A Hermitage
Over the past week, I've been reflecting on a recent three-week Zen retreat. Now, alone in the Temple, I still feel the presence of those who practiced with such devotion. But, like the faint decay of a meditation bell, the feeling is fading. Perhaps I can hold on to it a bit longer by writing my thoughts.
The retreat was paradoxical in many ways. The Temple was a solitary hermitage, yet it was filled with the presence of fellow practitioners. We each practiced in small huts, so many three-square-foot mats with round cushions. And yet, as the great Zen master Shitou said, these "huts" contain the entire world.
Together, we recited the Song of the Grass Roof Hermitage, a poem by Shitou Xiqian, the 8th-century Chinese Chan (Zen) Buddhist teacher and our Zen ancestor. Through his words, I felt the simplicity and profundity of living in a hermitage, where the noise of the world is at a distance. Yet, in the shared silence, the outside world was still there, in the sounds of traffic, distant voices, the cries of jays, and, above all, my thoughts, memories, and ruminations.
Living in such a way, removed from the distractions of everyday life, I felt nestled within the heart of intensive Zen practice. Over the three weeks, the smallness of the physical space seemed to expand into the vastness of the moment. Each breath, each step, each heartbeat became a point of entry into my life, here and now.
As the days passed, the walls of separation dissolved in the silence and stillness, revealing a boundlessness that has always been here. In this place, we were alone together, each turning the light inward, illuminating the great darkness.
The boundary between myself and the world grew increasingly porous. The silent introspection illuminated not just the contours of my mind but also the aliveness we all shared. It was as if the retreat itself became a living entity.
Though unspoken, the presence of others within the Temple was a constant reminder of our interconnectedness. We sat together, walked together, and ate together in silence, supporting each other in practice. This silent communion reflected the deeper truth that we are all part of the one body.
Now, alone in the Temple, I see many aspects of the retreat beginning to unfold within me. The lessons learned in silence echo in the art I am creating and the life I am living. Being immersed in the teaching of Shitou, that of being unattached to inside, outside, or in between, has deepened my understanding of the Zen way. And the stillness cultivated over those many days extends beyond the confines of the retreat, permeating everywhere.
