Visitors 8
Modified 28-Aug-26
Created 22-Aug-26
35 photos
Tassajara Zen Mountain Center nestles along Tassajara Creek, in a deep valley surrounded by rocky chaparral-covered hills. Sunlight leaves the valley early each evening, lingering on the surrounding peaks. The Creekside itself is verdant, even in high summer; surrounding lands are sere. Fire is always present, actual or potential; smoke occasionally dims the air and masks the view. Throughout the week, we monitor the Timber Fire in the trackless wilderness between us and the Pacific – evacuations will be ordered if the fire gets closer than 5 miles, but it pauses at 7.6 miles until the week concludes.
Upstream of the Zen Center, the creek moves underground for a while, beneath a boulder-strewn streambed. Green plants thrust roots deep, savoring nourishing moisture even in this dry time.
A swing set sits in a clearing there, incongruous, inviting. Swinging back and forth, I find my feet naturally pumping in rhythm, my body bending backwards and forwards, pumping the swing’s arc wider and higher. (The workshop teaches me, be aware of gravity holding me to Earth’s surface, aware of the solid ground supporting me. Here, I am aware that acceleration is also a sister force to gravity, adding or subtracting: at the bottom of the swing, I press more strongly into the swing; pausing at the top, I am weightless for an instant before patient gravity calls me back for another swing.) Swinging backwards, I lean back, watching upside-down trees rush toward me.
A small wood fragment, the size of my hand, rests lightly on the dry grass – amazingly light as I pick it up. It is scorched on one side, charcoal, and untouched on the other. [It reminds me of a small statue on the zendo altar, charred to charcoal on one side, original wood on the other, probably rescued from the burning zendo?] I wonder – where did this fragment come from? I see no sign of recent fire elsewhere in the clearing. Was the woodchip tossed aloft from a raging fire, whirled through the air, then transported miles before dropping here? If so, we are lucky the smoldering ember went out in the air, and didn’t light another fire right here.
Downstream from the Zen Center, the creek runs free. Butterfly, lizard, and dragonfly inhabit the green world; larvae devour the body of leaves, leaving only the veins. Wading into the calm creek, one can see reflections of surrounding cliffs behind floating leaves.
Upstream of the Zen Center, the creek moves underground for a while, beneath a boulder-strewn streambed. Green plants thrust roots deep, savoring nourishing moisture even in this dry time.
A swing set sits in a clearing there, incongruous, inviting. Swinging back and forth, I find my feet naturally pumping in rhythm, my body bending backwards and forwards, pumping the swing’s arc wider and higher. (The workshop teaches me, be aware of gravity holding me to Earth’s surface, aware of the solid ground supporting me. Here, I am aware that acceleration is also a sister force to gravity, adding or subtracting: at the bottom of the swing, I press more strongly into the swing; pausing at the top, I am weightless for an instant before patient gravity calls me back for another swing.) Swinging backwards, I lean back, watching upside-down trees rush toward me.
A small wood fragment, the size of my hand, rests lightly on the dry grass – amazingly light as I pick it up. It is scorched on one side, charcoal, and untouched on the other. [It reminds me of a small statue on the zendo altar, charred to charcoal on one side, original wood on the other, probably rescued from the burning zendo?] I wonder – where did this fragment come from? I see no sign of recent fire elsewhere in the clearing. Was the woodchip tossed aloft from a raging fire, whirled through the air, then transported miles before dropping here? If so, we are lucky the smoldering ember went out in the air, and didn’t light another fire right here.
Downstream from the Zen Center, the creek runs free. Butterfly, lizard, and dragonfly inhabit the green world; larvae devour the body of leaves, leaving only the veins. Wading into the calm creek, one can see reflections of surrounding cliffs behind floating leaves.
Dan Quinn