A White Tea Bowl by Mitsu Suzuki

Author:Mitsu Suzuki [Suzuki, Mitsu]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781930485822
Publisher: Shambhala

Paul Rosenblum (Ryuten) began Zen practice with Shunryu Suzuki Roshi at Tassajara in 1968. He is a disciple and a successor of Zentatsu Baker Roshi and currently practices and teaches at Johanneshof / Genrin-ji in the Black Forest, Germany, as well as with groups in Europe and the United States.

PETER COYOTE

I arrived at San Francisco Zen Center in 1974. The great master, Shunryu Suzuki, had already died, and I was saddened by my bad luck in having missed meeting this inspirational man, from whose vision three vibrant Zen Centers—San Francisco City Center, Green Gulch Farm, and Tassajara Zen Mountain Center—were even then functioning and teaching the dharma.

Marilyn McCann, the girl I lived with, who subsequently became my wife, was a student of formal Japanese tea ceremony, and her teacher was the widow of Suzuki Roshi, Mitsu Suzuki. Marilyn was already an advanced Zen student and had such unqualified respect for her teacher that it whetted my curiosity about her.

I observed Mrs. Suzuki carefully whenever I saw her, hoping to learn some clues about her husband and what I imagined to be “secrets of Zen” he might have imparted to her. She was a tiny person, perhaps under five feet tall, usually dressed in either tea ceremony kimonos or the ubiquitous “fat-pants” and hippari (a jacket fastened by ties) of Zen practitioners. She was extremely quiet, and appeared to take up no space in the room. Her face was often cast in a grave and dignified expression, and she transmitted the impression of a discriminating but not judgmental watchfulness. Occasionally I saw signs of a merry twinkle in her expression, which suggested that there might be deeper water under her placid surface.

Because my wife studied with her every week (and continued for over twenty years, eventually becoming a fully accredited Omote Senke tea teacher), I had ample opportunity to observe Okusan (Japanese for “Mother,” how she was normally addressed). We lived directly across the street, and it was easy to encounter her in the neighborhood grocery store or walking through the halls of Zen Center.

One day I informed her that I was an actor. Her eyes lit up, and she cocked her head and pantomimed looking up at me from far below. “Ahhhh, great actor,” she said with a joyful smile. “Toshiro Coyote,” she added and giggled like a schoolgirl. I was bowled over, and because her English was a bit spotty and my Japanese nonexistent, I immediately imitated Toshiro Mifune in one of his scowling samurai roles, hand on the hilt of an invisible sword. She laughed and clapped her hands delightedly at my foolishness.

I soon learned that her two modes, a rather daunting formalism and a wicked sense of play and fun, are common in Japanese culture. If she were a sea, there would be playful whitecaps cavorting on depths of truly deep water. Her mirth was absolutely sincere, but it never erased the existence of a highly observant consciousness below it.

One night, after my wife and I had moved to the suburbs, we invited Okusan to dinner at our house in Mill Valley.

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