The Artist and the Orchard: A Memoir

I now hold the book in my hands. I’m surprised by its slight weight, it’s smooth surface. The cover painting is a detail from a watercolor of the orchard and inside are the rows of trees: training in the Noh Theater in Kyoto, raising my children in the old Baptist church in Groton, Massachusetts, moving to Old Frog Pond Farm in nearby Harvard, restoring an abandoned orchard, Zen Buddhist training, and the important personal relationships that have shaped my life.

The book leaning against the wall sculpture, Repetition of Days, from “The Agricultural Tool Series.”

Like a sapling, this writing has taken years to bear fruit. I have written mostly in winter. However, soon after settling into a writing schedule, the first warmth fills the air and the farming season begins. The doing takes over—the weeding, the planting, the tending. I’ve had to learn patience. While the apple trees have had to withstand a freak October ice storm, vole attacks, and the confusion of spring coming far too early, I’ve also lived through challenging events. The hope, of course, is that I am a little stronger. After all, like the trees, we can learn to be resilient and generous despite the inevitable setbacks the wild beasts leave at our door.

Now the published book is here and I hope many of you will celebrate with me on Saturday, October  30th at 2 pm. We’ll meet at Sanctuary, a recently restored large church in the center of Maynard, Massachusetts. In keeping with the community of individuals of who have contributed to the becoming of the book, a few musicians and poets will share the stage with me. Seating will be around small tables and make it possible to maintain social distances. We’ll wear masks and vaccination certificates will be checked at the door (or a PCR test within three days.)

Copies of The Artist the Orchard: A Memoir will be for sale. If you have already bought one, come anyway and I’ll sign your book. If you live far away, the memoir is now available from the publisher, Loom Press, local bookstores as well as at bookstore.org and other online sites.

Enjoy the new season, and I look forward to sharing this event with you.

Spring Training at a Zen Monastery

Before spring slides into summer, I wanted to share about the last three months which will also explain why there have been so few blog posts. I’ve been on an intense retreat—some of it quarantined in my studio, some of it at Zen Mountain Monastery in the New York Catskills, and some of it, following the spring Old Frog Pond Farm schedule.

I was asked by my Zen teacher to serve as Shuso, or Chief Disciple for the three-month training period, we call Ango. The training period, Ango, dates back to the time of the Buddha. In his time, the year was broken down into three-month periods much like our four seasons. There were two seasons of intensified practice when the community of monks, the Sangha, gathered and practiced together. These periods coincided with the monsoon rains, when it would have been dangerous and difficult for the monks to be wandering the countryside. Instead, they gathered in groves and set up temporary living huts, practicing together and living near their teacher. These intensified three-month periods, called Ango, alternated with the seasons when the Sangha would disperse, going off in the own directions, to beg for food, find shelter, and spend the time in solitary practice.

At Zen Mountain Monastery we practice Ango in the spring and the fall. The Shuso, or chief disciple is chosen by their teacher, and they can be either a lay person or a monk. Their role is to inspire the Sangha with their devotion and commitment to practice. The training period ends with a ceremony where the chief disciple gives their first talk on koan and is then challenged by the Sangha with live questions.

At the end of May, my time as Shuso ended with a talk on the koan, “Dongshan’s Essential Way.” Dongshan was a 9th century Chinese Zen master. The koan is a brief teaching dialogue between a student and their teacher. This koan begins with the student saying, “I cannot see the essential path; I still can’t become free of discriminating consciousness.”

What is this essential path? The student can’t see her way. Is it hidden? Who is hiding it? What is hiding it? And why is this student asking the question right now. Today?

I gave my talk on the last Sunday in May. It was followed by questions from other students, and then congratulatory poems. The ceremony marked the completion of my transition to become a senior student in the order, and the opportunity to now take on a more important role within the Sangha.

Many of you know how much I love Zen practice and specifically, training at Zen Mountain Monastery. A full matrix of activities shape our training: zazen (meditation), liturgy, body practice, art practice, work practice, study of the teachings, and face-to-face encounters with our teacher. Most importantly, it is following the rigorous monastic schedule, putting aside one’s own desires, and joining the community. It is said that being in community is like being in a rock tumbler. We need each other to bump up against, to be polished. However, to put it most simply, Zen training is the study of reality as it really is when we are not confused, when our mind is not obscured by attachments and clinging to that which is not real. We aspire through our practice to move among grasses of this world with equanimity and compassion, to be fully present, to do good and not cause harm.

I haven’t felt that I could write about this rite of passage until it was over. There were moments when I knew for certain my teacher had made a grave mistake. I could not do this. But I also knew there was no way out. Of course I was going to do what I was asked to do. I was going to give it everything I could. And the Sangha was there with their love and their support.

Now that I’ve a little time back home, and have hung up my new white robe and am wearing jeans, t-shirt and work boots, I wanted to share with those of you are curious a little about this rite of passage in the Zen training world. And here is a podcast posted where you can listen to the ceremony or find it on the Zen Mountain Monastery website. If any of you want to talk to me about my experience or about Zen Mountain Monastery, I love talking about it. And if you’d like to join us for morning meditation at the farm, drop me an email and I’ll let you know the details.

I look forward to reconnecting with many of you in person. We’re preparing the grounds for our 15th Annual Outdoor Sculpture Exhibit opening on August 1 with twenty-five sculptors bringing new work on the theme of “Emergence.” We’ve scheduled storytelling events with Fugitive Productions, and Plein Air Poetry returns also on the theme of “Emergence.” The fruit is ripening. It looks like mother nature is providing a bountiful and beautiful crop, and our farmers are working hard to encourage its health and growth.

The verse that accompanied the koan is on the verse board below:

Wet with morning dew
The tips of the ten thousand grasses
All contain the light of day.

Enjoy these last days of spring!

Group Photo after the Ceremony

Sitting

Dear Friends,

The week between Christmas and the New Year when the world quiets and the light imperceptibly returns has always been one of my favorites. I chose to sit in silence this week along with my Dharma brothers and sisters at Zen Mountain Monastery in Mt Temper, New York. Using Livestream, we sat together from morning darkness into the night, adding more hours as the week progressed, sitting deeper into the stillness, until last night’s midnight hour when the turning of the earth was complete, and our Great Mother began her new journey around her favorite sun.

Wishing you all more ease and comfort, peace and health in the new year.
May it bring us the opportunity to hug each other!

In the meanwhile, “Fear Not. Even the Coldest, Darkest Winters Bear Fruit,” was recently published by WBUR’s Cognoscenti. The apple trees understand quiet time. You can read it here.

With love, Linda

Susan’s Sitting Figure, 2020

Aerial Bruststrokes

Yet another cold, rainy morning and I sit at my studio window watching tree swallows circle and loop, skim the water, and splash. They could be practicing touch-and-goes as if taking part in some aviation exhibition, but I prefer seeing them as painters dipping their brushes to color the pond and trees.

            I first met swallows soon after I met Blase, my husband. We were sitting on the front step of the farmhouse and I asked, “If you were to be reincarnated as an animal, what would it be?”

            Blase didn’t pause for very long before he said, “A swallow.”

            “A swallow? Why?”

Blase has a deep voice that resonates in his broad chest. He played football during high school and college. He’s physical and strong, so I imagined he would say, a lion, or some impressive creature.

            Blase answered my bewildered look, “Because they are so playful.”

            I didn't know a swallow from a wren but took in his comment as something significant.

Then he turned to me and asked what animal I would choose.

            I replied, “Maybe a lion.” I needed to be strong and able to fight for what I needed not only for myself but for my pride of three children.

            I have completely come around to Blase’s point of view. For the swallows, regardless of the lack of warmth and sunshine, do their thing, eat insects, and dazzle us ground walkers. The secret of the swallows’ contentment seems to be their willingness to fly in any weather, to be a complete expression of joy no matter the circumstances. I know how hard that is to do, especially when strong emotions come up, especially when the suffering and grief I feel increases with every bit of news from around the globe.

Navigating the currents of difficulties that arise is our daily practice. The storms will never disappear, but we learn to be better fliers. Like the swallows, we practice our take-offs and landings, until one sunny day, involuntarily we grab a brush, paint the pond pink, the trees purple, and the sky an emerald green, even when it is raining.

Pink Pond, watercolor, LH