The Path of Ordinary Joy: Lessons from Zen Life

Introduction

My journey with Zen practice began in 2012 during a challenging period in my life. While searching for a spiritual retreat, I stumbled upon Tassajara Zen Mountain Center—a serene monastery tucked away in the Ventana wilderness. I spent two transformative days there in May, immersing myself in Zen meditation, hiking through nature, soaking in natural hot springs, and engaging in daily community work. The experience left a lasting impression, and later that year, I returned for a leadership retreat led by a Zen teacher Marc Lesser.

From that point on, visiting Tassajara became an annual pilgrimage, and I introduced many friends and family to this hidden gem—most of whom fell in love with it just as I had. As the first Zen training monastery in the U.S., Tassajara welcomes guests only between April and September. The winter months are exclusively reserved for training monks. It is part of the San Francisco Zen Center, which also oversees two other monasteries: the SF City Center and Green Gulch Farm in Marin County.

After relocating from Seattle to the Bay Area in 2016, I began visiting these monasteries more regularly. My wife and I would occasionally stay overnight at Green Gulch Farm, appreciating its tranquil setting and rich Zen traditions. All three locations offer various programs, including Dharma talks, retreats, guest stays, and intensive practice periods. The practice period, a deep immersion into monastic life lasting six to twelve weeks, had always intrigued me. However, with my corporate job, committing to such an experience seemed impossible—until now.

When I began my sabbatical in October 2024, I finally had the opportunity to participate in the Fall Practice Period at Green Gulch Farm. For two months, I lived in the secluded valley, fully embracing the rhythm of monastic life.

Reaching Green Gulch Farm

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step – Lao Tzu

Packing for the practice period took two days—after all, I had to bring everything I would need for the next two months. Fortunately, since I lived within driving distance, I could pack more freely compared to those who had to fly in. Before leaving, I also took a COVID test, as required by protocol.

With my wife’s car loaded up, we set off for Marin County. The drive to Green Gulch Farm took about an hour and a half, a familiar route we had traveled many times before. Upon arrival, we made our way to the bookstore, where a kind monk checked me in. I was assigned a single room in Cloud Hall, a beautiful dormitory built around a spacious courtyard, with monk quarters encircling it. The best part? The meditation hall—known as the zendo—was directly connected, making morning practice as seamless as stepping out of my room.

My wife and I carried my belongings to my modest dorm room. It was simple—a single bed, an open closet—but more than enough for my needs. We took a moment to relax in the dining hall over coffee and snacks before it was time to say goodbye.

At 3 PM, the orientation began. We were introduced to the structure of the practice period and the guidelines we would follow: remaining within the Green Gulch valley for the entire duration, observing silence from waking until lunch (except for functional speech), and fully committing to the daily schedule. The practice period would officially begin the next morning with an initiation ceremony called Tangaryo.

After orientation, the Ino (Head of the Meditation Hall) led us on a tour of the property, followed by a brief training in zazen (seated meditation) and kinhin (walking meditation). Each of us had already been assigned a permanent seat in the zendo—a spot we would return to every day for the next two months.

As the evening settled in, I joined the residents for a simple yet satisfying dinner. With a big day ahead, I turned in early, ready to embrace the journey ahead.

Practice Period Kickoff

Tangaryo

What is important is not the teaching, but the character or effort of the student – Shunryu Suzuki

The practice period began with Tangaryo, an initiation ceremony rooted in medieval Japan. Traditionally, aspiring monks would sit outside a Zen monastery for days, demonstrating their sincerity and perseverance before being granted entry by the Zen master. In modern American Zen, admission is already assured, so Tangaryo serves instead as an exercise in commitment and endurance.

My day started at 4:15 AM. After a quick cup of coffee, I settled into the meditation hall for the morning zazen. We joined the full community for two meditation periods and the morning service. Then, most people left—but for us, the Tangaryo participants, the real challenge was just beginning. The Ino informed us that we would be sitting in meditation for the entire day, with only brief breaks for water, meals and restroom visits.

It was brutal. Sitting for such an extended period forces you to confront the relentless activity of your own mind. Thoughts bounced chaotically from one topic to another—what Zen calls the monkey mind. Discomfort crept in as well; my legs and back ached, and I cycled through different postures—seiza, burmese, quarter-lotus—searching for relief.

When the Ino finally announced lunch, it felt like a small victory. We ate in silence, then returned to our seats to continue the ordeal. In the afternoon, a brief reprieve arrived in the form of a mindful tea ceremony. Every movement—pouring, sipping, tasting—was deliberate and unhurried. We were served lemongrass and green tea along with a lemon tart. Just as we finished, the Ino played the clackers, a wooden instrument that typically signals the end of an activity. Some of us assumed Tangaryo was over. We were wrong.

The sitting resumed. Hours dragged on. At some point, the Ino announced dinner. We ate in silence, then returned yet again to our seats. It felt as if the day would never end. Finally, around 8 PM, the Ino called an end to Tangaryo.

It was, without a doubt, the longest day of my life. But in a way, that was reassuring—because no matter how rigorous the rest of the practice period might be, I knew I had already endured its most grueling test.

Opening Ceremony

In the practice of ceremony, the ordinary becomes sacred, the mundane becomes a path to enlightenment.

The practice period officially began the next day—fortunately, none of us had been kicked out after Tangaryo.

The morning started as usual with zazen, but afterward, all the practice period students took part in a formal opening ceremony. We gathered outside the zendo and stood in a long line, entering in groups of three. As each trio approached the altar, they offered incense, then moved aside to perform full-body prostrations before proceeding to their assigned seats. This rhythmic sequence repeated as one group followed another, creating a beautiful choreography. It was my first of the many ceremonies that would shape my time at Green Gulch.

Following the zendo ceremony, we participated in a full procession led by Abbot Jiryu. All the practice period students walked behind him as we made our way through the Green Gulch Farm, stopping at various altars—the kitchen, the workshop, the farm, and others. At each location, Jiryu made an offering, honoring the interconnectedness of all aspects of the community.

The morning air was crisp, and since we had started indoors, I hadn’t anticipated the chill of the pre-dawn walk through nature. Still, there was something deeply grounding about moving in silent procession as the first light of day crept over the valley. Eventually, we returned to the zendo, where the ceremony concluded with chanting and bows, marking the true beginning of our immersive Zen training.

Circle with Abbot

At 5 PM, we gathered in Stillwater Hall for a circle with Abbot Jiryu. Sunlight streamed through the windows, filling the space with warmth and a quiet sense of serenity. Jiryu began the session with a guided meditation, which helped center us as a group. In that moment, I felt deeply connected to the people around me—part of something meaningful and rare.

One by one, we introduced ourselves and shared our intentions for the practice period. It was a diverse gathering—young graduates fresh out of college, mid-career professionals like me, and retirees seeking spirituality. Each person had a unique reason for being there. When my turn came, I spoke about my desire to reduce suffering, cultivate joy, and gain clarity on how to best spend my time in the next chapter of my life.

Jiryu, too, shared his own challenges. His mother was dying, and his teenage son was going through a rebellious phase—circumstances that would limit his availability during the practice period. Though he might not be present for every event, his honesty and openness set a tone of authenticity for our time together.

The Schedule

The practice period followed a rigorous schedule, beginning with a wake-up bell at 4:30 AM and concluding with evening zazen at 9:00 PM. A typical day unfolded as follows:

Time	Activity
4:30 AM	Wake up Bell
5:00	Meditation(Zazen – Kinhin – Zazen)
6:30	Morning Service
7:00	Soji
7:20	Breakfast (Silent)
8: 10	Class / Study Time
9:10	Work Meeting, followed by morning work shift
12:00 PM	End of Work
12:15	Mid-day Service
12:30	Lunch
1:15 – 3:00	Afternoon work shift
3:00 – 5:00	Personal Time
5:15	Meditation(Zazen)
5:50	Evening Service
6:00	Dinner
7:30	Meditation(Zazen – Kinhin – Zazen)
8:50	Three Refuges
9:00	End of Day

Wake up Bell

The breezes at dawn have secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep! – Rumi

Every morning at 4:30 AM, the wake-up bell echoed through the monastery as a monk made the rounds, signaling the start of the day. I had never been a morning person—far from it. My energy naturally peaks in the second half of the day, so waking up this early felt like a monumental challenge. It was cold, it was dark, and it was anything but pleasant. But in the life of a Zen monk, there’s no debate—you wake up, you show up, and you sit. And so, day after day, for two months, I did just that.

I experimented with different strategies to make the early mornings more bearable. One approach was to wake up with the bell, freshen up, and head straight to the zendo, never stepping outside—thus avoiding the morning chill. The downside? I was often still groggy and occasionally dozed off during zazen.

The second approach was to wake up 15 minutes earlier, at 4:15 AM, sneak into the dining hall for a quick cup of coffee, and then head to meditation. The caffeine kick helped, making those early sits a little easier.

Over time, as my body adjusted to the rhythm of monastery life, the early wake-ups became less of a struggle. What once felt daunting slowly transformed into a natural part of my day.

Morning Meditation, Service and Soji

Once you have adjusted your posture, take a deep breath, inhale and exhale, rock your body right and left and settle into a steady, immovable sitting position. Think of not-thinking. How do you think of not-thinking? Nonthinking. This in itself is the essential art of zazen. – Dogen in Fukanzazengi

The day always began with zazen. According to the schedule, it started at 5 AM, but in reality, you had to be in your seat at least 8 minutes early—otherwise, you were late! 5 AM was the time when everyone, including the Abbot, should be settled in the zendo and ready for meditation.

Zazen is the Japanese term for seated meditation, and there are various ways of practicing it. In the Soto Zen tradition, we follow Dogen’s Shikantaza, which translates to ‘just sitting’. There is no specific object of meditation in this style. You sit facing a wall with your eyes open, maintaining a soft gaze. The goal is to cultivate a stable posture, which supports long periods of sitting while keeping you present and mindful. You focus on everything that arises, welcoming each sensation or thought without chasing or rejecting anything. As Dogen wrote in Fukanzazengi, this simple act of sitting encapsulates the essence of zazen.

The first period of zazen lasted 40 minutes and ended with the sound of a bell. Afterward, we practiced kinhin—walking meditation—for 10 minutes. In kinhin, each step and breath is performed with full awareness. There were two circles in the zendo, and we would join the circle closest to our seat, maintaining the same meditative attitude as in zazen, but with slow, deliberate movement. The end of kinhin was marked by the sound of a clacker, signaling the transition back to another 40-minute zazen period.

Once the meditation periods ended, we moved into the morning service. The service began with the Robe Chant, which we performed facing the wall. Afterward, we turned inward to face one another for the remainder of the service. It was a time of bowing and chanting, beginning with 11 full-body prostrations—an invigorating way to wake up if you hadn’t fully shaken off your sleepiness.

Each person was given a chant book, as the chants rotated throughout the week. Most chants were in English or Japanese, some where more accessible while others were more esoteric and difficult to grasp. The invitation was to chant with full volume and complete presence, offering yourself fully to the service. When the sangha was in sync, the collective energy created by the communal chanting was palpable, and it had the power to touch you deeply.

After the service, everyone gathered in Cloud Hall for Soji, the morning cleaning session. The work leader would assign each person a task—whether cleaning the bathroom, the zendo, or the kitchen. For 15 minutes, we worked mindfully, knowing we had to stop as soon as the bell rang. It was a practice in presence, turning even the most mundane chores into an opportunity for meditation.

Breakfast

At the sound of the bell, we gathered in the dining hall for breakfast. Before eating, we offered a meal chant, expressing our gratitude for the food we were about to receive. All meals were served buffet-style. We would form a line, take our portions, and then find a seat at one of the dining tables.

Breakfast was simple but nourishing. There was always a porridge made from grains—oatmeal, cracked wheat, polenta, or amaranth—along with cooked fruits or vegetables. I particularly enjoyed the fruit compote. For those looking to add extra protein, there were always plenty of boiled eggs available in the kitchen. Toppings like almonds and cheese were also offered for the porridge, and of course, coffee and tea were available as well.

Breakfast was observed in complete silence. Even though we ate as a community, there was no conversation. When someone joined the table, they would bow, and everyone else would bow in return. The same gesture was made when someone finished their meal and prepared to leave. After eating, we would proceed to the dish room to clean our dishes, maintaining the mindfulness that permeated the whole meal.

Class / Study Time

After breakfast, we had nearly an hour set aside for self-study. We would bring whatever books we were reading and gather together in Cloud Hall. Occasionally, this time was used for practical sessions, such as reviewing the monastery rules or learning to chant with full voice. This was the only part of the day dedicated to study, which might surprise some. Zen doesn’t place heavy emphasis on textual learning. Rather, it’s about the experience. Zen is not something you study; it’s something you do.

You should therefore cease from practice based on intellectual understanding, pursuing words and following after speech, and learn the backward step that turns your light inwardly to illuminate your self. – Dogen

Morning Work and Mid-day service

Another bell would ring, signaling the time for the whole community to gather in the field for the work meeting circle. This was a more casual gathering where we would all come together as a community. The meeting was led by a Work Leader, and it began with introductions and farewells. New arrivals would introduce themselves and share a few words about what brought them to Green Gulch, while those departing would express gratitude for their time spent there.

Next, announcements were made by the Senior Staff. Ino would update us on any changes to the regular meditation schedule or inform us of upcoming ceremonies. The Senior Staff member in charge of guests might share details about the weekend’s guest arrivals and how it might affect our activities. Towards the end of the meeting, anyone had the opportunity to speak about lost and found items or share news of any personal activities they were organizing during free time.

At my first work meeting, we were each assigned to a crew for the duration of the practice period. I was assigned to the Kitchen crew. While I had hoped to be assigned to the farm—so I could work outdoors—kitchen was my second choice. I enjoy cooking, and the rhythmic task of chopping vegetables felt surprisingly meditative.

After the work meeting, we went to our assigned crews. I headed to the kitchen, where we worked until noon. Following that, we attended the mid-day service, which was brief—only 15 minutes of bowing and chanting.

Lunch, Afternoon Work and Personal Time

Lunch was at 12:30 PM, and once again, a bell signaled its arrival. By this point, you could tell that the entire monastery operated in harmony with these bells and their rhythm. Lunch followed a simple, consistent template: soup, grains like rice or quinoa, and a salad. We would gather our food and then sit at one of the dining tables. The first 10 minutes of both lunch and dinner were observed in silence. After that, the clackers would sound, signaling that it was time to talk and socialize. At this point, most people were eager to converse, having spent the morning in silence. It was a great opportunity to catch up with friends or make new connections. I always enjoyed lunch—it offered a much-needed break between my two work shifts.

Our second work shift ran from 1:15 PM to 3:00 PM. During this time, we were expected to return to functional speech. The afternoon was a bit more relaxed, and it was common to see people engage in conversations while working.

At 3:00 PM, we were finally free! This marked the beginning of our personal time block, which lasted for two hours. I would often use this time to shower, do some stretching exercises, write in my journal, or go for a walk. One popular route was a scenic walk from Green Gulch to Muir Beach and back. This was also the time to socialize, connect with others, and discuss topics ranging from dharma to politics—or anything else that came up.

Evening

The evening zazen and service followed our personal time.

Dinner was at 6:00 PM. Like lunch, the first 10 minutes were silent, after which conversation was allowed. Dinner was the most elaborate meal of the day, typically consisting of an entrée and a couple of sides, all of which were delicious. With the next scheduled event an hour and a half later, dinner became the perfect time to unwind and connect with others. This was when I had some of my best conversations with both peers and teachers.

After dinner, we had a long meditation session, which included two periods of zazen with a kinhin in between—similar to the morning meditation. As I’m not much of a morning person, some of my most meaningful meditations happened during this time. We ended the evening meditation with chanting the Three Refuges in Pali, which became my favorite chant. It spoke to something deeply familiar to me from my childhood, as it emphasizes taking refuge in the Buddha, the teachings, and the community.

Buddham saranam gacchami
Dhammam saranam gacchami
Sangham saranam gacchami
– Three Refuges in Pali

Learnings from a Zen Kitchen

Day and night, the work for preparing the meals must be done without wasting a moment. If you do this and everything that you do whole-heartedly, this nourishes the seeds of Awakening and brings ease and joy to the practice of the community – Dogen

I spent the full two months of the practice period working in the kitchen. In many ways, the kitchen serves as the heart of the monastery—it provides sustenance, and without it, the community couldn’t function. Each day began with a meeting in the Tenzo’s (Head Cook) office. The Tenzo would offer incense at the altar, and then we would read a few pages from Dogen’s Tenzo Kyōkun, followed by a discussion. This ritual grounded us, setting the tone for the work ahead and reminding us of the deeper purpose behind our tasks.

At first, I refrained from volunteering for cooking duties, as I had no experience in an industrial-sized kitchen. Instead, I was mainly assigned prep work—tasks like cleaning 10 gallons of broccolini or chopping several gallons of onions in one shift. I found a certain calm in the repetitive motion of chopping. As my confidence grew, I began volunteering for more cooking responsibilities. One of the highlights of my time in the kitchen was making Adzuki bean and Kabocha squash soup. It was an intricate dish that involved cooking the beans and squash separately, then combining them with a variety of spices. The result was a rich, umami-packed soup that everyone loved.

That success bolstered my confidence, and I started taking on more cooking tasks, preparing soups, soyrizo for tacos, mashed potatoes, and moussaka.

Looking back, I realized that the kitchen work could be divided into three main categories: prep, actual cooking, and clean-up. I learned that prep and clean-up take up the most time, while cooking itself is often the quickest part.

The kitchen crew found a balance between ensuring every meal was ready on time and not letting ourselves become overly consumed by the task. We worked mindfully and with full dedication, but we also learned to stop when the bell rang for service, recognizing that there was a time for everything. In this way, we practiced wholeheartedly engaging in our work without becoming too attached to the outcome.

Dokusan

A key aspect of Zen training is regular private meetings between a student and their teacher, where you can check in and discuss your practice. During the practice period, Jiryu, the current Abbot of Green Gulch, led our group, so I had several dokusans with him. Additionally, I met with Senior Dharma Teachers Reb and Linda, both former Abbots, for their guidance. Dokusans are formal meetings that begin with three full-body prostrations either to the altar or the teacher. Throughout the meeting, you remain in zazen posture, and the session concludes with another three full-body prostrations. These meetings offer an invaluable space to address personal challenges in your practice or any other relevant topics. For me, many of my most significant teaching moments occurred during these dokusans.

Personal Days

Every Monday, we had an intensive meditation session that lasted from the morning until noon. Afterward, we participated in a ceremony called Nenju, which granted us 1.5 days off to recharge.

Personal days were a welcome respite from the otherwise rigorous practice period schedule. While some of the time was spent on necessary chores like laundry and room cleaning, it also offered an opportunity to explore the beautiful surroundings. The area had several stunning hiking trails, including the Middle Green Gulch trail and Pirates Cove. Green Gulch Farm is nestled in a valley, surrounded by mountains and near Muir Beach, so you could experience a variety of landscapes depending on which hike you chose.

On Monday evenings, someone would often organize a documentary viewing, usually centered around Zen philosophy or spirituality. We would gather in one of the conference rooms, cozy up by the wood-fired stove, and watch the film. It brought back memories of my graduate school days when we did something similar.

5 Day Sesshin

To study the Buddha Way is to study the self; to study the self is to forget the self; to forget the self is to be actualized by myriad things – Dogen

Halfway through the practice period, we began our first sesshin, a five-day intensive meditation retreat designed to deepen our practice. During sesshin, silence is maintained throughout, and meditation fills the entire day. Periods of zazen are interspersed with kinhin, walking meditation. There are brief breaks for bathing, resting, or stretching, but you are not permitted to read, write, or engage in any distractions. The purpose is to fully turn inward and ‘study yourself,’ cultivating a deep sense of awareness and presence.

Oryoki Meals

During Sesshin, all our meals were eaten in the zendo, which added to the intensity of the retreat. The meals were served and eaten following a ritual called Oryoki, which means ‘just the right amount.’ Each person had a set of nested bowls placed next to their meditation seat. Before each meal, we would arrange our bowls in front of us. A group of students, acting as servers, would bring the food. Every step of the meal was coordinated through chanting and bowing, and since we were silent, all communication was done using hand gestures. There was a specific form for everything—how to open the bowls, arrange the utensils, receive food, eat, and then pack everything away. It felt like a synchronized dance, with everyone participating.

I have to admit, Oryoki wasn’t my favorite practice. I tend to struggle with memorizing sequences of movements, whether it’s in dance or Oryoki. At first, I found the ritual a bit overwhelming, but over time, I became more comfortable with the steps. By focusing on the key actions, I was able to relax into the rhythm of the meal. Ultimately, it helped me be more mindful of what I was doing and eating, anchoring me in the present moment.

Dharma Talks

During each day of Sesshin, Practice Period leader Jiryu gave a talk. It was the only time during Sesshin when I heard a human voice so much. His talks focused on the theme of accessing stillness and silent illumination, and each one explored a different aspect of this theme. One of the stories he shared from early Buddhism really stayed with me.

The story was about Shakyamuni Buddha and the murderer Angulimala. Buddha was walking calmly, while Angulimala, armed with a sword, chased him. No matter how fast Angulimala ran, he couldn’t catch up to Buddha, who moved at his usual relaxed pace. Exhausted and frustrated, Angulimala finally cried out, “Please stop!” Buddha smiled and replied, “I have already stopped. Now you stop.”

In Zen, it is said that the experience of awakening can’t truly be captured in words. Whenever we try to describe something with words, we convey some aspects but leave many others unsaid. That’s why Zen teachers often rely on stories to express teachings. These stories don’t just explain—they evoke emotions or feelings that help guide us towards awakening.

Sesshin Experience

Zen teaches that with enough practice, we can see things as they truly are—unfiltered and free from the layers of our preconceived notions. While I can’t claim to have reached that level of clarity, by the third day of Sesshin, I began to experience a shift in my perception. After meditating for several days, my senses gradually relaxed. The Zendo, always dimly lit, made even my eyes soften and unwind.

During one of the breaks, I took a walk around Green Gulch Farm. As I looked at the plants and the landscape, I felt a wave of joy and wonder. Everything seemed crisper and brighter, as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes. The leaves of the plants appeared greener, and I noticed details—the veins of the leaves, the subtle textures, and colors that usually go unnoticed in the rush of daily life. In our busy, modern lives, we often walk past nature without really seeing it, too preoccupied with tasks and worries to appreciate the beauty that surrounds us.

But in that moment, everything seemed alive with detail. As I gazed at the surrounding mountains, I saw the landscape in a new way. I could sense the depth, noticing how one mountain lay behind another, creating layers of perspective that I had never fully appreciated before. The world felt more vivid, more present, and I felt a deep sense of connection to it.

As the days passed, my mind kept becoming calmer, allowing me to access more of the stillness I sought. By this point, I found myself hoping Sesshin wouldn’t end just yet. But Zen teaches non-attachment, and that applied to Sesshin as well. So, on Sunday, when Green Gulch held its public program, Sesshin came to a close. Many outside guests came to attend the Dharma talk, and Jiryu summarized all the previous talks into this final one.

After lunch, there was a ceremony to officially conclude the Sesshin. There was a collective sense of joy and relief in the air. We were told that the kitchen had prepared treats to celebrate the end of the five-day Sesshin. Without hesitation, I headed straight for the dining hall. There, I found four different desserts—matcha bars, cookies, key lime pie, and rice krispie treats. I indulged in all of them, loading up on sugar. I felt I had truly earned it after successfully completing the intense five days of Sesshin!

The Following Month

Classes on Silent Illumination

When the principle of silent illumination is perfected, the lotus will blossom and the dreamer will awaken – Hongzhi

After the 5-day Sesshin, practice period returned to its regular schedule. By then, Jiryu’s family situation had become more manageable, and he was fully present for the group again. We began our weekly classes with him, focusing on the theme of Silent Illumination, a teaching popularized by the Chinese Chan Master Hongzhi. The teachings were quite abstract, but Jiryu made every effort to present them in a way that was accessible to all of us.

Silent Illumination is at the heart of Soto Zen teachings and serves as a precursor to the practice of Shikantaza. This approach is based on the belief that through stillness and clearing the mind, our ‘true nature’ will naturally reveal itself, leading to awakening. According to this teaching, we don’t need any new information or external learning to get awakened. The path is experiential rather than intellectual, guiding us to directly experience our own true nature.

Thanksgiving Feast

At Green Gulch, which has its own farm, we celebrated Thanksgiving as a festival of harvesting. Everyone was invited to bring one outside guest. I had hoped to invite my wife, but she had plans to visit New York City with our son and her mom. The kitchen began preparations for the Thanksgiving feast 4-5 days in advance, and I helped with various prep tasks leading up to the big day. On Thanksgiving itself, I volunteered to make the mashed potatoes. While it seemed like a simple dish, cooking for 100 people made it more involved than expected, but it was a fun challenge. Of course, the result was delicious—rich with butter and cream.

The day’s celebrations began with a ceremony in the Zendo. It was beautifully decorated with plants, bushes, and tools from the farm and garden, adding to the festive atmosphere. The Zendo was also packed with guests, both from the monastery and the outside community. Jiryu led the procession, and we engaged in chanting and bowing. The energy in the Zendo was electrified by the presence of so many people.

After the ceremony, we moved to the dining hall, which was equally beautifully decorated with tablecloths and formal place settings. In the center stood a large buffet table. A small ceremony took place before the kitchen crew (including myself) brought out the food. The feast included vegan ham, stuffing, mashed potatoes, roasted corn, salad, cranberry sauce, mushroom sauce, and three different kinds of pies—it was a true Thanksgiving banquet!

I enjoyed lively conversations with the people seated around me, but after indulging in too much food, I decided to take a walk to Muir Beach with a friend to help digest and enjoy the tranquility of the surroundings.

Rohatsu Sesshin

Awake, each one, awake! Don’t waste this life! – Words written on the han, a traditional Zen instrument to call practitioners to the zendo

As we neared the end of the practice period, Rohatsu Sesshin—a seven-day intensive meditation retreat—was about to begin. I was determined to fully surrender myself to the experience and prime my mind for awakening. My old habit of using my iPhone as an alarm clock was still lingering, and I realized that even without internet, it could still be a source of distraction. So, I decided to order an old-fashioned alarm clock to eliminate any temptation. I was waking up at 4:15 AM, fifteen minutes before the wake-up bell, to drink my morning coffee before starting the day.

Rohatsu Sesshin commemorates the enlightenment of the Buddha, and it draws Zen practitioners from all over the world. With many outside guests joining us, the Zendo was packed, adding to the intensity and focus of the retreat. The Sesshin began with evening zazen on day zero, followed by full days of meditation, Oryoki meals, and brief breaks. My mind would wander from one aspect of my life to the next during each zazen period. The nature of the mind is to think, and even when I wasn’t consciously engaging with it, thoughts arose involuntarily. A single thought would trigger another, then another, until I found myself in a beach in Hawaii, sipping a Mai Tai 🙂 My body also began to protest from the physical strain of so much sitting. The experience was a test of both mental and physical endurance. I made sure to stretch daily to stay limber and support my ability to sit for long periods.

Throughout the Sesshin, Jiryu continued his teachings on the theme of silent illumination in his daily Dharma talks. He used vivid imagery to convey the sense of stillness—such as sitting like a stump or being like an incense burner in an abandoned shrine. These images were meant to inspire and motivate us through the long hours of meditation. However, by this point, his talks had become a bit repetitive. Nevertheless, they were still a welcome change from the otherwise silent and solitary nature of the retreat.

As I left the dining hall and walked back to my room, I looked up, and for the first time, I truly saw the trees surrounding me. They formed a canopy above, their branches stretching out like arms, embracing the sky. In that moment, something shifted within me. I felt an overwhelming sense of joy and a deep, almost spiritual connection to nature. It was as though I had become one with the trees, their energy flowing through me. Sesshin, in its quiet intensity, has a way of sharpening your senses and awakening you to the beauty of the world around you. It was a reminder that when we slow down, when we quiet our minds, the world reveals its richness—its depth, its perfection.

Zazen in the Dark

On one of the days during Sesshin, Jiryu spoke about the continuous nature of the practice. He explained that there is no gap in Sesshin. It is always on, whether it’s day or night. He encouraged us to sit in the dark after the last evening zazen if we felt drawn to it. This meant meditating after 9 PM, cutting into our sleep to dive even deeper into the stillness. On the fifth day, I decided to give it a try. At around 9:15 PM, I made my way back to the Zendo. As I stood at the gate, I hesitated. The thought of sitting in silence, alone in the darkness, felt daunting. But just then, another person arrived, and somehow, without exchanging a word, we both knew we would support each other through this. Together, we walked into the Zendo, where one of the lights remained on, as Chiden, the person in charge of altar cleaning, was still working. I settled into my seat and began meditating. A few minutes later, Chiden finished and turned off the last light, plunging the Zendo into darkness. The room felt like a ghostly cave, the only sound the wind outside, swirling fiercely. My breath seemed to align with its rhythm, syncing with the wind’s hushing and gushing. Then, suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the stillness, as if the roof had caved in or something heavy had fallen. My heart raced, but it turned out to be Chiden, who had dropped a container outside. While the noise startled me, it also served as a reminder that I was fully present—my mind couldn’t wander because the present moment had so much to offer. I sat in the darkness for about half an hour, lost in the quiet, until my intellectual mind gently nudged me, reminding me that I had to wake up at 4:15 AM the next day. With that thought, I bowed to my seat, grateful for the experience, and made my way back to my room, leaving the stillness of the Zendo behind for the night.

Power Outage

The next morning began as usual, but we were expecting a power outage around noon. However, the power cut out half an hour earlier than expected. At first, no one thought much of it. Luckily, I had managed to take a hot shower just before the outage hit. Sesshin proceeded as planned—periods of zazen and kinhin continued, and even though there was no power, Oryoki lunch was served. The Zendo grew darker and colder, and the atmosphere shifted. As two hours passed with no sign of the power returning, we began to suspect that the outage wasn’t part of the planned maintenance. It was getting closer to evening, and the power was still out. We started to realize that bad weather, not maintenance, might have been to blame.

The lack of power made the Sesshin even more challenging. The Zendo was now both dark and cold, and the Oryoki meal became more difficult to manage with minimal lighting. As a result, it was decided that we would forgo Oryoki for dinner. Instead, we went to the dining hall to eat in silence.

That evening, a full moon ceremony was still planned. Senior monks brought in battery-powered lamps and placed them carefully around the Zendo, creating a soft glow in the otherwise dim room. Jiryu entered with his procession, and we carried on with the ceremony as we always did. In a way, this power outage provided an unexpected opportunity to test the depth of our practice. We could wish for things to be different, but the present moment was what it was. We had to accept it and continue forward.

Zazen Facing in

After the full moon ceremony, we returned to our seats, and Susho, the Head Monk, asked us to face inward for the zazen. As I mentioned earlier, zazen is traditionally done facing the wall, with our eyes open. So, this was a departure from the usual practice. It turned out to be a unique and moving experience to look at the other practitioners while they sat in stillness. I felt a deeper sense of connection with the sangha, seeing that we were all in this together. I could sense the shared struggle—how others, like me, were working to maintain their posture or hold the cosmic mudra. It reminded me that we were all supporting each other, even in silence.

Buddha Enlightenment Ceremony

The final day of Rohatsu Sesshin arrived, and the power was still out. I had expected the Oryoki breakfast to be canceled, but it was still offered. After breakfast, I was assigned dish duty, followed by a period of zazen. I then helped prepare the zendo for the Buddha enlightenment ceremony.

Kan ji zai bo satsu gyo jin han nya ha ra mi ta … – Heart Sutra in Japanese

Jiryu entered with his full procession, monks ringing bells at the front and back, signaling the start of the ceremony. The atmosphere was charged with energy as he made incense offerings at the altar, and we all performed bows in reverence. In a delightful twist, someone brought a chocolate cake, which was also offered at the altar.

We were handed pages containing the Heart Sutra, with the Japanese version on one side and the English version on the other. At one point, we were signaled to begin walking in a large, circular line for kinhin. As we walked, we began chanting the English version of the Heart Sutra, followed by the Japanese version. But the Japanese chanting didn’t stop there—we repeated it in a rhythmic, almost ecstatic flow. The energy in the room shifted as people began moving and even dancing. Every “ha ra mi ta” rang out together, creating a powerful collective pulse. A basket of petals was passed around, and soon, people were throwing flower petals on one another, turning the room into a joyous celebration.

The mood was a stark contrast to the silence of Sesshin, yet it felt like a culmination of all that we had practiced. Jiryu, sitting at the center on a throne, began chanting the Japanese Heart Sutra with such intensity that the entire room seemed to vibrate with his energy. His voice rose louder, pulling everyone deeper into the experience. The energy in the room was palpable, and some people, moved by the moment, had tears in their eyes. Even the most serious, stoic practitioners, who had been reserved throughout the retreat, were swept up in the joy, swinging and dancing along with the rhythm of the chant. It was a truly transformative and celebratory moment, filled with joy and energy!

Close of Sesshin

After the Buddha Enlightenment Ceremony, we had a couple more zazen sessions, though I had expected the Sesshin to conclude with that climactic moment. We closed with the usual Nenju Ceremony, a practice we always perform to mark the end of something in our practice period. This time, however, only the kitchen crew was invited to participate. The Tenzo made offerings at the altar and shared a few words, while the leadership of Green Gulch—Abbot, Tanto, and Shuso—expressed their gratitude to the kitchen crew for our work throughout the practice period. It felt rewarding to receive recognition for the hard labor we had put in.

To cap off the Sesshin, the kitchen had another celebration with an array of desserts. In addition to the chocolate cake, there were three more delicious options! After indulging in the sweet treats, I took a walk to the beach with a friend, savoring the peacefulness and relief of the moment.

Practice Period Closing

Throughout the entire practice period, the Head Monk (or Shuso) had been ringing the morning bell to wake us. As a fun way of showing our appreciation, a group of us decided to surprise the Shuso. We gathered kitchen utensils—pots, pans, and other noise-making tools and, when Shuso arrived at the zendo with the wake-up bell, we started clanging away, forming a joyful procession behind her! The sounds of this impromptu celebration echoed throughout Cloud Hall at 4:30 in the morning.

After our usual morning zazen, we proceeded with a ceremony to officially close out the practice period. It was much like the opening ceremony, with a procession led by Jiryu. We circled around all the altars at Green Gulch, offering incense at each one. Once back in the zendo, Jiryu shared some encouraging words and declared the conclusion of the 79th practice period at Green Gulch Farm! Finally, we all gathered at the stairs in Cloud Hall for a group photo, marking our first and final photo together during the practice period.

Epilogue

We recognize internal knots and latent tendencies
so we can transform them.
When our habit energies dissipate,
transformation at the base is there.
– Vasubandhu

Reflecting on my time living the monastic life, I often find myself at a loss when people ask, “How was it? What did you take away from it?” I wish I could say I found the divine or had a grand awakening, but the truth is more subtle. Zen is a path of transformation—one that unfolds over a lifetime, not in two months or even two years.

My greatest teacher during this time was not a person, but the schedule itself. Every day, I simply showed up—whether it was for meditation, cleaning, cooking, or eating—and tried to do each task with full awareness. The discipline of the practice period wasn’t about achieving something extraordinary but about fully inhabiting each moment. Some of the most profound teachings I received were from private meetings (or dokusans) with Senior Teachers like Jiryu, Reb, and Linda, but much of my lessons came simply from living the Zen life.

This experience was also a study of myself. Without the usual distractions, I saw more clearly what triggered me, what brought me joy, and how I defined my own self-worth. I had assumed that, removed from the stresses of regular life, I would be perpetually calm and serene. But I found that my old patterns—my reactions, frustrations, and insecurities—followed me into the monastery. Zen did not erase them, but it gave me tools to see them with more clarity.

Buddhism begins with the recognition that life includes suffering. The question is, how do we transform ourselves so that we suffer less? Too often, we become trapped in our emotions and thoughts, reacting automatically. One of the most valuable teachings I received from Jiryu is the practice of creating space between myself and my thoughts. With that spaciousness I could respond appropriately instead of simply reacting. The same external circumstances might arise, but they no longer have to control my inner world.

Thich Nhat Hanh describes this beautifully:

If you pour a handful of salt into a cup of water, the water becomes undrinkable. But if you pour the salt into a river, people can continue to draw the water to cook, wash, and drink.

The suffering in our lives is like salt—it can feel overwhelming when we are constricted by our own minds. But if we expand our perspective, if we cultivate spaciousness, the same suffering becomes manageable, even insignificant.

Our natural instinct is to cling—to people, to achievements, to identities. But Buddha taught that everything changes. The more we try to hold on, the more we suffer. Letting go doesn’t mean disengaging from life; it means flowing with it. The strict monastic schedule helped reinforce this—each activity followed the next, whether I was enjoying it or not. The real challenge, of course, is applying this to the attachments that define us in our regular life – our relationships, our jobs, our sense of self.

One of the most challenging yet powerful teachings of Zen is surrendering to the present moment. At first, this idea felt radical—almost counterintuitive. How could simply being here be enough? Aren’t we supposed to strive for something greater and plan for the future? But the more I sat with it, the more it made sense. Much of our suffering doesn’t come from the present itself but from our resistance to it. We cling to memories, replaying past mistakes and regrets as if we could rewrite them. Or we live in anxiety, worrying about things that haven’t happened and may never happen. Zen teaches that the present moment is rarely the true source of our suffering—most moments are neutral until we label them otherwise. Surrendering to the present does not mean passive resignation. It means fully engaging with what is right in front of us, without resistance, without wishing it were different. It means deriving contentment and joy from the journey, not just the destination. This is especially relevant in our professional lives, where it is easy to turn work into an endless climb up the ladder, always focused on the next promotion, the next achievement, the next goal.

We often imagine spirituality as a gateway to something extraordinary, something radically different from our everyday existence. But what I came to realize is that happiness is found in the ordinary: walking in nature, cooking a simple meal, playing with my child, even doing my work. If we can be fully present for the seemingly mundane moments, we won’t feel the relentless need to chase the next milestone. The happiness found in reaching such milestones is often fleeting, but the contentment of being fully engaged in life’s small moments is lasting.