Did I mention it was cold? Yup, during that first week at the farm it never got above sixty-five, with at grand total of two, yup, two sunny afternoons. I would huddle in my room, one of two in the dorm with no direct sunlight, hiding from the fog under layers of clothes and blankets, ruminating that it was So Wrong to be This Cold during the month of May. On the bright side (?), the grounds and people were beautiful. If you had to be stuck in the fog, Green Gulch was the place to be.
The student schedule was the same as the previous week, but knowing the flow provided a freedom to explore both the mental and physical environments. First were the sounds of the morning: the gong in the garden, rung eighteen times in the early part of the service, its low rumble resonating through or swallowed by the fog, depending on its density. Then waking birds, expected finch chirps, pigeon coos, and blackbird chatter joined by the loud, tropical-sounding call of the state bird, the California Quail, joined by the creak of the barn floor during kinhin (walking), and the crack of the building as the day began to warm. On the way to breakfast, the thick morning fog softening the edges of anything more than a few feet away, I observed my playing tricks with me: as I approach a hedge of green becomes an intricate bed of ferns, what at first glance had been a white bird transforms to a lily, with a uniformly brown redwood trunk unveils itself as the intricate ridges and valleys of bark and twined vines. My afternoon walks gained depth as well, no longer orienting myself to the valley but really seeing the details of the landscape: the careful training of the fruit trees in the garden, a birdhouse in a field of poppies, each of the flowers alone, but also as a member of a bed, and the mindful play of the gardeners who planned the groupings.
One of my favorite places (if Zen allows one to play favorites) came to be the farm shed and the surrounding furrows. As a reader, I was first attracted to the farmers’ expressions of the teachings, handwritten notes placed loosely in frames or burnt in wood, a friendly welcome back in to human fold towards the end of my afternoon strolls*. With each passing I came to appreciate the quiet details of the that had been collected over time: Buddha balanced on two red pavers and flanked by fresh wildflowers; a horseshoe arranged to catch good luck; a shelf of pinecones and stones; almost all found objects from the nearby earth. The crops were beautiful too: bouquets of lettuce, chard, and broccoli, their green rows dancing across the narrow valley. The garden housed a cornucopia of characters as well; two juvenile deer who connived their way through the fence (and had to be shooed out) every morning, the six-foot rat snake who lazed across the main path in late afternoon, the Great Blue Heron who kept the gophers and other rodents in check, not to mention the quirky and wise human gardeners, some novices and other who had been working this land for decades.
My favorite meditation was also on the farm. Every Wednesday, instead of a second interval of zazen, we would hoe the fields as a group. (This was known as Community Hoe, not to be confused with First-Time Hoe, Student Hoe or Group Hoe, three until now unmentioned activities during the previous week.) We would file out of the zendo two by two and, after the quick donning of warmies, trundle down the morning-muddy path to the farm shed for our tools and instructions. After a short blessing we would choose our rows, one of us on each side, and with fogged breath, mindfully tease new weeds from the earth, careful to avoid the crops. It was a beautiful practice: the blessing of physical activity and quiet attention to the task, the sounds of metal in earth under the lightening fog, with all members of the sangha, from the newest student to the senior teachers to the Abiding Abbess working side-by-side for the good of the community.
Wednesday nights were dharma talk nights. The first week the talk was by a former head gardener. It began with thoughts on the word vagabond, and spoke to the unease people have to the outsider, the traveller, the one who has chosen not to stray from the straight path society has drawn for us, and reflected on the root of the word, vagus, which is also the name of the nerve that transmits ‘gut feelings’ between the GI system and the brain. (I had viewed this first-hand the week before,when a pair of older travelers, a husband and his ailing wife, had been provided provided shelter and healthy food for several days until they were strong enough to continue.) She then reflected that Green Gulch had been designed as a refuge for those who wanted to step away from the world, and finished by recounting a recent meander through the Muir Woods with a noted arborist. The second week’s lecture was a bit different. One of the Zen Center’s senior teachers had passed three weeks before my arrival, and another the previous fall. In this lecture the head of the Zen Center advised that since it had been almost a generation since a senior teacher had passed they had found themselves unprepared, not only with respect to the effects of the loss would have on the community but also the physical arrangements of the viewing, funeral and internment. She then reported on a recent leaders meeting where they realized they themselves had not done this type of planning (at least to the extent that was needed), and their efforts to develop and codify formal processes, practices and rituals that could be used in the future. As prior military, I am always surprised to hear people have not done this type of planning (we used to update our ‘survivor plans’ every year) so a bit of a PSA here – if you have not had these conversations with your loved ones I encourage you to do so. Trust me, it makes things much easier if/when you ever need to use them.
The second week also brought another cast of fellow students: a quant from Mexico, a recent Berkely grad, one of the gardeners consorts, and a visiting priest from a related tradition. During dishes one morning (when we were supposed to be in functional silence), it came out that the fifth new arrival, a young man from Germany who had just graduated business school, dreamed of working for Tesla. It was not just the product, electric automobiles, but also the founder, one of the PayPal geniuses who has chosen to spend his money on projects that both interest him and improve life on the planet. One day this student was dropped at the nearby mall for the afternoon (to pick up some gardening shoes) where, it turns out, they have a Tesla store. He spent over an hour checking out the cars and in conversation with the sales advisors, and so impressed the manager he was invited back the next day for a test-drive. When he returned he was grinning ear-to-ear; he had been able to test the acceleration on a nearby freeway, then had driven the car back to the farm along the PCH. Best of all, they had requested his resume and a description of the type of work he was interested in. I love stories like this, where passion overcomes odds to rule the day.
Fridays were our day off, so I spent my last full day on trail, this time camera charged and memory empty, hoping for another hawk (alas this was not to be). My choice was ambitious: the Green Gulch Trail to Coyote Ridge Trail. Trail was a bit of a misnomer, it was actually the dirt road to Hope Cottage, a one-room artists lodge that hung on the highest point above Muir Beach. I tucked my sandwich in my pocket and headed off. My first waypoint was the Yurt. A group of artists had been staying in the Guest House for the previous few days, appearing in the garden like chimera, here, then there, then somewhere else. The Yurt was their base, and their work was laid out for display, watercolors of golden poppies or the shore (two that even matched photos I had taken), abstracts of the hills and farm, and sketches and color swatches to continue home. After a half hour of questions and sharing, I was off to trail, up through the mist, past a pair of extreme A-frame wood-built hide-aways, each with a side of floor-to-ceiling windows (one surrounded by young plants in pots), then a stand of young redwood, around a 180 turn, the water tank nestled within, to the open road, a thin ribbon cut in to the side of the hill mirroring the PCH on the opposite side of the valley. The deeply rutted grey track was alternately bordered by thick foliage (berry brambles, low trees) and open areas (grasses low sage), with an occasional wind-bent cyprus or juniper clinging to the side of the hill accenting the view. One turn nestled an abandoned stable, two stalls with small paddocks, the wood grey and cracked with age overcome by vides and wild grasses; another a chicken coop, gaps in the rusted wire providing shelter to new residents. 
Then, the trail shifted from west to south and I could see the ocean, the darker grey of water slowly blending with the fog along the horizon. It was windy, with gusts strong enough to lean in to; I sat down next to a patch of wild orchids and took it all in. Out came my sandwich, and over the next half hour or so, took in it and all that surrounded me.
The next afternoon it was back on the road, south and east for another stay in New Mexico (and possibly warmer weather). More next time.