The Way In
Fifty years of the Chogye International Zen Center of New York
by Jan Potemkin
I have slept for fifty years,
seated in zazen.
When I was young, I was able to snooze with my head up.
Now it droops and starts comically.
You don’t make much progress that way,
but the time passes quickly
while you sleep.
In the space of my dream,
so many have come and gone,
lines of them slowly stepping,
clothed in their various grays.
We are informal in the midst of our warm formality.
Kasa, robe, belt, and one of the cushions is full of beans.
We learn to fail elegantly in answering questions.
We learn to bow to each other.
This place is as plain as an old shovel.
The floor, the window sills, are warping here and there,
but the bones are still intact.
As we age we blend into our well-worn ancient ways.
Bell, scent of pine, wooden clack.
The way to Chogye mountain
is neither clear nor hidden.
The streets provide good footing,
even though there’s been much rain.
When you depart, through those double gates,
you’ll pause –
the world will be clear and bright.
50 years pass
in the time it takes to go from the
first door to the second,
and the buzzer goes on for even longer.
Come and join us
in our otherworldly traditions,
our practice,
and our appreciation
of each other
in parallel rows of mats.
Yes, you may wear my coat and shoes.
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