The Pacific Northwest came to visit me during the first week of December, while I attended a week-long Zen retreat online from my home in North Texas. Rohatsu, an auspicious holiday, celebrates the Buddha’s awakening under the Bodhi tree, and it’s a special occasion at Mountain Cloud Zen Center in Santa Fe, one I’d been planning on joining all year long. This retreat felt especially complicated to attend as I had just let go of a dear Zen friendship within the same ongoing community. What if they attend Rohatsu?

But in mid November after listening to live jazz at our favorite bar downtown, my family and I fell ill with the flu, and I was homebound for weeks, taking almost a month to recover from the perilous fatigue and cough. With measured acceptance, I changed the registration to attend online.

And the week of the retreat brought astonishing weather to North Texas, all cool rainy days, colder evenings, reminding me of my brief stints in Portland and Seattle. A profusion of colors beautified the land: Autumn had finally arrived in all her glory. Auburn, ochre, and maroon leaves dotted the landscape while massive evergreens, cottonwoods, sycamores, and live oaks reached upward in praise as the gunmetal gray storm clouds roiled above. Our pin oak tree, a massive delight before the landlords butchered her for spring, showed off her yellow and russet red leaves brilliantly against that swirling sky all week long. Even as I missed my Zen friends online—the gorgeous adobe hall glowing faintly on my laptop screen for me to enjoy—I loved practicing at home.

I could see the zendo, or meditation hall, that first full day of sitting in early morning darkness, many friends sitting on small black cushions known as zafus to help withstand the long periods of sitting while other folks sat on chairs against the wall, everyone there wherever they were, making me recall last summer’s retreat with fondness. During walking periods, I could see the altar on a narrow table with a slender Buddhist statue, incense, and a vase of flowers while many walked slowly across the uneven New Mexican-style floor. Across from the altar sat the Zen master and her husband, who served as jiki in which he rang the large bell before and after each meditation period, signaling when to rise and sit, to bow and prostrate. 

How is it that I want to be both there and here, that I am both there and here? Paradoxical thoughts like this danced in my mind as I watched sunrise flow like honey in the zendo and burn brightly here at home. I’d sit parallel to my computer facing the white wall in the front bedroom which doubles as office and art room, eyes closed in silence interrupted only by kinhin, or walking meditation, after twenty-five minutes of silent sitting, while the outside weather of rains, damp air, and lambent light gave me comfort. 

Some Zen centers sit for hours at a time, but ours is humane, long sits being paired with yoga, walking, and gentle labor while rest breaks are scattered throughout the day. We always bowed at the end of each sit, making me recall those distant times in high school band practice when the trombone section would imitate a group of monks, chanting nonsense and bowing using their instruments. I’d laugh along, but secretly I longed to join devotees who would spend their days in quiet contemplation and work. Now I’m a Zen student who bows with a smile on her lips every single time I sit with my zendo, a welcoming in my heart, an ancient pull from somewhere vast, outside of me and within me calling, Welcome home, welcome home.

Another aspect of the Pacific Northwest came to visit during the first day, hours after the opening sit began, a teasing part, like the faint blue sky which would come out of the clouds and flirt with you at day’s end after long bouts of rain. I panicked at the unexpected sighting of my old Zen friend online, steadied my breath, and texted a dear friend who sent love from afar. As I attended the meditation sessions all day and into the night, I felt the long periods of stillness gifting me with an anchor for my heart, which rocked and reeled as I contemplated my old friend attending online. It was as if the teachings and I, the stillness and I were in conversation, and I slipped into belonging, even as the outside weather matched my moods, the quiet rain bathing the thirsty lands and my own heart too. The morning talks, breakout sessions, and evening sits absorbed me while working with my telehealth clients in the afternoons helped me embody the teachings, like chopping wood or hauling water. 

There was also this strange sort of feeling in the evenings, like being on a ship at sea, as I practiced. I’d end afternoons with my clients and walk outside in the crisp air without any music, podcasts, or calls, strolling the tree-lined avenues and smelling the sweet earthy aroma between the rains while invisible hands painted deepening shades of indigo and lavender and soft pink among the white clouds piled high up in the sky. There would be thoughts and feelings tossing me about as I walked on, anger and grief and ridiculous hope, all about what was to come with them, and I breathed and allowed them to wander about freely in my mind like children vying for attention. Staring up into the colorful treetops, I’d gaze at birds soaring into the cool misty air and feel strong as I walked through those city streets. Enjoying the long sits and feeling a part of the land, I was pleased I’d carved out time for this retreat. Even with my former Zen friend tailing me, I still stumbled into a portent of peace.

Sitting down on the second full evening to meditate, I’d changed into pajamas. The pin oak by the window stood silently in solidarity, and there was a light rain falling over the land as I glimpsed outside during one of the walking periods. An hour passed fitfully, and finally it was the last sit, the one right before the closing rituals, and we all faced into the center of the meditation hall. Quiet enveloped the room, everything bathed in silence except the sounds of the tiny clock sitting on the top shelf of the narrow white bookcase near me. Then there was a disappearing and hearing only: the sounds of the clock ticked faintly above, something I’d forgotten about until now, but I wasn’t there to consider it because I was already gone. Time passed, but how long? Suddenly the bell sounded and it was over: the tender goodbye of our Zen master was heard, and then I was back: I could feel the crowding voices of me inside, drowning out the former quiet.

It wasn’t until the next day at the breakout room that I heard the friendly jiki speak of emptiness, that I jolted in recognition, realizing what happened the night before. While the group was small with my old friend present online, I smiled widely as I shared what I fell into, here in Texas while being visited by the beautiful and dramatic Pacific Northwest. The high lasted for weeks as I was buoyed up, like the birds alighting in our feeders and skittering upwards into that great big sky, their flights grounded by the earth. I didn’t yet know that the first of the year would prove to be one of painful severing, but I’d discovered something with which to return to, a place inside I call home.