February 2025

Village Zendo Bulletin—February, 2025
 
Bulletin 

February 2025


                     Photo by Nancy Zesho Mann
 
‘Hearing this elder monk's words I felt ashamed and surprised.
I asked, "What is practice? What are words?"’ 
—Dogen, Instructions for the Tenzo

Dear Sangha,

As a writer and editor, I’ve always struggled with the above questions. I know all too well how words can fail, how often they fall short. And yet I know, too, that words are my practice nevertheless. “Ha!” the universe cries. “Ha!” I respond, shaking my head and grinning with resignation.

While words may or may not be your practice, the name of our Zendo, Temple of True Expression, reminds us that to truly express ourselves is part of practice for each and every one of us. This is why I’d like to invite you to be a bigger part of this Bulletin. What this means—and how (or even if) you do this—is of course up to you, but the truth is that there is room here in these pages for you to express yourself truly, and in so many ways: poems, essays, photos, drawings, short stories, interviews, rants, hopes, fears, pleas, mantras, recipes, songs, paintings, prayers… Indeed, the ways you could offer your truth are limited only by your imagination. So, tell me, how will you contribute? (I mean, seriously, tell me: email me at tapink24@aol.com with the headline “Bulletin Ideas” and tell me how you’d like to be a part of this.)

Right now, these words are my practice. I am blessed to have this be the case. Every month, I get to sit down, and through these strange little markings on this page, offer my heart to you, and to the universe. It’s a pain in the ass, and it’s a great privilege. Please join me!

With love and letters,

Taylor Plimpton
Editor

 

FEBRUARY CALENDAR

Sunday, February 2:      Online: Practice and Inquiry Circle w. Joshin Roshi, 9:30 am

                                    In-Person: Body Breath and Mind, Intro to Zen, 9:30 am

Thursday, February 6:    Zazen and Dharma Talk by Musho Hoshi

Saturday, February 8:    Zazenkai with Dharma Talk by Kim

Sunday, February 9:       Zazen and Dharma Talk by Ryoshin Hoshi

                                    Music Improv 4 pm

Thursday, February 13:   Zazen and Dharma Talk by Joren

                                     Newcomers Meeting, 6:40 pm

Sunday, February 16:      Zazen and Dharma Talk by Gessho

Monday, February 17:      Zendo Closed for Washington’s Birthday

Thursday, February 20:    Zazen and Dharma Talk by Ryotan Roshi

Friday, February 21:        Tangaryo Meeting with Shinryu Roshi, Online, 6:30 pm

Sunday, February 23:      Zazen and Dharma Talk by Jo An Sensei

Thursday, February 27:    Fusatsu Ceremony and Precepts Talk by Fusho Sensei


_______________________________

Ongoing Groups:  

The Bolivian Sitting Group meets online Saturdays: 8 am 

                 Starts at 7 am beginning November 9              

                 Bolivia Zoom Meeting ID: 297 525 8394; Password: 1234

The People of Color Sitting Group meets online Saturdays: 10:30 am

How to Meditate meets Monday evenings online: 6:30 pm

Sorting Out Your Stuff meets online Tuesdays: 10 am

Liturgy Training: In-Person,

               1st and 3rd Wednesdays of each month: 6 pm

Grace and Grit meets online, first Thursday of each month at 3 pm

 

Friday, February 21, 6:30 pm Online
 
Tangaryo

An invitation to become a Formal Student

An Informational Meeting with Shinryu Roshi will be held 

Online,  Friday, February 21, 6:30 pm


The Village Zendo's next student initiation —“Tangaryo”— will be held Saturday, March 22, 2025. 

If you have not yet become a Formal Student at the Village Zendo, and wish to do so, please read the information at villagezendo.org/membership and attend this meeting.

 Why Become A Formal Student?

You should become a Formal Student at the Village Zendo if you wish to make an ongoing commitment to Zen training and to enter into a formal teacher/student relationship with Shinryu Roshi and the Village Zendo teaching staff.  

You are not required to become a Formal Student in order to work with  Shinryu Roshi and the VZ teachers. You can do this on an informal basis by becoming a Member of the Village Zendo.  

Becoming A Formal Student at The Village Zendo

Since the beginning of Zen in China more than 1,500 years ago, entering formally into training under the guidance of a teacher has been the traditional path for seekers of the Way.  In today’s world of spiritual marketing and religious quick-fixes, the need for skilled guidance through the many years of one’s training is as great as ever.

Tangaryo

One of the requirements for becoming a Formal Student of Shinryu Roshi and the VZ teaching staff is "Tangaryo," or all-day sitting. This custom dates to the earliest days of Zen when those wishing to enter into training would sit for long periods of time in order to demonstrate the sincerity of their aspiration. Tanga is a Japanese term meaning "staying until the morning." It refers to the overnight stay in a Zen monastery of a wandering monk on pilgrimage. The room set aside for this purpose was known as the tangaryo.

At the Village Zendo we have continued this tradition. After discussing their wish to become a student with Shinryu Roshi, student candidates devote a day to Tangaryo. The day begins with zazen that continues until mid-afternoon. The zazen is unstructured — no bells ring to mark the end of the period and there is no kinhin. Candidates may take short breaks, if needed, to go to the bathroom or refresh themselves for further sitting.

In the middle of the afternoon, Tangaryo ends and, shortly afterwards, the new students exchange bows and sit down to tea with Roshi who greets them on behalf of the Village Zendo teaching staff. 

It is customary at this time to present Roshi with a small monetary donation in lieu of other gifts. There is no minimum or maximum amount required.

With the conclusion of this ceremony, student initiation is complete and the new student is invited to participate in a short Student Entry ceremony on the day following Tangaryo. For further information contact info@villagezendo.org


 
 Tangaryo Schedule

7:30 – 12:00  zazen
12:00 – 1:00  lunch
1:00 – 3:30   zazen
3:30 – 3:45   break
3:45 – 5:00  ceremony 
 

Adam Seido Levy: Photo Essay


Photographs taken on the last day of summer and winter sesshin
Wisdom House and Garrison, 2024. (Roshi Eisho Peterson and Sensei Soshin Dufour were not present at these retreats.)

these are our teachers: 
questioning, reflective, wise, effervescent, and kind
how do they teach us? 
dharma talks, interviews
and simply by being 

 
 


Roshi Shinryu Thomson, Abbot
Roshi Pat Enkyo O'Hara, Abbot Emerita 




Roshi Joshin O'Hara, Co-Founder



Roshi Ryotan Eiger



Roshi Myoko Terestman



Sensei Tokuyu Manasia



Sensei Bokushu Tucker



Sensei Fugan Dineen



Sensei Jo An Tibbetts



Sensei Fusho Rice



Hoshi Daishi Koebner



Hoshi Ryoshin Kalmanek



Hoshi Musho Rodney Alan Greenblat
 


TRUE EXPRESSIONS

Creative Contributions from the Village Zendo community



The Starling 

By Adam Seido Levy




I’ve been away from my house and the temperature has dropped to below freezing. I grab some logs from the side porch and open the door to the wood stove. A starling rockets out, its wings grazing my hair. It flies with missile-like velocity at the kitchen window.

A sickening crack. A broken windowpane, or a broken neck? 

Miraculously, neither. The starling gathers herself together and flies at the window again. Another crash as her skull hits the glass. 

I run to the kitchen door and open it wide—blue sky, a sharp breeze, and the promise of liberation. But the starling keeps flying at the window, crashing into it again and again.

If she could only turn her head and think differently, Liberation is only three feet away! 

Ah, I think smugly to myself, this will make a wonderful metaphor when I open the on-line Zendo tomorrow morning.  

The starling, exhausted, is now sitting on the sill, trembling. Suddenly, I have a realization. I open the window.  

“You see,” the starling says as she flaps her wings, “you just had to think differently!” And the starling flew away. 


 

REFLECTIONS

In honor of our study text, some selections from an essay by Taylor Plimpton on being a prep cook.



"Venerable sir, why put yourself to the difficulty of working as a cook in your old age? Why not just do zazen and study the koan of the ancient masters?"
The Tenzo laughed for a long time and then he said, "My foreign friend, it seems you don't really understand practice or the words of the ancients." 

 
—Dogen, Instructions to the Cook 


I begin where every newcomer to the kitchen begins—washing dishes. Actually, my first full day on the job, we clean not only the dishes, but the whole kitchen. The restaurant is brand-new, and so is everything in it—everywhere untouched stainless steel, gleaming under fluorescent light—but we wash it top to bottom anyway: we scour the surfaces, the stove-top, the insides of the metal cupboards; we soak and soap the pots and pans (they still have the price-tags stuck to them, which must eventually be scraped off with a little razor blade); we mop the floor. At the end of the day, my fingers are wrinkled and raw, and my jeans are wet and sticking to my thighs. Chef asks, “You coming back tomorrow?” 

For the first week or so, I get this same question at the end of almost every day, and he always seems a little amused when I respond, “Yeah, of course.”

***

Last night, a customer asked a waiter—between the pork chop, burger, and chicken, which would you choose?—and I repeated the question to Chef: “Probably the pork chop. Definitely not the chicken. You can get chicken anywhere. Chicken’s too safe. Why would you go out to a restaurant and order chicken? You probably order chicken,” he accused me of, and it’s true, I do sometimes. Chicken’s good. His chicken’s good.

We talk about other adventurous foods—whether I eat sweetbreads (not so much) or escargots (sometimes) or tongue (every now and then, with mixed results). I reveal that I used to be even less adventurous in my eating habits, had lived a pretty sheltered youth when it came to food, too, one of grilled cheeses and French fries, cheeseburgers and hotdogs, your basic American-kid fare. (My sister and I were intrigued by fancier foods in theory—we pretended our fries were shrimp and that our ketchup was cocktail sauce—but in practice we steered clear). Anyway, my point is, a sense of food culture didn’t really exist in my home—at least, not the way it did for my friend M, the owner. M tells me how, growing up, there was always a pot simmering on the stove with a big bone sticking out of it. His mom was fond of roasting whole fish, making filet mignon with béarnaise sauce, or vitello tanato (veal with a tuna mayonnaise sauce, which he describes as “weird and wonderful”). His father’s specialty was lobster fra diavola, a spicy pasta that began with a giant bubbling pot filled with whole lobsters cut in half and stewed with tomatoes and chilis. My father’s specialty, on the other hand, was white rice, which was in fact all he knew how to cook—unless you include the microwaved Stouffer’s dinners that he would pour over his rice as if they were stews.  

My mom actually did have a kind of talent in the kitchen, though she only employed it sporadically—concocting an occasional leg of lamb, for instance, or a perfectly roasted chicken, the outer skin crisp, the meat moist, surrounded by quartered potatoes and onions that had been soaking up the juices and repeatedly basted. For the chicken, which was my favorite, there would be a wonderfully salty, peppery gravy made from the giblets and the scrapings from the bottom of the platter—on the side, steamed broccoli topped with a pad of salted butter, Stove Top stuffing. Anyway, the problem with my mom’s cooking was not the end-result, which was delicious, but the process. She would starve herself for two days, maybe three, existing on nothing but cigarettes and Coca-Cola, Scotch and cocaine, before, trembling with hunger, she would cook up these elaborate feasts, prepared meticulously and in a kind of panic—we kids knew to stay well-clear—frantically bustling around the kitchen banging pots and basting things and smoking her long, thin More cigarettes. Finally, the meal complete, we’d sit down at an immaculately set dinner table, my mom totally fucking out of her gourd, and dig in, but it was usually only a bite or two in that someone would say something to set her off, or the phone would ring—a sure sign of god’s sick sense of humor—and my mom would drop her silverware to the plate with an angry, exasperated clink I can still hear to this day—dinner utterly and irrevocably ruined. 

Roast leg of lamb still tastes like madness to me, even to this day. 

But somehow, remarkably, a good roast chicken still just tastes delicious.

*** 

Later in life, when my mom had quit the drinking and drugging, the occasional cooking of these meticulous, manic dinners continued: I guess it was simply how she ate, starving herself then gorging. But the meals she tended to prepare during the day—Tuna Salad, BLT’s with extra mayo on the side for dipping, scrambled eggs—were of a more grounded preparation. 

Ah, her eggs. Slow eggs, she called them, and they were the first dish I ever learned to make. The trick was to cook them in a pot over extremely low heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon. The ingredients were simple: eggs, salt, pepper, and sour cream. The result was a creamy blend, rich, delicious. But the best part was that there was no way to make them frantically—you had to stand there and stir, slowly, calmly. In this way, they spoke of Sunday mornings. As the eggs cooked, there would be bacon crisping on the side, a whole package of it sizzling in the pan (my mom liked it extra-crisp) and sliced bread being toasted and buttered heavily, and when it all finally came together, tall glasses of cold Tropicana orange juice.

My mom had learned the recipe from Joe Fox, the great editor who passed away at his Random House desk with, as I remember the story being told, a newspaper over his nose.

*** 

Considering that this is the pace of cooking that speaks to me, of sanity and sunshine, it’s little wonder that I’m not really cut out for the line—or for that matter, the front of the house—and so it is. But I do like it in the kitchen, especially in the daytime when it’s just me and Chef, the restaurant empty of customers, a simple repetitive task set before me: a box of collard greens to wash, de-stem and chop into thin strips, for instance, so that later they can be topped with freshly toasted croutons, dressing, and a slow-cooked egg. Washing and picking cilantro to garnish the Sichuan salt and pepper wings. Chiffonading parsley. Chopping potatoes. There’s something about the mindless simplicity of it—of just doing the thing that’s in front of me—that’s cleansing. At the end of a day of it, I’m bone-tired, but it feels kind of good.

“Where does your mind go when you’re doing mundane tasks?” Chef asks me.
“I try to keep it where it is, on what I’m doing,” I respond. “What about you, Chef? Where does your mind go?”
“To dark places. Dark, dark places.”

There’s no denying that Chef’s got a dark, angry energy about him, a veritable scowl of a presence, but the truth is I like the guy. He didn’t have to take me under his wing, but that’s exactly what he’s done, even if it’s been in his own curmudgeonly way. He shows me how to eat the “pope’s noses” from the chicken backs we bake for broth, tear off the crunchy, salty, greasy little tails and pop them in our mouths. “You should never go hungry working in a kitchen,” he says. “If you do, you’re doing something wrong.” He’s always giving me advice of this kind, telling me how things are, the way things work. 

“Don’t think there’s anything so different about what you’re doing and what I’m doing, between chopping potatoes and making gnocchi. There is no difference. People get all romantic about it, think oh, being a chef, dreaming of Provence. No, it’s chopping potatoes.”

I ask Chef how long it would take for me to be one of these line cooks. He shakes his head and smiles, as if to say, never. “What, like three years?” I say. “You don’t want to be these guys,” he says. 

He confides that working the line at night, it’s not even really what he wants to do, either. “I mean, I like hanging out with cooks. Something happens back here. It’s like you’ve been to war together. But I’m just here at night cause I have to be. What I’m really interested in is creating the menu, putting together a flavor profile.” And as much as he’s all grimace and gripe, I’m beginning to see that what’s at the root of it is simply passion: he loves what he does. “The truth is I couldn’t do anything else for 10-12 hours a day—except for maybe playing shortstop for the Red Sox.” 

Chef gives me a copy of Back of the House: The Secret Life of a Restaurant, which he says will give me more insight into the world of the kitchen. Later, I will give him a printout of a Zen text by Dogen, “Instructions to the Cook,” which has wonderful little lines in it like, “When the rice is placed in the iron cooking pot, take care of it so that rats do not fall into it or idlers just hang around poking at it.” 




We communicate in three places online:

our email list, a Facebook page, and a Groups.io list

where we share events and information among the whole

Sangha. Explore these various ways of staying connected and

up to date here: https://villagezendo.org/connect-with-us/
 


Editor: Taylor Plimpton

Editor Emerita: Nina Shuka Klippel

Managing Editor/ Design & Production: Howard Thoresen




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260 West Broadway, New York NY 10013

 








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