Meditation begins
It is 5:30 a.m. in the foothills of a quiet village in the Catskills.The air smells of pine
trees and wood smoke.
Cold water splashes on face, brown robe is put on quickly, and with care.
Stepping out of my one room cabin, I walk down a steep hill, and across a grassy dewy yard.
Opening the heavy side door of the Monastery, I grab a quick cup of coffee, before walking
up the stairs to the Buddha hall.
Then, I settle in on my black cushion, with other robed beings, preparing to meditate.
The sun rises through the eastern facing windows.
Pine incense rises in curlicues up to stroke the polished pine pitched ceilings in the dojo.
The Osopus River runs parallel to the Monastery, a short ten minute walk across a pine lined road.
Stepping out of my one room cabin, I walk down a steep hill, and across a grassy dewy yard.
Opening the heavy side door of the Monastery, I grab a quick cup of coffee, before walking
up the stairs to the Buddha hall.
Then, I settle in on my black cushion, with other robed beings, preparing to meditate.
The sun rises through the eastern facing windows.
Pine incense rises in curlicues up to stroke the polished pine pitched ceilings in the dojo.
The Osopus River runs parallel to the Monastery, a short ten minute walk across a pine lined road.
It is 1984, and I choose to study Zen Buddhism, by living and working in a Zen Monastery in a magnificent woodland paradise in Mt. Tremper, NY.
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