes relaxed in zazen. Suzuki was transparent. I could see right into his mind, except that it was my mind as well, a mind totally clear and open like empty space, free of all discriminations such as self and other or teacher and student.
Since the experience was without images and thoughts, it’s difficult to remember or say much about it — even how long we remained that way.
The spell was finally broken when a feeling of deep suffering and pain arose and Suzuki abruptly got out of the bath and disappeared. I couldn’t be sure who’s pain it was, but since I’d recently been experiencing both physical and emotional pain, I assumed it was mine, reflected back at me.
As I drove away from Tassajara with Mrs. Gretzinger, we stopped at the little spring on the side of the road. As I leaned over for a drink of cold water, I had an urge to go back to Tassajara. Something told me this would be my last opportunity, that Suzuki would die soon.
No, I thought, that’s ridiculous, he had looked strong and healthy. I would wait until I felt ready and then I would return and become his student.
A few months later I learned he had died.
For Suzuki to engage with a wild-eyed stranger like myself on such an intimate level struck me as absolutely fearless and compassionate. He encountered me as an equal, though my foolishness must have been apparent. Even if I couldn’t see my own Buddha Mind, he could. There was no opposition in him, no need to dominate or instruct. Because of that openness, his influence was profound.
Not long after Suzuki died I returned to Tassajara, intent on finally becoming a member of the community and practicing zen there. Immediately upon arriving I approached a young man in the office and informed him of my intention.
“I’ll paint watercolors on location around the area, sell them and donate all the money to Tassajara to pay for my room and board,” I offered.
“You can’t do that,“ he said smiling benignly at my naivete. “Everyone here is assigned a job.”
“But I would be worth much more as a artist. They must need carpenters, plumbers, even lawyers. It seems a shame to let those skills go to waste.”
“Baker Roshi doesn’t want us to become attached to an identity like a job,” he said, referring to the new Abbot, Suzuki’s successor, “He even makes everyone rotate jobs periodically so they won’t become attached.”
“What about him, does he rotate his job periodically so he won’t become attached?”
He laughed, and that was that. Painting was more than just an ego-identity for me. It was a disciplined practice like meditation. I wasn’t willing to give it up in order to put myself under the total control of someone whom I’d never met.
It would be over a decade before I returned to Tassajara again, this time for a week as a “work-study student” during the summer guest season. A fresh-faced and bright-eyed Reb Anderson, who would later replace a disgraced Richard Baker as Abbott, spoke to the assembled new guest students. He apologized for the laxity of the summer practice, hinting that it bore little relation to the real practice periods that took place during the winter when the guests were gone.
“Everyone comes to Buddhism by a different path, with a different story,” he said.
Assigned a bed at the end of a long dormitory that looked like it had once been a barn, I was somewhat distressed to discover a crack in the wooden wall right over my bed which was home to a nest of strange bees, the likes of which I’d never seen before — very large, fuzzy black, and much longer than ordinary bumble bees. They made an extremely loud buzzing noise as they zoomed back and forth to their crack in the wall just inches above me.
Several times during my week-long stay there, when I would try to catch a short nap during breaks in the schedule, one of the giant bees would somehow get under the covers with me and make a dreadful commotion, which sent me hurling out of bed. Incredibly they never stung me.
The toilets nearby, which were touted as some kind of cutting-edge technology, consisted essentially of a hole in the ground which one hung over and threw ashes in afterwards.
Despite these inconveniences, I took to it like a duck to water. The dark figures in robes floating silently up the path towards the Zendo in the faint early morning light, sitting upright in long rows listening to birds chirping and the sound of the creek flowing past, chopping vegetables in the kitchen with my hair tied up in a bandana, as guests peered in awestruck at the sight a real monk at work, and especially the delicious vegetarian food — all helped open my mind to the streams of bliss flowing though that narrow valley.
I had taken a translation of Huang Po’s “Transmission of Mind” with me and when I visited the little Tassajara Library I discovered they didn’t have a copy. I located the librarian and offered to donate it to them but was politely rebuffed with the explanation that it wasn’t the proper school of zen.
So instead I gave the book to a pleasant young fellow who occupied the bunk across from mine. He was working on a medical degree at UC San Francisco. I told him of my encounter with Suzuki and explained that even though Huang Po was the teacher of Rinzai, the founder of a rival Zen school, his teachings were very similar to the Soto school and Suzuki.
At the end of the week we had some free time and I hiked up to a large rock that was a memorial to Suzuki Roshi, placed over his ashes. When I approached, a little lizard scampered to the top of the massive stone and looked directly at me.
I remembered Suzuki’s kindness. Tears streamed down my face.
Even without the opportunity to practice with him further, in that brief encounter he had shown me all I would ever need to know.