Zen Toast and the Encouragement Stick
My first serious efforts in spiritual life motivated by a close call with death.
The Zen Monastery
I first stumbled into the world of meditation as a teenager, some forty years ago, motivated by a goal as noble as it was self-serving: I needed to chill out for the SATs. The relentless thrum of anxiety sabotaged my first attempt at the test, so I rifled through my stepfather's library and found a booklet from Harvard University, written by Herbert Benson, on something called The Relaxation Response. No chanting monks, no incense, just a word—literally any word—repeated over and over with your breathing. You could use "one," you could use "potato," it didn't really matter. So, I gave it a go. I breathed, I focused, and wouldn’t you know it, my SAT score jumped up 200 points the second time around. Not too shabby.
Fast forward a couple of years, and I was 19 when my heart decided to pull a stunt—one moment I’m a carefree sophomore, and the next, I’ve got a congenital heart defect that nearly sends me to an early grave. (Story Here) Like that basketball player who just dropped dead on the court one day—remember him? Yeah, exactly like that, except I survived. But I found myself in a crisis of mortality, so naturally, I resolved to get rid of my fear of death the old-fashioned way: by diving headlong into spiritual practice.
My first stop was a Zen Buddhist monastery in the Catskill Mountains. A whole month, I thought, to really dig deep. I figured I was ahead of the game—I knew how to meditate, after all. Or so I thought. Turns out, there’s a chasm the size of the Grand Canyon between 20 minutes twice a day and 10 hours a day. Also, unless you’re a former gymnast or blessed with freakish flexibility, sitting on the floor for that long really, really hurts. The books said pain was all in the mind, so with the bravado of a high school football player, I figured I'd tough it out. After my first 90-minute session sitting cross-legged, I couldn’t stand up. I was hobbled, pain shooting through my legs, my circulation wrecked. From then on, I took the hint and used a chair. Lesson learned: bravado and Zen don’t mix.
The days were grueling—4:20 a.m. wake-up, meditation from 5:00 to 6:30, a short service, then chores or study or exercise until breakfast at 8:00. All the way until 9:00pm or later. By the way, I’d chosen February in the Catskills for my grand spiritual endeavor, which meant snow, ice, and temperatures that could rival a Siberian winter. I wasn’t staying in the monastery proper; I had half of a rustic cabin up the mountain, and I’m using the word “cabin” generously. It was more like half a hut, with an ancient wood stove and a bed that made prison cots look luxurious. My fire-building skills were non-existent, so my first night involved wearing all my clothes inside my sleeping bag, shivering in my boots. My morning trek involved slogging through the snow, clutching a six D cell MagLite—part flashlight, part bludgeon—in case of bears. I didn’t know then that they’d be hibernating, so the flashlight was mainly to stave off the terror of my own imagination.
Meditation sessions were strictly monitored. Should you start to drift off, a monitor monk or nun would scold you with a loud whisper from the back of the hall: “Wake up!” But if your eyelids just wouldn’t cooperate, they had a more hands-on approach: the kyosaku, or the “encouragement stick.” A monastic would silently patrol the rows, holding this large, flat wooden stick, ready to whack the shoulders of anyone whose head nodded a little too deeply. I initially thought of it as the Zen Buddhist equivalent of Catholic school nuns with a yardstick (Zen monks are also dressed in black robes and can be quite cranky too.) But this was a voluntary violence, you had to bow to signal your invitation of this “encouragement.” “Thank you monk may I please have another!” Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt. They knew the exact pressure points to target, somehow making the sting both jarring and oddly relieving. Once, the monk swung so hard that the stick actually broke in half. It was like a Zen wake-up call, jolting you back into the moment.
At this monastery, meditation was interspersed with mindful chores. I was given some basic task during which I over-exaggerated my attention to detail and was so incredibly slow at accomplishing this task that one of the very stern and scary senior monks came up to me and admonished, "Mindful doesn't mean slow!" 33 years later, he's now the Abbot.
There were weekend retreats for visitors, and if the schedule allowed, residents were invited to attend as well. My first weekend there, they had invited a famous Zen monk and cookbook author named Ed Brown. His books, The Tassajara Cookbook and The Tassajara Bread Book, were immensely popular at that time and still are today. He taught us how to make delicious, primarily vegetarian food as well as a variety of breads. One morning, when he was showing us a breakfast option that seemed unreasonably elaborate, as an obnoxious teenager, I had to ask, "Don't you ever just make toast?" Ed had been a Zen monk for more than 20 years at that point and radiated a calm that I would imagine could only have been surpassed by the Buddha himself... but even he lost his cool at my petulant comment. He snapped, "Yes, I do just have toast sometimes, but that wouldn't be very interesting to teach you, now would it?!" Touché, Noble Monk. He didn't hold it against me, and later in the afternoon, he and I went for a walk through the snowy woods while he told me about his life as a monk and being a student of the great Shunryu Suzuki Roshi, whose book on meditation, Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, is a true spiritual classic.
And then came the pièce de résistance of my month: Sesshin. A whole week of nothing but meditation. Eat at your seat, wash your bowls with tea at your seat, leave the hall only for sleep and the bathroom. Ten hours a day of meditating, more if you were feeling particularly heroic—or masochistic. It was a mind-numbing slog. I’d start composing imaginary letters, creating ridiculous songs (one gem I still remember: “Instead of soy sauce, tamari!” to the tune of “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow”), anything to distract myself from the monotony. But somewhere along the way, I started to settle. By midweek, the world felt clearer, brighter. It was like a veil had lifted, everything radiant and serene, as if I’d scrubbed my mind clean of all its gunk.
Throughout the week, I’d have these private interviews with the abbot. He was kind, the picture of Zen wisdom, though our conversations were less enlightening exchanges and more just me basking in his presence, trying to think of something remotely profound to ask. Once during a period of rest, I cheekily asked him, “Does this dog have Buddha nature?” while petting the monastery dog. This is actually the first and most famous Zen koan apart from “What is the sound of one hand clapping?" With this very simple question I was challenging his realization. The unbelievable arrogance of youth (forgive me, I was still a teenager). Without missing a beat, he replied, “He doesn’t care,” and walked off. Just like that. A perfect Zen mic drop.
At the end of the month, I was asked to describe my retreat experience. My honest response? I knew less about meditation than when I started. I’d shed a lifetime of misconceptions and caught a glimpse of what the practice was really about. I left the monastery with a peace that lingered for weeks, moving through the world like a ghost—quiet, unseen, content.
This story is incredible! It’s both humorous and insightful. You've wonderfully captured the essence of making that journey from a clueless teenager to experiencing more clarity and valuable lessons in life.
Fascinating! Thank you for sharing