The Lotus in the Dish Rack Posted 4/4/08

The Lotus in the Dish Rack Posted 4/4/08

While living and participating in the Practice Period at Green Gulch Farm Zen Center — the Green Dragon Temple — I developed a deep joy for washing dishes after the weekend evening meals, when some two to three hundred people would gather at the center. I became so attached to this task that I insisted on doing it alone, refusing any help in handling the dishwashing machine, the stacking, the rinsing — all of it.

I was bald then, alive and burning with energy, sustained by the intensive rhythm of Zen practice: zazen (sitting meditation), wholesome vegetarian meals, and the company of wise men and women from across the United States and beyond. The meeting of minds was itself a Dharma transmission.

Every weekend, the public was allowed into the center to experience monastic life, to taste the simple meals made with organically grown vegetables and the famous Tassajara bread. The parking lot overflowed. Saints and charlatans, liars and thieves, the wise and the foolish — they all came to taste a glimpse of Shunryu Suzuki’s Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind.

I volunteered for dishwashing without needing to be persuaded. For some odd reason, it became the place to be. That evening was like any other — the crowd loud and joyful as they ate, preparing to return to The City (San Francisco) across the Golden Gate Bridge.

Everyone who handed me their dirty dishes had something to share — a big smile, a mock surprise at seeing me at the sink, or a teasing comment about my occasional dozing off in the zendo. I danced with the bowls, stacking them into the circular rack and sliding them into the machine, never breaking pace, smile meeting smile.

As I laid the last piece — a heavy white china bowl — into the center of the tray, there appeared before me a thousand-petaled white lotus flower, floating in the tray.

I looked up slowly and met the large round eyes of my tanto (practice leader), Paul Disco. He nodded at me in gassho, smiled, and whispered into my ear, “It does happen sometimes…” before slipping away in his black monk’s robes.

I slid the final rack into the washer. Nothing more was said.

The appearance of the lotus was so real — more real than real. It took my breath away. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. If not for the calm, grounding presence of my teacher, I might have been overwhelmed. But with him there, the moment passed — like drinking tea.

In Japanese, they call it satori — what I interpret as a mini-awakening. Experiences like this are not uncommon during intensive meditation, especially in an environment where one feels safe, supported, and unthreatened — where little miracles can slip into one’s consciousness like a lightning flash.

The fact that my teacher was there, whether aware of what had occurred or not, made the moment auspicious. He bore witness. And his reaction — so simple, so ordinary — allowed the miracle to vanish gently into memory, as if it never happened. And I felt that was perfectly okay.

For those unfamiliar with Zen or Buddhist practice, such an occurrence may be difficult to accept — and that’s alright. These moments aren’t meant for everyone. They are given only to those whose consciousness is tuned to receive them.

Usually, they happen one-on-one. But sometimes, during a talk or a period of group meditation, a single word, a single line, becomes The Line — and a shared experience arises. A collective satori. The entire hall is suddenly lifted into peace, into lightness. A deep sense of being. A love for one another that knows no boundaries, a complete surrender into the Whole — or perhaps, the Hole.