In the early years of his practice, Kōjin served as the tenzo during a retreat in the USA. What follows is a tongue-in-cheek account of his experience. -Ed.
As the tenzo on a winter Zen retreat, my role is to nourish the sangha in both body and spirit. Mostly, though, it involves leftovers, suspicion, and an uneasy reliance on coconut milk.
After zazen, they always come looking for tea or coffee. When there’s none, they scratch their heads, offer to make some, and set the water to boil. Then they leave. When the kettle boils, I look around but they’re not there. Then I see them outside in the snow taking pictures.
No one eats the ends of the pre-sliced bread. They begin to pile up in the baskets. Someone says that the ends are for the sparrows. I put them out on the table anyway but no one eats them. They all want the soft bread from the middle of the loaves.
One morning, I found a slice of bread that was almost completely folded in half, having been thrust back into the bag too quickly. I removed all the soft slices from the bag and put them in the bread basket, then deliberately put the folded slice right on top. Toward the end of the meal I noticed that all the bread slices had gone except the folded one. Only it remained — still folded, still rejected.
The internet here has become finicky with so many people trying to get connected. Some have phones, others iPads, others laptops. Some have all three. When the internet slows, the master consults a retired doctor, now our unofficial IT specialist. They’re soon on the landline, explaining to the service provider that the security code that the provider texted cannot be received, because there is no reception here. Outside, the snow is deep. Inside, I stir curry while people pace about, phones held aloft like divining rods.
If there is no tea ready after the work period, they get angry. If there are no biscuits or chocolate on the table, they go rummaging through the cupboards.
If I don’t give them a variety of food they stop looking at me. I try not to use the same colour vegetable two days in a row. If I do, they will come to me with their suggestions.
Once, when I was hunched over the vegetable pile, I made the mistake of asking someone’s opinion about which vegetables I might use for that day’s lunch. Her lengthy reply included a full recipe for a cheese sauce.
In the zendo I have my place by the door. There is a heater on wheels across from me and the woman beside it pulls it closer to her before each period of zazen. If it is not on she turns it on. If it is on low, she turns it on high. If the master is not in the zendo at the end of a period of zazen, people just stand up as they please. It becomes a race to see who can stand up first. When the master is there, everyone sits and waits for him to get up.
If there is an optional period of zazen no one goes. They prefer to walk in the hills or read a book or make sketches of the surrounding countryside. Sometimes, when I am in the kitchen, I see the master scurrying from window to window trying to gather them up once the formal period of zazen is about to start. But they don’t want to go to that, either.
As each day of the retreat passes there is more and more leftover food. So I cook less and less and still there are leftovers. They don’t want to eat the porridge anymore, but there is nothing else, so they eat it anyway. If the porridge is lumpy they make noises with their spoons as they mash the lumps against the side of their bowls. If I try to serve them leftover rice from the evening before, they know what I’m up to. They have seen me save the rice the day before. They watch what I throw away and what I put in the refrigerator.
When they see me throwing away leftovers that they won’t eat, they suddenly object. But when I offer them the leftovers they refuse and stop talking to me.
The consumption of honey increases with each passing day. When we run out of honey they get angry. They ask for sugar but there is none. They stop looking at me.
If I don’t continue to add colorful vegetables to the evening soup they refuse to eat it. They say they want a pretty soup, but I don’t care about pretty soup. If I serve them the soup from the day before they won’t eat it. Sometimes I swap out the vegetables for different ones of another color but keep the same broth. They suspect something and refuse to eat it.
When no one will look at me or speak to me, I know what must be done. I open the can. Coconut milk. Then a pinch of curry powder. Then a whisper of cinnamon. They begin to return. Not all at once. First, a comment. Then, the usual compliment about the coconut milk. By dinner, they are smiling. But I know: this is temporary. The leftovers are piling up.
When the leftovers reach critical mass, I know something drastic must be done. So I put all the leftover vegetables and curry into a large baking tray and put as much grated cheese over the top as possible. I bury the leftovers beneath a mountain of grated cheese. Then I bake it until the cheese is melted and just slightly crispy on top. This makes them happy.
For now, they are talking to me again. And in the pantry, the coconut milk awaits.