It’s 3:50 AM, and for a second the clang of the Shusho’s bell is all Isabel’s aware of. It has its own sound, lower and tinnier than the ones rung by the Salvation Army at Christmastime, but just as persistent, even as it fades down the valley and mixes with the morning’s first jays and warblers.
It snowed last week. Only a dusting, but has since stayed cold enough for Isabel to see her breath after dark. Without insulation, the cabin’s walls don’t offer more than privacy. She keeps her eyes shut, sinks a little further into her sleeping bag, and tries to squeeze some warmth back into her body. She curls her numb toes and tucks in her elbows. Each fingertip pricks anywhere it touches, so she squeezes them into balls and presses the knuckles into her chest. This is a new kind of cold, different than packing a snowball with bare hands, or the January gust that sucks the breath out of your throat. Here, there’s nowhere warm to return to, no extra blanket, no thermostat to crank. The nearest cup of hot cocoa is a ten mile hike away. This is cold that can only be endured. Like a bad relationship you’re not quite able to leave, you can only lay in bed and try to think of something else.
Because, after all, Isabel’s suffering is not an accident. It was the whole point of coming to Tassajara.
At least she thinks so, though the more she wonders the less sure she is. Why, exactly, had she come? She keeps her head under the covers, falling little by little back into wakefulness. It’s one of the rare moments free from chanting, meditation, work, and study, when she she can allow herself the luxury of questions. What, exactly, is she doing here? She’s a monk, that’s right. And this is a monastery. She came here because that’s what monks do, be at monasteries. She came to chant and meditate. To wear robes and observe silence. Monks do these things because--well, because they do. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be monks. Just like everyone else goes to work, buys groceries, and paints their nails. Normal people don’t need any particular reason to live their lives, so why should Isabel?
She only has a few seconds left in bed, as the clang comes back up the path toward the Zendo, calling her to follow. It’s only the first of many bells, drums, and other simple instruments she’ll hear that day, which together are the voice of the monastic container. It’s moods change subtly, morning to night, from the han’s contemplative woody plunks, to the densho’s very serious metal echo. Each sound is a call, telling Isabel where to be and what to do.
The one she’d most like to hear now is the taiko, a big drum which, when played along with the wood fish, makes a rolling rumble that means it’s time for breakfast. She imagines warm rice porridge filling every corner of her mouth with sticky sweetness. But breakfast is still three hours away.
She swallows a mouthful of stale spit, and winces as she slides out of her bedding into the cold. Each foot plants on the dirty floor, flat blackness all around her. She can barely make out the white of her jubon, folded into a neat square on the floor, along with her kimono and koromo. Each goes on over the last, all tied together with a cord belt. The sleeves drape at her sides like mantis claws, rewarding slow movements with a gentle swish.
Most of Tassajara comprises a single dirt path curving along the valley’s creek. The monks’ lodgings crowd either side, leading up a gentle incline to the zendo. In summer, outside guests come to enjoy the hot springs, though in winter the mountain roads are often impassable. Until April, this strip of dirt is Isabel’s entire world.
She bows to the bathroom before entering, washes, brushes teeth, drinks, taking care to waste as little of the painfully cold water as possible. She bows again before leaving, then follows the fringe of grass bending over the path. The woods will be dark for a few hours more, but past a high branch she can see the moon, and beneath it some snow left on a distant mountain peak. It disappears behind a bushy alder, though of course it’s still there, just like everything else beyond. The whole world, with its credit cards, wrist watches, cats sitting in windows, cups of coffee delivered to strangers’ tables, massive grocery store parking lots, the Salvation Army tiring its arms month long.
The creek trickles beside the path, accompanying her to the zendo. She removes her shoes and places them on the rack, meets the door and steps through, making sure to lead with the foot closest to the hinge. It’s a room of wood and right angles, so meticulously clean it can’t help but feel sacred. She bows in gassho after entering, bows in shashu as she passes behind the alter, hands arranged correctly each time. Finally she finds her zabuton and sits, each shin flush against the flat, black cushion, knees pointed to the left and right. It’s called Burmese, the least painful of the available options.
It’s here that she spends most of each day, cycling through Burmese, half-lotus, and seiza to keep leg injuries at bay. She fixes her eyes on a patch of floor, slows her breathing, and tries rid herself of any lingering questions.
Every snowflake that’s ever fallen on Tassajara, or anywhere on Earth, contains a single grain of dust or pollen at its center. These invisible specks are carried into the sky by hot winds, and can stay there for as long as a month before coming down. Some pass through clouds, getting heavier as the vapor sticks, and sooner or later they’re pulled back. Below 32 degrees Fahrenheit, vapor turns to ice, and can take all different shapes before finding the ground, from Stellar Plates, to Simple Prisms, to Radiating Dendrites. It’s actually a myth that every snowflake is unique. There’s 35 different kinds, and even those follow the same six-fold symmetry. The truth is that all snowflakes would be identical if they fell anywhere less chaotic than here. It’s the changing winds of our sky that account for the differences.
It’s nice to imagine that the shape of our lives is determined by something specific, but of course, nobody’s born wanting to be a fruit-picker, or a neurosurgeon, or a monk. Isabel wasn’t. Like everyone else, she was born not wanting anything other than a blanket and a bottle. It was only later that Tamagotchis and rice crispy treats entered the picture, and long after that before she wanted anything as complex as a career or a relationship. Little by little, her wants crystallized into accomplishments. Her black belt, Master’s degree, that violin piece she nailed, each another razor-sharp tip of a snowflake.
That’s the whole point of Buddhism, by the way, chipping away at the accumulation of desire and pride to get a better look at whatever particle lives at your center. That was why Isabel came to Tassajara in June of 2021. It’s not a difficult idea to understand, but a hard one to remember, day in and day out, for months. And even harder when you’re cold, hungry, and not confident that anyone is looking out for your best interests.
At what point do you finally admit that this isn’t working out? Is it after the first cold, sleepless night? After the twentieth? How can you say for sure that you’re suffering isn’t bringing you closer to spiritual enlightenment, when all the other monks seem so sure it is? When is it okay to wonder whether enlightenment is worth so much suffering? When you’re surrounded by people who persist in telling you that you’re not trying hard enough, that you’re too sensitive, that the purpose of Zen is not to consider your material needs, the line between discipline and abuse gets fuzzy.
Isabel came to Tassajara to escape life’s desires, but that isn’t why she stayed there. The reasons for that were more complex and more practical. For one thing, she’d given up her job and her apartment, so there wasn’t anywhere to return to. For another, her partner had a staff position at the monastery, and leaving would mean separating from him. But also, maybe most importantly, Isabel had not been raised to be a quitter. She had done hard things in the past and always come out better, stronger than she’d been before. All she had to do was listen to the prickly voice inside that told her to ignore the pain and just keep going. It had always served her well before, with the black belt, the Master’s degree, and the violin. Hadn’t it?
She wonders, feeling the ache start to creep into her hips. Just because something feels an awful lot like torture doesn’t mean it is. She slows her breathing. Just because it makes you miserable doesn’t mean it’s bad.
Does it?
Lucky for Isabel, such questions are not required of monks. In fact, they were generally discouraged. And anyway, morning meditation was starting. After that, morning service. Then breakfast. Then study, cleaning, and more meditation. Noon service, lunch, work, exercise, bathing, evening service, dinner, and more meditation. Then back to the sleeping bag.
But does it though? She couldn’t help but wonder.
Part 3 soon.