an afternoon with david chadwick

david chadwick, at talking leaves library, sanur, bali, 8 february 2026

erring cloud sangha/ talk transcript / february 10, 2026

Yesterday, April 14, I contacted David's wife Katrinka, to ask if I could go to their home to pay David a visit. She got back to me to announce that David had passed on February 24 and that a big ceremony was held for him at Green Gulch Farm (Green Dragon Temple), in Marin County, California, on Sunday April 12. In light of his passing, sadly, the goodbye I said to him that afternoon was a farewell. When never know when goodbyes become farewells, do we? We do know, however, that a single farewell carries in its wake all the goodbyes of the world.

Sixty years of practice. What did you gain? Not very much, actually. The crooked cucumber remains crooked—and this is the teaching. Mountains become something other than mountains, then become mountains again. The last words of both the Buddha and Dogen were not complex—they were simple enough for a child of seven to understand, and difficult enough that an old man of eighty still cannot practice them. The journey starts with one beginning to remember who one truly is and not stopping there, moving on, continuing with the pilgrimage, ending up truly forgetting oneself, forgetting the journey and the purpose of it all. The rememebrign that is a forgetting, the forgetting that is at its core the remembrence of the inseparability of oneself and what in Buddhism is called the thousand things, meaning, all beings.

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Hamid:

I had an opportunity on Sunday to go with my old friend, Jivan, who also lives in Bali and who attended some of our sessions earlier on, to pay a visit and participate in a talk given by David Chadwick, who is a very well-known figure in American Zen. He is now in his mid eighties and had retired for some years to Bali. In his younger years he was able to somehow find his way to San Francisco and meet Shunryu Suzuki, who in 1958 was sent by the Sotoshu ( the Japenese Zen establishment) to bring the teachings of Zen to an American audience—and to offer spiritual support for the Japanese community in America.

David Chadwick met him when he was a very young man and was ordained by him in 1971, I think—so that’s a long time ago. David has has dedicated much of his time over the years to documenting and gathering information about the life and work of his teacher. He has published a very well-known biography of him called Crooked Cucumber: The Life of Master Shunryu Suzuki. “Crooked Cucumber” was the name that Suzuki’s own master had given him, because he felt there was no way of straightening this person out. A crooked cucumber became his Zen name. In Zen, sometimes your teachers give you names that apparently on the surface seem derogatory or disparaging, but they actually convey sense of trust in the person's capacity to go far with their practice of the dharma.

David also has a website called cuke.com, in which he gathers all kinds of information about the life and teachings of Master Suzuki. He has also written a few other Zen related books books. So he was there to give a talk about his own work and the books he has edited of the teachings of Master Suzuki.

In a short span of time, in three years, I was able to meet my own teacher in France in September, and this time I was able to see David Chadwick. My own master was somehow in contact with, and studied with, Kodo Sawaki—also a legendary Zen teacher—and Chadwick was a disciple of Shunryu Suzuki, who was a pioneering figure in Western American Zen. And his book that was compiled by his students after his death, published posthumously the year he was about to die—Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind—is the most widely read, published, and republished Zen book in the West. It’s a classic.

So what struck me? I had already seen David Chadwick three years earlier, but this time seemed very diminished and later I was to learn that he was very sick. People were asking him about these sixty years of practice, these sixty years of being exposed to the Dharma and to the teachings, and what came across the strongest was the fact that—I mean, he is very ill, he has cancer, and he’s doing chemo, and he’s very weak. But he was very lucid and going deep in engaging with the questions.

What I took, which took me some time to process, was that when people were asking him questions about his experiences and what he had gathered from all these years of being exposed to the teachings—and some of the people there were also Zen practitioners, I found out, who live in Bali in another part of the island—it felt like he had nothing really special to say. It was like nothing really stood out. You would not say, “Oh, this was extraordinary, he had an extraordinary experience, and he’s talking to us about something that feels out of the common and special.” That sense was altogether absent, he was speaking about something that felt quite everyday, quite ordinary.

He has gathered all these years of experience and he’s talking to us from a place of someone who has been in touch with great teachers, great teachings, and practice and learning and writing. And yet at the end, there was not much he could say about all of that. Now, he talked a lot, but what struck me was that it was not what he was actually saying so much. It was just seeing him, the person, and then speaking with him afterwards—all of that did in no way make of him someone who felt in any way that they were different than anyone else. That’s what I want to say, there was no sense of anything standing out, there was no dispaly of any self-identity, self-image, what was there was a sense of transparancy and openess to what was presenting itself to him.

The question came up a couple of times: “What has this practice brought to you? What did you get out of all of this?” And he just said, “Not very much, actually.” He came across as very approachable, personable and humble. His presence and the conversations he had—what I took from it—is a culmination of that famous koan that I sometimes mention in talks. There is this Chinese master who, at the end of his life, like David seems to be at the end of his life, says that when he began engaging the way and practicing, when he looked at things outside, at everyday reality, he saw mountains that looked like mountains and rivers that appeared as rivers to him. But after many years of intense practice, when he now looked at the mountains, the mountains no longer appeared as mountains, and when he looked at the rivers, the rivers no longer looked like rivers. He looked at them and saw them under a different light, something in the way he was looking at them had now transformed.That must have been astonishing. But continuing with his practice and coming closer to the end of his journey, when he looked at a mountain again now, he just saw a mountain, and when he looked at a river, he again saw just a river.

And I think that the most simple way of understanding it—because it is not a very complicated koan or story—is that no matter what that experience was that made you look at things from a very different perspective and see yourself as a different person for being able to see things differently, let’s say from a perspective of enlightenment, which is seeing things as they are, stripped of our delusory and discriminatory way of thinking, seeing things exactly in their suchness, devoid of all the concepts that the mind creates in order to apprehend phenomena—at the end, you come back to seeing things as you saw them initially, without having any idea that there is something behind what you are seeing.

When practice brings you to awakening, it does not make of you someone fundamentally different from the person you were when you began your journey. At the end of your journey, you somehow go back to that place where you started—which some of you may recall echoes these lines of T. S. Eliot in his Four Quartets: “At the end of all our exploring, we will come back to where we started, and we will see that place for the first time.” Now that first time is; it is just this, it is just how things are in this moment.

So it felt to me that the quality I saw in David, in his presence, was that what he was emanating was a sense of ordinariness. “Here I am after years, decades of practice, but practice has not made of me someone who can stand out and portray myself as a depository of an experience that feels fundamentally different than the experiences that you are having with me in this room right now.” And that was something that really touched me. At no moment did I feel this person was referring to anything particularly extraordinary, particularly special. And that gave me a sense of great humility.

Because not only is he versed in Zen, he’s versed in Advaita, in Hindu mysticism, and in Meister Eckhart, because he also talked about him. But at the end, he came across as this person who’s gone through all these journeys, just to become himself again.

Now, this takes me to the last chapter of the Shobogenzo; Hachi Dainingaku, in Japanese. Hachi means eight, gaku means qualities, dainin means accomplished person, or true person.

Interestingly, they are the last sayings of Master Dogen, his last writings. When he finishes writing them, or is near completing them, late in the fall of 1252, he falls ill and his disciples decide to take him to Kyoto, which was the capital then, to receive treatment for his illness. And once he arrives, soon after, he passes away—he doesn’t respond to the treatment—early in 1253. So these were his last teachings, and they mirror, interestingly, the last teachings of the Buddha, because the Buddha’s last sermon, part of the chapters of the Parinirvana Sutra, is also about the eight qualities of the accomplished person, of the dignified or the true person. Master Uchiyama translates the title as “Eight Aspects of the Awakening of Great Beings.”

Master Uchiyama writes a commentary about these teachings that I read, and would like to talk to you about. These are the parting words, both of the Buddha and of Master Dogen, and they bring some essential aspects of the teachings, as if those were the departing words they wanted to leave with their disciples before they left the world.

The eight qualities—and they overlap with the six paramitas, which are also essential teachings in Mahayana Buddhism—are: one, having few desires; two, knowing one has enough; three, appreciating serenity or quietude; four, making diligent effort; five, not losing sight of the true Dharma; six, concentrating, or sitting in dhyana, in Zen; seven, practicing wisdom; and eight, not engaging in useless argument—which can refer to one of the Eightfold Path guidelines that the Buddha also teaches at the end of the Four Noble Truths, which is Right Speech, which takes us back to the practice of being very mindful of the words that one uses and not letting discriminatory thinking have us talk and argue unnecessarily.

Of these eight qualities, Master Uchiyama says: “These qualities are what an adult should know and be clear about.” The chapter begins: “All the various Buddhas are great people.” From here we realize that we are not adults in our everyday way of living, but still children. The opening lines mean: to become a true adult is of ultimate value.

So that’s something I would like to discuss more with you—to be a true adult, a person that is mature, a person that is no longer driven by the three poisonous minds: anger, greed, and ignorance. Those qualities, when awakened to the Dharma and to the teachings, do not make of us someone special—they make of us a grown-up person, a fully-fledged adult. We awaken from our immaturity, which is one way of talking about our delusions.

This has been mentioned, and you can read it in the teachings of Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche. What he constantly brought to the attention of his disciples and students, more than “wake up”—which was to awaken from the delusion of a separate self—was constantly “grow up, grow up.” He would constantly admonish them to grow up, to become this adult that this text of Master Dogen is talking about.

That’s why I mentioned this with regard to David, because I really felt in his presence that he embodied those qualities of the dainin, the dignified person, the accomplished person, the adult who had embodied the teachings—the eight aspects of the awakening of great beings. I felt in his presence that he manifested that. But this will be the topic of another talk in detail, and I want to take more time.

I just wanted to honor this person. And if you wish to know more about him, you can go online. I asked him actually—I shared the message that I put on the group with him—and I said, “If there’s any one of your books that you feel our friends would benefit most from reading, please recommend that to me and I will share it with them.” So hopefully he will tell me and I will be able to share it with you.

It’s not every day in Bali that I have the opportunity of meeting a dignified person who has these qualities that Master Dogen and the Buddha mentioned in the Hachi Dainingaku, the eight qualities of the true person of the way. I just want to testify and witness that moment of encounter with you. Thank you for your attention.

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group discussion

Carl:

Thank you very much for your talk. It reminds me a bit—the theme reminds me of the Buddha saying that everybody will become enlightened. Enlightened in the way of liberated, mature. Because we always, in our immaturity, create “enlightened” as an aspect of what is necessary to reach. But I remember that he said—as I read, he said—it might be kalpas, it might be infinite time, but this way to maturity, or to get to maturity, is a natural thing that happens to every existence. In the way of changing to—we could say emptiness—developing from attachment to love.

And to recognize this really is still effective, it can make us modest and make our practice also something natural—really not something where we have to get somewhere. This was what came to me when you spoke. And in this, I read this book The Root of Goodness from Uchiyama. It’s great. This is how we understand, and this is maybe also very good, that we met the Dharma, because the Dharma makes us understand this process. Still in the way of distinguishing it, of not being mature, but of understanding it. And this distinguishing leads in the end to practice. It is stupid practice, not distinguishing. And a very interesting practice to have. Thank you.

Kiana:

I only have something small to say, but thanks, Hamid. For me, it was so nice to see you excited about something. When you were talking, you almost kind of lit up, and you were like, “Wow, I got to be in the presence of this man.” And I really appreciated hearing it from your interpretation. Yeah, that was really interesting and different from the other talks that I’ve heard from you. So I really appreciated more of the insight into who you are and what excites you and your interpretations of things. That was really cool.

Thank you. I’m definitely not an adult. When you listed those eight things, I was like, “Wow, I don’t think I do any of those.” But I can appreciate the others around me, maybe working on it or progressing, and I’m sure I’m progressing. But I’m not there. So thank you so much.

Hamid:

Well, I will just enumerate the eight again very briefly, and then as I said, it will be the subject of another talk. Having few desires, and knowing one has enough—they seem to be very close to one another. Then appreciating quietude—finding places where the mind can settle, which is what we do when we go to silent retreat, when we go to nature. Making diligent effort. Not losing sight of the true Dharma—of which Master Uchiyama says this is probably the most important, because the Dharma captures all of the others. Concentrating, sitting in meditation, in zazen. Practicing wisdom. Not engaging in useless or idle arguments.

What’s interesting is that in Master Dogen’s text, if you have a glance at the Shobogenzoand you pick up some of the more well-known chapters, they are quite complex—different layers of meaning. People spend lifetimes trying to understand what he meant in some of these fascicles, like Genjokoan and Uji and Bussho. There are scholars who spend thirty, forty years writing about them. They seem very complex, contradictory, paradoxical. But his last teachings seem very limpid. You don’t need a science of hermeneutics to take the different layers of interpretation. They are there—very simple, very direct. Even someone without necessarily a deep understanding of the Dharma can just directly connect with all of these. They make sense.

So I find that actually very interesting, that Master Dogen, with all the complexity of his thinking, at the end, these were his parting words. That’s what he wanted others to remember as the essence of his teachings and of Buddhist teachings. And it’s quite straightforward and simple to understand. But not to practice.

Now, this reminds me of another celebrated koan. Some of you may know it. This is, I think, Master Zhaozhou. A man goes to him and says, “What is the essence of the Buddhist teachings?” And Master Zhaozhou says, “Avoiding harming people, doing good as much as one can, and keeping an open heart.” The man chuckles and says, “But this is so basic! Even a child of seven would know that.” And Master Zhaozhou says, “Yes, a child of seven would know it, but an old man of eighty would still not know how to put it into practice.”

So I think this koan is a condensation of all I was sharing with you today. It’s not about knowing—it’s about practicing. Which means sometimes our knowledge and our knowing becomes a hindrance to our practice. And we may be very well-versed in the teachings, in wisdom teachings, and yet in our daily lives we may practice something very different. Which is what comes out when we hear about some very accomplished, realized, knowledgeable spiritual teachers whose actual lives do not necessarily seem to be aligned with what they teach.

Nora:

Thank you, Hamid. For me, I think it’s the dilemma of being an adult. We overcomplicate things. When we look at kids—how simple their life is, how easily they forgive, they love. What makes them happy, what brings them joy—it’s very, very simple. Life is simple. We as adults like to overcomplicate things.

I was listening to Kiana when she says the eight are difficult to practice, and I think we don’t give ourselves credit. I think we do practice all of the eight—not all the time, but at least we do. Sitting in silence, meditating, the stillness, the peace within—we all experience it at some point. But we’re so difficult and hard on ourselves, I think. We don’t allow ourselves to simplify life. And the essence of Buddhism—it’s simple.

Carl:

I would say something directly to Nora. Thank you, Nora. I think this “adult,” as a definition, has nothing to do with our age. And maybe children are more adult than adults, because when we grow up, we want to have what children already have. We are looking for—I mean, children have enough, even if they want more chocolate and more. But this is maybe an education of the modern time which has led to people wanting more and more and more.

But originally, I think a child has the adult capacity of oneness with what surrounds it. This is maybe the most important thing—that we have enough, we share. And children like to share. So it has nothing to do with age. And what comes to mind—it’s important that we die as an adult. Because if we see the evolution of our life, of our personal life—being born in the night—I see more and more the necessity of dying in a mature way. Which is also nothing to do with age. Whether dying early or late.

Hamid:

Does anyone else like to add something to the conversation? Well, in that case, maybe we can leave the meeting today as is and reconvene. Next time I will be in retreat. So maybe Carl, as you will be here—and I will be with you in two weeks’ time. Thank you very much for being here and for sharing this moment of stillness and silence. I will see you all soon. All the best to you in the meantime.