November 2008: Volume 7 / No. 9
“Let gratitude course through this valley and through our veins, for we and our community are safe and well, supported in ways known and unknown by the generosity and efforts of so many beings.
May we continue to offer deep bows to the fire. May the bright flame of its wisdom never be extinguished, for by its very presence we truly know what it is to be alive, as long as we greet all things with boundless, searing awareness.”
Excerpted from the writing A Guest Called Fire by David Zimmerman, Director of Tassajara Zen Mountain Center
Tassajara is a peace-filled paradise fed by sparkling clear hot springs nestled at the bottom of a canyon. The narrow approach to reach what is the oldest Soto Zen monastery outside of Asia winds for miles uphill through the forest before sharply plunging between steep peaks. These hills are blanketed in pine, oak and manzanita – perfect fuel for feeding fires in the soul and on the land. Despite the nearness of both the Marble Cone and Cook blazes in 1977 and 1999, and the ever-present threat of a burn in the wilderness, the summer of 2008 was the first time the guest of fire checked in at Tassajara. It was a guest who brought lessons in gratitude to the community.
Tassajara’s location is inconspicuous on any map. Its location is its charm but also a major point of reckoning by all who live or travel there. First inhabited by the native Esselen people – it is said they believed in the healing and restorative qualities of the area’s natural hot springs – Tassajara is positioned deep in the Ventana Wilderness, four-and-one-half hours, by car, southeast of San Francisco and north of Big Sur.
Even though I had heard about the magic of Tassajara for years from friends of friends who had visited the hot springs, dipped in the icy creek, hiked the pristine wilderness and sat in meditation with the monks, I had no idea how deeply the place would enter my heart. Tassajara sounded charming, but the threat of fire and the inaccessibility of the land concerned me.
Going there felt uncertain, mystical. The only music is chanting and bells and the cabins are lit by kerosene lamps. The public phone is temperamental and cell phone reception, an internet connection or newspaper delivery are out of the question – and forget about receiving faxes or watching television. Even if you bring your laptop, Tassajara charges $10 per hour to charge the battery. Yet the gourmet food includes freshly baked bread and vegetables grown on the land. And then there’s the baths and the stillness.
In a moment of inspiration in March, 2006, setting aside my fears surrounding fire and traversing the rugged terrain, I enrolled in two workshops; writing and meditation in May, yoga and meditation in July, daring this remote and isolated place to challenge me, teach me.
I drove into hot, deserted and dust-laden Jamesburg, the last outpost before continuing up Tassajara Road for the final leg into the monastery. Forget time, forget zipping along. Shift to four wheel drive. While some people choose to take “the stage” into Tassajara (a van that softens the intimacy with the often winding dirt road and the nearness of the sheer drop-offs) I wanted to drive it myself, to feel my way into this mysterious place I had been longing for. I laughed out loud, leaned out the window, took pictures of the gutted road, rocks and pinecones scattered along its edge, thinking no one would believe this without evidence. I breathed in the dry, pure air scented with sage and pine. There were no other cars, not another soul around. The steep mountains were carpeted in every hue of green. Deer occasionally stood among the trees, serene yet alert. A doe and two fawns sprang lightly across the road in front of me. A red-tailed hawk, golden in the brilliant sunlight noted my passage. I began to feel a part of the landscape, not a separate traveler. I began to settle and something in me softened.
My home for the next five days was a small redwood cabin where I was serenaded by the sound of the nearby creek. The days were unusually hot, the nights and early mornings chilly. My delightful roommate turned out to be a good companion for treks to The Narrows (natural pools up the creek). I read, wrote, soaked in the baths, dipped into the delicious waters of the creek, lay in the sun, talked and laughed lazily. It felt ancient, unforced and authentic.
“Taking the waters” in every sense (you drink spring water out of the faucets) made everyone glow. A peace settled around me. At The Narrows I sighted a condor soaring far above me in the bluest of skies as I sunned like a lizard on a large flat rock. I left Tassajara lighter, shorn of worries and excited about returning in July.
Fire in the Canyon
As the drier and hotter July approached, my fears about fire woke me up at night. Why would I place myself in the depths of a remote canyon, deep in fire country primed to burn, with one road out? When I spoke with the people who lived and worked at Tassajara, they reassured me of their vigilance, preparedness and their capacity for a fast and efficient response. I thought of all of the cars in the dusty parking area, pointing out for a quick exit. I felt a strong pull to return to Tassajara and examined my fears.
When I returned to the hidden canyon, it was 103 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade, 108 in the sun. I learned to honor the character and personality of the heat. Tassajara lives in harmony and resonance with the elements; it bestows a quiet serenity on the land, casting its spell on those who visit there. I began to enjoy the phrase, “Welcome everything; push away nothing.” The elements had begun to temper me. In the dry heat I napped, did restorative yoga, meditated in the temple in the early morning cool and immersed myself in the creek. I was forced into a restful state by nature and its demands on my earthly body. I returned home enchanted and dreaming of the next trip to this sanctuary, unaware the guest of fire would pay its own visit before my next sojourn two years later.
Lightning struck creating the Basin Complex Fire on June 21, 2008, along with hundreds of other fires in California. During this time, I frequently viewed the newly created Tassajara blog, “Sitting with Fire.” The monks wrote of fire as an anticipated visitor for whom they were preparing with voices that struck me as eloquent and serene. I read between the lines, looking for signs of distress or panic. There were none. As the summer heat continued the fire crept closer. I watched a short interview with Tassajara’s director, David Zimmerman. He spoke of the nature of emotions arising at the monastery and of bowing to the fire. He sounded unflustered. The photos of the fire near the end of June became more ominous, the fire’s progress unrelenting. It was thought to be three days away from the monastery. The workshop I had planned to attend was cancelled because Tassajara was closed to outside guests.
I was stunned. Despite my previous fears I had come to believe Tassajara was inviolable. Still the monks seemed calm as I again watched David Zimmerman speak in a short video about how the community would approach the fire. They openly awaited the arrival of this “guest” and would “meet” it rather than “fight” the fire. Yet by July 9, conditions had shifted dangerously. It was decided the remaining twenty members of the community still holding fort at Tassajara would have to evacuate. Reluctantly the caravan drove through hot winds and the smoky suffocating air of the fire choked hills with the support of water tankers diverted from other fire areas just to ensure the group’s safe passage.
Up the ridge beyond Tassajara the exiting group was told by Jack Froggatt, Branch Commander of the Indiana Fire Crew, that they would not be allowed back in without a Forest Service escort. Five monks, one woman and four men, (Director David Zimmerman, Tenzo Mako Voelkel, Abbot Steve Stücky, Head of Shop Colin Gipson and Plant manager Graham Ross) changed their minds about leaving. Others would have followed, feeling the decision to evacuate premature, but at that juncture, only those five were able to confer. Giving thanks for the enormous support they had received over the last weeks and with guarded but well wishes from Commander Jack Froggatt and Cal Fire’s Stuart Carlson, the “Tassajara Five,” as they came to be known, decided to return to their abandoned home amidst the burning hills. Reaching the monastery they organized their preparations to meet the fire as it entered the grounds.
The Five traded watches; they did this throughout the night, resolved that their guest would not find them sleeping. Fire arrived in time for lunch on July 10, voraciously running down all sides of the steep hills surrounding the monastery; at one time they thought it would creep in. Miraculously, 75 feet from the entrance of the monastery on all sides, the flames slowed. The fire’s entrance may have been hindered by the lush creek’s benevolent presence, the climate of the riparian corridor which envelopes Tassajara, augmented by the “Dharma Rain,” the jury-rigged sprinkler system engaged to keep the monastery roofs and grounds moist during the previous weeks. The water pumps, standpipes and hoses that had been set in place were hastily employed by the five monks who met their insistent guest, running here and there to meet its demands. The fire brought intense heat, smoke and ash falling thick as snow.
Deep devotion and the capacity to hold space, presence of mind and abiding love overcame nausea, headaches, fatigue and uncertainty. For six and a half grueling hours, at times each monk alone for an hour or so in different places, the “Tassajara Five” embraced and became one with water, fire, earth, air and ether. By evening the fire had made its passage, and with the exception of a few structures lost, Tassajara stands today, an emerald island amidst its starkly beautiful burned surroundings.
I returned to Tassajara in August, about a month after the fire had passed through, and again in September. I needed to see the land I had come to love, wanted to speak to David about what transpired, the struggles and ideals that might inform our everyday existence. I asked him what he did when fear arose, when the refuge was threatened by fire. He said, “I felt my feet on the ground, seeking to stay present in that moment, the only moment that existed.” I remembered my own deep fears, at even the thought of fire.
I wanted to know how human beings who live in our fleeting and vulnerable bodies could manage such bravery, and through their example, their inspiration, how we could inhabit that grace and courage within the fiery aspects of our seemingly little lives.
The Tassajara Five and the sangha community have been deeply affected by the fire and processing the experience will take time. The winter rains are coming with the possibility of erosion and slides. Despite these concerns, the monks are joyfully in the moment at hand, embodying gratitude that shines from their faces. I stopped in to say goodbye to David before leaving. As I turned to go he said to me “Deborah, Tassajara cannot be destroyed. You and everyone who have ever passed through Tassajara, have ever thought of Tassajara, have ever loved Tassajara, are Tassajara.” I too, bow to the fire and to those who stood to meet it for all of us.
By Deborah Donohue
