Page Street and the Devil Card

Page Street and the Devil Card

I walked up and down Page Street looking for the Zen Center at 300 Page Street—the first safe place I could find refuge for my first night in this big city. I had just arrived in San Francisco, and everything felt unfamiliar, but I had come too far from Green Bay, Wisconsin to turn back.

My first BART ride took me to Berkeley, guided by a brochure I was given mentioning a Korean monk headed in that direction. It referenced a Tibetan temple, a good place to ask for help. As I wandered, I saw a sign for a Zen Center nearby—what luck, I thought. But when I approached, I was turned away without a second thought. That hurt. I was disappointed and alone.

Walking past a shop window, I noticed a small poster with an image of Lord Ganesha. It announced a Hindu celebration in Golden Gate Park—something like Thaipusam back in Malaysia. Perhaps the Hare Krishna people would be more welcoming, I thought. I made my way to the park, asking for directions, and found that people were kind and willing to help. Maybe they saw in me the tired face of a wanderer with a tale that tugged at the heart.

I had hoped, as in Malaysia, there would be free food for the needy during the celebration—but no such luck. Saffron-robed devotees danced joyfully beneath large tents decorated with images of their Guru. It felt more like a display than a refuge, so I drifted back toward the city.

As I stood at a street corner, wondering again where Page Street might be, I glanced up—and there it was, written on the sign above my head.

As I walked along the street, a woman in a long black dress, her curly black hair spreading around her like a halo, caught my eye. She waved me toward her curio shop, filled with spiritual items—even a white human skull. "Let me read your cards," she said. I asked her how much it would cost. “Twenty-five dollars,” she said. I hesitated. Could I afford this? “It’s worth much more than you can imagine,” she added.

I sat down. She laid out the cards, and the one I pulled was The Devil. It shook me. “Why the shock?” she asked. I told her the Devil was not exactly what I had in mind. She smiled gently and told me that on this journey, the Devil would be my companion—my teacher. Her explanation made a strange kind of sense, though I left her shop twenty-five dollars lighter and carrying a heavy heart.

Soon after, I came upon a large Georgian-style mansion. It was 300 Page Street. With a flutter of hope, I walked in. At the reception desk sat a pot-bellied man with a bald head and thick glasses, deeply absorbed in a newspaper. I approached timidly.

His face said it all—You’ve got to be kidding me. “Looking for a place to stay?” he asked. “Which caravan did you drift into the city from, boy?”

As he spoke, I glanced toward what looked like a meditation hall. A large painting of Bodhidharma stared down at me from the far wall. I promised myself right then and there—I would sit in that hall one day. I walked out with that vow echoing in my chest.

I want to note here that the same man—Jerome, if I remember correctly—came to our family’s farewell party when we left for Sendai, Japan in 1995.

Later, during my stay at Green Gulch Zen Center, I returned to the City Center for several seven-day sesshins. True to my vow, I sat in that meditation hall, facing the Bodhidharma painting. I even helped my instructor, a master Japanese carpenter, build the rostrum from which the Abbot gave his first sermon after his ordination at SF Zen Center.

Tenshin Zenki Reb Anderson was that Abbot—a senior Dharma teacher in the Sōtō Zen tradition, a direct heir to Shunryu Suzuki. My encounter with Reb was abrupt. During a sesshin, he walked over to where I was sitting and whispered sharply, “Stop breathing so loudly, or I’ll throw you out of the Zendo.” That moment stayed with me. From then on, I practiced breath mindfulness more diligently. Reb and I kept our distance, but whenever we passed each other, we bowed and smiled—a quiet respect between strangers walking the same path.

If it hadn’t been for my teacher, Paul Discoe, I doubt I would have lasted long at Green Gulch. Paul, a gifted Zen carpenter, revived the Gulch community during the difficult years following the Baker Roshi scandal. I was fortunate to be his student during that time. I gave it everything I had, fighting the demons in my own mind.

Paul Discoe was a pioneer in Zen architecture in the U.S., blending ancient Japanese joinery techniques with modern construction. His buildings embodied the spirit of Zen—form, function, stillness.

Just recently, I sent Paul a Facebook friend request. I hope he accepts it.

I remember our time huddled around the small stove at the Gulch, pulling tiny nodules from rice straw, which would later be used as mortar for the Japanese tea house. Ten or fifteen of us, cloaked in silence, bowed heads and busy hands. For hours, we said nothing—just worked. That was Zen practice: present, patient, pure.

The cold was our teacher. The pain, our guide. I learned then to let go—not just of my past, but of any expectation of the future. To dissolve into the present, to drift in silence where space and time vanish. That was the gift of Zen.

And when I finally drifted out into the vast ocean, hoping she would swallow me whole—she didn’t. She kept me afloat. She allowed me to return to shore, where the fields of suffering were still in bloom.

And this too shall pass.