crumbling temple within

Walls, floors, and windows eaten by time. Photo credit: Jorge Zamora

What an experience it was to have the opportunity to sit, share meals, laugh,

and listen to Master Tokuda.

I honestly didn’t know what to expect; I was simply thrilled to meet Hamid and his teacher. Witnessing the way they interacted and how the teacher carries himself through life was something very special.

A lot happened during the retreat, but I won’t recount everything here — those are stories for the future. One thing I didn’t expect, though, was that this sesshin would not be a silent retreat. I’m very glad it wasn’t. Talking and witnessing the siblinghood of this small community — newly born on the first day, yet made up of people who have known each other for decades — was a beautiful thing.

Among the weeds. Photo credit: Jorge Zamora

From day one, we had to begin samu (work practice in Zen terms) in our own bedrooms. Fortunately, the women’s rooms were in a small but very decent and fairly new building. Some sweeping and dusting was enough there. But the main building — where we had meals, sittings, and where the men’s rooms were located — had other issues: rodents living within its walls, bats that had left their debris inside the house, and a wild garden with grass, weeds, and corn growing up to a meter high.

Staying in this rundown monastery brought me many reflections about what it means to simply be in a place that is almost in ruins — eaten from within by uninvited tenants, surrounded by thorny weeds that form a protective, almost violent barrier to outsiders. And yet, it is a place of profound practice, of deep inquiry, from which sudden insights can arise — insights that break open the heart of life and death.

These reflections made me realize that I am that place: that rundown monastery, eaten from within by mice. A place that may look, to an outsider, like an unworthy place — and yet it is a temple. A temple filled with a strong, deep wish to cut through all the nonsense of life and simply be. A place that may or may not support others, but is still worthy of being seen, of sitting on its old chairs to drink tea, or on its dusty cushions to meditate, to simply exist.

I arrived with few expectations, and I left with even fewer.

Ei-Tai Ji deepened my perception of darkness.

Thank you — deeply, thank you.

Sensei Tokuda showing us the very special books in his library (which does not have a proper floor) Photo credit: Jorge Zamora

Deep bows to Sensei Tokuda, a person who allows himself to be fully seen, in stillness and calm, totally and absurdly himself.