March 13, 2025
Hello devoted readers of the Ancestral Heart newsletter—did you miss us? 😁
Things have been looking a little different up here lately. After the wonderful success of the January Intensive—bolstered by the preparation efforts of the Ancestral Heart residents, the guidance of founding teacher Teah Strozer, and the wholehearted practice of all the retreat participants—we’ve been resting. Exploring life off the temple schedule. Drinking coffee. Eating chips. And starting a visioning process for the future of Ancestral Heart!
In the meantime, I wanted to share a reflection from the January Intensive from our beloved sangha member Michelle M. Though I didn’t attend the intensive myself, I have heard that it was an incredibly special experience. Reading Michelle’s reflection, I feel as though I’m getting a tiny dose of that dharmic energy through these words.
—Larissa P.
The mystery of myriad causes and conditions really is, well, a mystery.
For nearly a year, I wrestled with whether I could or should do the January Residential Practice Intensive. I was excited about the possibility of being there for Laura Sensei’s lay dharma transmission and practicing closely with Kosen and founding teacher Teah Strozer. But the thought of taking off three whole weeks—from work, from life—felt daunting. Changes in leadership and shifts within the sangha left me questioning if it was the right time and place. On a more personal level, some things in my own life were in flux. Even two weeks before, with my cat likely dying and so much uncertainty, I still didn’t know if I’d make it.
When I finally arrived, I was heartbroken and angry. Saying goodbye to my husband had been harder than expected; I was still grieving my cat and frustrated by some last-minute changes, all leaving me feeling pretty raw. The overwhelming sense of intimacy and care from our little group felt instantly supportive—and also just made me feel even more vulnerable. Yet having so many participants from Ancestral Heart—bringing their deep daily practice, care, and wisdom—enabled me to feel like there was a net I could fall into. They had put months of effort into planning the retreat, creating a beautiful container for us.
At the start of the intensive, we turned our phones over to a basket on the altar during a special ceremony. As we each approached the altar to renounce our powerful little devices, some people offered heartfelt gratitude, while others simply said, “BYE!” I said, “Thank you. Now, FUCK OFF!” (I have some feelings about my phone and my use of it!)
In those first days, I was particularly challenged by the oryoki practice. What a mirror some bowls and cloths can be! On the second night, I started to become painfully aware of how harsh I was being with myself. Utterly overwhelmed and furious about wrapping my bowls within the time constraints, I ended up running to my room and sobbing into my pillow like a teenager—all because of forms around eating and imagined judgments from others. Watching my mind regress was both embarrassing and illuminating.
Then there were the teachers of Temperature. A couple of nights in, I genuinely thought I might have to leave because my room was so cold I couldn’t sleep, while the room next door was sweltering. Thankfully, a space heater and cracked window soon brought things back to reasonable. (Thanks to our wonderful shissui, Wesley!)
The dogs, Milo and Molly, were a lifeline. As someone who works constantly with children and animals, I can’t remember the last time I went a day without physical contact. Having them to pet, to bathe, to laugh at, to scoot over so Teah could actually use her mat, to snuggle with on the upstairs couch was a deeply needed form of support.
The schedule, while supportive, also revealed how much I am ruled by the clock. How much time until the next zazen? Could I fit in a nap? What if I took too long in the bathroom and people were waiting? And the SQUASH! What if I didn’t finish chopping it by 3:00?! Who knew chopping squash would be such a profound mirror and teacher!
“RE-LAX,” Teah instructed me during our first dokusan. “Relax, relax, relax. If you don’t do anything else for the rest of your time here, RE-LAX.” Simple instruction. Momentous undertaking.
By the time our first personal day rolled around—after a mere three days—I felt utterly desperate for it. (So much grasping and aversion.) A few of us walked down to the frozen lake, where I scrawled “PERSONAL DAY!!!!” into the ice. Rather than actually relax, though, I tried to fit as much into the day as possible: do laundry, make bed, take a walk, sew, read Dharma book, reorganize room, finish writing about yesterday’s prompt, exercise, eat lunch… Middle of a practice intensive with nearly no responsibilities, and I’m still making to-do lists. MIRROR.
But as time passed and the silence deepened, the thoughts began to slow. Space started to open up in my mind—space enough to see what was going on in there at some fundamental levels. Space enough to see things that even a couple of decades of therapy hadn’t clearly illuminated.
While there were nights—especially midway through—when I was so sick of zazen I felt like I might literally crawl out of my skin, just days later a deeply settled space began to emerge. And, finally, I was able to relax. (Mostly.)
Teah Roshi gave us so many wonderful talks—joyous laughs, insightful questions, and stories from a lifetime of practice. But at the heart of it all seemed to be this: “JUST. BE. HERE. NOW.” Don’t miss the pain in your foot as you’re walking, because one day you’ll miss being able to walk. Don’t miss the profound grief that is maybe love in its purest form. Don’t miss the birds singing as you’re racing to your next meeting. Don’t forget the feel of the keys under your fingers as you type. And, as Teah repeatedly implored us in the depths of a Hudson Valley winter, don’t miss listening “to the silence of the snow. It is what we are.”
—Michelle M.