At nine o'clock we meditate. The students gather in the dharma room and sit quietly on cushions along the north wall. To the east is a simple altar. The altar is, in a sense, meaningless. A point of focus. The east. A brief ritual signals the beginning of the day. The students rise, in some disorder. They turn, face their cushions and bow their heads. Some go with one teacher for a quiet walking meditation. Some stay to sit zazen. Zazen is just sitting.
When the period ends, the students quietly move into the short wide hallway that opens the large dharma room to the rest of the building. Most eventually find their way into our small kitchen. Watch them: pouring coffee, making tea, toast, a plate of eggs or a bowl of oatmeal, talking about work, or home, or the previous evening. This is their kitchen. They chat with teachers, who start to move them toward nine-thirty five, when first classes begin.
There is a ten minute break at 10:25. More eating, usually. The sleepy bellies have woken, they must be fed. Some realize they are much more tired than they thought. One girl walks quickly to the bathroom. A few other students have gathered in the office, laughing with a teacher. In the foyer, several kids rifle through their cubbies, a few slump on the couches, a somnolent greeting to any who might come through our front doors.
Second period. Louder. Most everyone is awake. In the largest classroom, right next to the kitchen, the students are gathered around a large, oval table. This is also our dining room. But at this moment, eight students are in the Renaissance, enjoying the exuberant Borgias, or the witty Aquinas. Perhaps it is a geometry class, which some find a welcome relief from algebra, which others meet somewhat obtusely, and perhaps a few recognize that the whole thing is connected somehow.
But about half through the period, the scent of roasting and toasting, of herbs and peppers, of frying onions and garlic, come drifting in, and soon, like a gentle "ahem" throughout the building, we all realize that lunch is a mere hour and a half away.
We all move nimbly to the next class at 11:30. Everyone settles in. A small school makes for quick, painless transitions. Some lolligagging is expected; and of course, a few students need another cup of tea or coffee, or try to snatch a piece of bread. One of our students is the child of bakers. The bread is daily, fantastic. Facaccia, sourdoughs, french loaves, big hatchmarked rounds. The teenage metabolism is such a force that it makes everyone hungry. By twelve fifteen, each teacher surges over an undertow of appetite. The pots are boiling- perhaps a lentil soup, dark and rich, or a sweet and peppery tomato. Some times curry. Sometime roast fish. A couple of students are pitching in, earning academic credit as kitchen assistant. In Buddhism the kitchen master, is a deeply respected figure. Dogen, the counter-intellectual monk of the 13th century instructs:
"When you prepare food, do not see with ordinary eyes and do not think with ordinary mind..." (Instructions for the Tenzo, ed. Tanahashi, chap 3)
In the kitchen they are making a meal of two to five separate dishes, and a salad, ready for all. Finally, class is over. We all gather in the dining room for a few announcements and a moment of silence. A teacher might say: Let's have our moment of silence."
A student will pipe up a minute or two later: "Thank you".
And we eat.
When the period ends, the students quietly move into the short wide hallway that opens the large dharma room to the rest of the building. Most eventually find their way into our small kitchen. Watch them: pouring coffee, making tea, toast, a plate of eggs or a bowl of oatmeal, talking about work, or home, or the previous evening. This is their kitchen. They chat with teachers, who start to move them toward nine-thirty five, when first classes begin.
There is a ten minute break at 10:25. More eating, usually. The sleepy bellies have woken, they must be fed. Some realize they are much more tired than they thought. One girl walks quickly to the bathroom. A few other students have gathered in the office, laughing with a teacher. In the foyer, several kids rifle through their cubbies, a few slump on the couches, a somnolent greeting to any who might come through our front doors.
Second period. Louder. Most everyone is awake. In the largest classroom, right next to the kitchen, the students are gathered around a large, oval table. This is also our dining room. But at this moment, eight students are in the Renaissance, enjoying the exuberant Borgias, or the witty Aquinas. Perhaps it is a geometry class, which some find a welcome relief from algebra, which others meet somewhat obtusely, and perhaps a few recognize that the whole thing is connected somehow.
But about half through the period, the scent of roasting and toasting, of herbs and peppers, of frying onions and garlic, come drifting in, and soon, like a gentle "ahem" throughout the building, we all realize that lunch is a mere hour and a half away.
We all move nimbly to the next class at 11:30. Everyone settles in. A small school makes for quick, painless transitions. Some lolligagging is expected; and of course, a few students need another cup of tea or coffee, or try to snatch a piece of bread. One of our students is the child of bakers. The bread is daily, fantastic. Facaccia, sourdoughs, french loaves, big hatchmarked rounds. The teenage metabolism is such a force that it makes everyone hungry. By twelve fifteen, each teacher surges over an undertow of appetite. The pots are boiling- perhaps a lentil soup, dark and rich, or a sweet and peppery tomato. Some times curry. Sometime roast fish. A couple of students are pitching in, earning academic credit as kitchen assistant. In Buddhism the kitchen master, is a deeply respected figure. Dogen, the counter-intellectual monk of the 13th century instructs:
"When you prepare food, do not see with ordinary eyes and do not think with ordinary mind..." (Instructions for the Tenzo, ed. Tanahashi, chap 3)
In the kitchen they are making a meal of two to five separate dishes, and a salad, ready for all. Finally, class is over. We all gather in the dining room for a few announcements and a moment of silence. A teacher might say: Let's have our moment of silence."
A student will pipe up a minute or two later: "Thank you".
And we eat.
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