Members of the Los Altos Zen community had told me that I would enjoy staying at Tassajara (pronounce: ‘Tassahara‘), the Zen Mountain Center in Big Sur, California. Just before my second visit to Stanford University, where I was writing a book on mathematical logic (lambda calculus), I set aside a week to spend there. Before going, I went to a meeting with Kobun Chino. After the `tinsel’ experience at the Buddharama Temple I asked him what he thought of me going to that place. His answer was simple and effective. “You go back there and see if you can learn something. If that is the case, then you keep going there; if not, then you stop going there.” We came to speak about my going to Tassajara. I learned later that while it was Suzuki Roshi who had founded this monastery, it was Kobun who–as an assistant of Suzuki–did much of the starting of Tassajara with its groundplan, day order and rituals. “Ah, that is good!”, said Kobun. Perhaps you can bring Joan Smith²² with you, who needs a ride.”

Joan was a typical girl of the American dream for males: pretty, blond long hair, polite. On the other hand she was atypical enough to go to a Zen monastery, which was in spite of the 1970-ies and California still not a common thing. She knew the road, which was convenient. We drove from the Bay Area via Gilroy to Monterey, the last part along the coast. From there to Carmel and then to the village Carmel Valley. After that we had to go to “Jamesburg”. This was not a village, but just a house on the border of Carmel Valley and the wilderness of Big Sur. We stopped at the house. A couple lived there and welcomed us. Joan behaved as if she was at home and started to make some tea for us. This was a bit puzzling to me, as she did not behave completely familiar to the inhabitants. It turned out that the place was part of the Mountain Center and acts as a kind of relay. The couple stayed there as part of a work assignment during their longer Zen training. From Jamesburg to the monastery itself was still 14 miles on a dead-end dirtroad, crossing the mountains.

After the refreshment we left Jamesburg. The night was falling. We had to drive very slowly, as the road was covered by many sharp rock. The mountains had a powerful beauty and the stars were stunning. We stopped at a place with a particularly nice view. “Those loud crickets are all dating, you know,” I started. She pretended(?) that she did not know. This was enough for us to start some tender but French kissing. Having dissolved the erotic tension that had been there during the trip, we continued the journey. After in total an hour drive we finally arrived at the gate of Tassajara. It really was in the middle of nowhere. We parked outside and a female guard let us in. We passed the Zendo. Through a window one could see inside. There were 80 students all sitting face to wall. By coincidence the drum of 9.30 p.m. was being hit, indicating the time and the end of Zazen. The ritual drum beating was done by two cylindrical mallets that were held by crossed arms of one of the students in robe. This made a deep impression on me: the 80 persons sitting like Buddhas and then the drum. Joan and I were brought to different cottages. I was thrilled to take part in the sitting the next morning and did not even think about how to further be in touch with Joan, which was unusual for me. I was brought into a cabin, which I was sharing with one of the regular students. Excited to be in a Zen monastery I went to bed.

Han

The next morning at 4.40 a.m. the han started to be hit. The sound vibrated through the valley of the monastery, making it somewhat possible to understand our position. After 50 seconds a next hit followed. My roommate had told me that it would be the time to get up and brush our teeth. It was still dark, but the path to the bathroom was lit by oillamps. We had to pee in large jerrycans, later used as human fertilizer. After 15 minutes the han hitting went into a `roll’, an accelerando finished off with one clear hit. Then the second hitting period would start, lasting only 3 minutes. We had to be in the Zendo for Zazen before the second roll ending by two clear hits was finished. At that time it was 4.58 a.m. and the headmonk could enter the Zendo without interuption of the traffic jam of 80 students. At 5.00 a.m. exactly the third roll and its three clear hits were finished. Sitting was as usual 40 minutes, interupted by 10 minutes kinhin walking followed by again 40 minutes sitting. Then at 6.30 a.m. there was chanting. At 7.00 there was breakfast in silence until 7.30.

After breakfast with excellent bread and other good food we had a break of one hour. Most of the students went to wash their clothes, write letters or do other personal things. Other students, inlcuding the newcomers, could make themselves some tea or coffee. For me this was a natural moment to enjoy the sober beauty of the place. Very soon afterwards I learned that the only other times that were not programmed was a similar break after lunch and one of 90 minutes after dinner.

At 8.30 there was work-assignment. We all stood in a circle. The leader asked wether there were any announcements. One girl stepped forward: “Today I am leaving. Thank you all for the wonderful time I had here.” She and we bowed. This is a very civilized ritual to say goodbye²³. The regular students got their assignments of the day. The new guest-students, as we were called, were approached individually. I told the leader that I would do anything, but was unable to lift heavy weights. “You work in the kitchen, Hendrik”, he said. After the meeting, that lasted about 15 minutes, we went to our jobs.

The kitchen was a paradise. Clean, spatious, light, efficiently equipped, again with sober beauty. The people, from the head cook, the assistant cooks to the students, were all concentrated on their work, not saying anything unless it was related to the cooking. Everyone radiated positive energy. My first job was to clean parsely for some recipe for over 100 people. I got a bucket full of it, just being picked from the garden. Some of the plants were yellow (there was often a draught at Big Sur) and had to be removed and all had to be washed. The kitchen leader set me up in an efficient way: bucket with raw parsely, waste bucket, bowl with clean water and bowl for the clean parsely. After the job I had to wash lattuce. “This is guest-lattuce, Hendrik.” The meaning of this was not yet clear to me so he explained. Next to the regular students and guest-students, like me, there were paying guests at Tassajara. During the summer the monastery is a popular place for `Zen tourists’ and by charging for full room and board the monastery got its income. In fact Tassajara was a high-end popular resort, loved for its scenery, food and a touch of Zen. The guest-lattuce had to be impeccably clean. At 10.30 there was a short break for drinks. It felt as if the day had been a year since we got up at 4.40. Preparations continued until 11.45. We had to wash our hands and go to the Zendo for a short ceremony at 11.55.

At noon there was lunch. The food was delicious and beautiful. After I left Tassajara I bought the cooking book, wich includes ways to hold knives, and the bread-book. This latter book became an international bestseller and was translated into more than 20 languages. The first half of lunch was in silence. Midway someone hit two sticks to indicate that now we were allowed to speak.

At 1.30 p.m. work resumed. This time I had to work in the garden, picking flowers and arranging them in vases for the guest-rooms. Being outside in nature had a different feel from the kitchen. Less structured and pleasant in a different way. When encountering another student outside, one didnot start talking, but greeted by folding one’s hands and making a bow. If one was carrying something one could greet even with one hand or none at all. Back in the kitchen. The people there all knew I had a problem with lifting heavy loads. It turned out that just one sentence to the workleader in the morning was enough. At 4.45 p.m. it was time for a ritual bath. This was one of the highpoints of the day. One enters the place, men and women separated, bows to a Buddha statue and crosses a bridge over the creek. There were small bath tubs with hot and cold water taps. Like in all Japanese bathing houses one cleans oneself first having a tap, soap and two bowls at hand. After that one takes the bath, not for cleaning but for relaxing. At Tassajara the bath was a natural water source with a temperature of about 100 F due to vulcanic activity. After the working day the bath was soothing. At this time of the day only the guest-students had their bath. It was never crowded. At 5.50 p.m. there was a chanting service in the Zendo. After that dinner at 6.00, with no compulsatory silence. From 6.30 till 8.00 free time. After all those years I forgot what I did then. But of my working time I remember the moste minute details.

From 8.00 till 9.30 p.m. evening sitting. No chanting and as usual 40 + 10 + 40 minutes for sitting, walking, sitting. Then at 9.30 it was bed-time. We could read until 10.15, but by then the oillamps had to be exstinguished, which was checked by the evening guard.

To be continued about dishes and diningroom.

Back in the Netherlands, my PhD supervisor in logic, Dirk van Dalen gave me a newspaper article  about the Buddharama Temple in Waalwijk. I immediately wanted to go. It was not hard to find. The resident monk Mettavihari and his assistant monk Nu Pom gave a friendly reception. A week later I came back to meditate, guided by Mettavihari. His English was not so easy to follow. He kept speaking on something like ‘mightfulness’. This was not what I was interested in. Moreover the Temple was totally different from the Zen places in California. Bad taste wall-paper and tinsel everywhere. Nevertheless I kept coming. Sometimes I had to wait an hour because a Dutch-Thai couple came with marital problems. At other times I had to be a translator between the monk and the Dutch husband, who did not know how to handle the escapades of his Thai wife. Many ‘travel-agent marriages’, at first the dream of the less successful Dutch on the personal relation market, ended this way. The waiting time I saw as an exercise in patience. In the meantime I finally understood that it was not ‘mightfulness’ but ‘mindfulness’ that was being exercised.

At some point a Dutchman became monk. In the Theravada tradition to which the Buddharama Temple belonged one needs at least five already ordained monks to ordain a new monk²⁰. The ordination of the Dutch monk attracted many Thai people, mainly women. When the man’s head was being shaven, the women were fighting to get some curls of hair as a precious relic. After that there was a walking procession through the town of Waalwijk. I was asked to walk in front with a Buddhist flag. “It is the first Buddhist procession in Europe”, said Mettavihari. Back in the Temple, the actual ceremony started. Chanting, speaking, chanting, sermons. After that the monks got food. Only then the lay people were allowed to eat. It was interesting Thai food, something new to me. The happening had a high social content. The men were sitting outside, smoking cigarettes. The women could have been walking out of a brochure on Thailand of travel-agent Neckermann. Some of the women were naive and respectful to the monks. Other women were less naive and still respectful to them. In the Thai culture one can become monk for only one or two weeks. An easy way to get so much female attention I thought.

At a ceremony for the birthday of Buddha the happening was similar. I was not sure wether I would continue to go to this Tharavadin Temple.

Berlin, 1974

For my work I was a couple of days in Berlin. It was the first time I flew Pan Am, as only the four nations of the Allied Forces were allowed to land there. The touch-down was impressive: not a usual airport in fields outside of town, but one in the middle of it. We landed on an island between apartment buildings. It was cold war as usual. After my work was over I went to the Theravadin Temple of Berlin. It has been there since 1923. Was it the influence of Schopenhauer who was one of the first Europeans who wrote about it? From the Temple in Waalwijk I knew it was customary to bring something for the monks. With flowers and bottles of orange juice I arrived at the Temple. The monks from Sri Lanka received me warmly and showed the place: meditation hall, sermon hall, library, sleeping places. At the end the older monk asked: “Would you now like to meditate?” Looking on my watch I said: “Well, in two and half hour my plane is leaving so that is not possible. But in a couple of years I will come back and then I will meditate.” The monk felt what went through me. Making a bow he said in a friendly way: “Very well, we have all time,” thus relieving my embarrassment. I did come back to meditate, but only in 1989 a few months before the Berlin wall collapsed. The monks were no longer there, a sign of non-permanence, one of the fundamental characteristics of life, but I felt that I kept my promise.

Zürich, 1975

During a two months visit at the ETH Zürich I saw a poster saying “Zen, Schloss der Nicht-Angst”. Although I found the addition “Schloss der Nicht-Angst” a bit odd, I did go. The location was in the building of the Masons, rented out to the Zen meditators. A friendly attractive Swiss woman and her husband were running the Zendo. During the first evening I saw what I knew from the many Zen books I had read. The woman leading the meditation started halfway the session to walk with a stick. Every now and then she would hit someone on the two shoulders, making a loud “katz” sound. Later she explained that it was to prevent people to fall asleep. She only would hit someone on request, which was done at the moment one feels that she walks behind us (we were sitting face to wall) by making a bow with folded hands. During the next sit my curiosity overcame my slight fear and I made the bow. While she knelt behind me her black Zen robe made a crisp sound of freshly starched linen. With gentle femininity she first put my shoulder-long hair on the left side. Then with firmness came the hit on my right shoulder: “katz”. The procedure was repeated left and I performed the instructed bow to finish the small ritual. It was not painful at all (something like clapping in your hands, also making a loud sound), but refreshing indeed! The woman told me that the Zendo, she called it Dojo, was founded by Deshimaru Roshi (1914-1982), a Dharma brother of Susuki Roshi.

For three weeks I stayed in Los Angeles visiting UCLA to give a talk and work on a problem in lambda calculus¹⁷. I was lodging in the home of the logician Carl Gordon and his wife Linda.

It was a happy time. My recent girlfriend Donna and her daughter Buffee had visited me for a long weekend. After having brought them to the airport, I went for a short ride in one of the many deserts that surround LA, never having been in a such a place before. Driving for a while I saw from the right a small cloud of dust approaching the path I drove on. Coming closer it turned out to be a running man. He gestured me to stop. Almost exhausted, he had run in order to be able to hold me: his car was broken down. We drove to the nearest garage, half an hour away, and he could get a four-wheel drive for towing his car. Being in a good spirits I returned to the place where I stayed. Work on the problem went well¹⁸.

Having got a taste for Zen I looked in the phonebook for a Zendo in LA. Found the ‘Los Angeles Zen Center’. It turned out to be one in the tradition of the Rinzai school. Sitting was done facing the center of the hall. A period lasted 25 minutes. Kinhin, the walking, was not done slowly. On the contrary, it was in the outside garden and in a fast marching tempo we walked vigorously. One morning session consisted not of two, but of three sitting periods. Together with the two walk rounds of 10 minutes the total practice lasted about the same time as the ones in Los Altos in the Soto tradition.

After the practice I read on a bulletin board that in a coming evening there would be Sanzen. “What is that?”, I asked a fellow student. “Zazen is our sitting practice like this morning. During Sanzen we will get interviewed by Master Maezumi and get a koan to solve”, he answered. That sounded interesting! In fact, in spite of the half year Zen in the Bay Area, I had never heard the word Koan, so distinctly memorable from the lesson of Bloem and the writings of Suzuki. Yes, I wanted to go.

Returning home, it was still only 6:30 a.m., I had to ride 20 km to the part of the city where I was staying. Because of the time of the day this went smoothly. Arrived I could not resist writing an amateur haiku.

Leaving the Zendo,

the freeways are convenient.

Rain over LA.

A few days later in the evening time for Sanzen was there. We started the practice as usual with a sitting period. After a bell sounded we remained sitting. A woman got up as first and left the hall for a corridor on the side. Another student left in the same direction. And so on. After a while I felt it was my time to leave the meditation hall. The corridor was long and dimly lit. Most students were still in it, sitting one behind the other on their knees, bottom on heels style. We heard a small bell. The person in front got up and went into a room to the right. All others moved forward one place. The resulting suspense was like in the better thrillers: our expectation got aroused.

When I had finally reached the front of the waiting queue, a fellow behind me already had noticed that I was new to this all. “When you enter the room of the Master Maezumi,” he whispered “make three prostrations like this” and showed me. The small bell rang again and I had to go.

Entering the room on the right, there ! was the Master, small, Japanese and ageless. He was actually not in that room, but in one further room having a large circular entrance from the place where I was. Remembering that I had to make these three bows, I only wondered whether to do them in room I stood, or in the room behind the circular opening. It was not hard to decide to do the first. Whether this was correct or not I did not know, but with his “Art nouveau” stick the Master made a few jerky circles indicating I had to come in his room proper.

His eyes were not unfriendly, but stern compared with those of Kobun. After observing me for a few seconds he asked: “What are you doing in Los Angeles?” “Mathematics”, I answered. “Are you student or teacher?” he asked next. “Teacher.” Then he started to give a small lecture. About the number zero, about the Buddhist concepts of nothingness and no-mind. Then he came with the koan: “How much equals one plus one?” My guts telling me that it was better not to answer the obvious, I said: “That depends on the number-system we are in.” The master: “Do’nt say that. Give me an answer!” he objected. Then I ventured “One plus one equals zero.” On which he replied “That is correct!” he exclaimed. “I will give you a second koan. How does one drive a car with no-mind?” I knew the answer, so I thought and the following words came in my mind. “While driving with no-mind, one starts viewing the car as an extension of our body. It is the body that accelerates or slows down. Everything flows so naturally that it is done with no-mind” and I started to convey this. The Master started to listen carefully, but after two seconds he rang the small bell. It was the sign that the next student could come in and that my answer was not correct.

Driving home at 9:30 p.m. the LA traffic conditions were totally different from those during the very early morning. Not driving with no-mind I was pondering over the Sanzen session. It made me drive slowly. Irritated by this someone behind me used his claxon. Then I suddenly knew the answer to the second koan¹⁹.

More than twenty-five years later I would follow a retreat at the Noorderpoort in Wapserveen (Drenthe, the Netherlands), a Rinzai temple being a direct descendent of the one in LA. By that time the world had become a village.

Stanford University

The academic year 1971/1972 I visited Stanford University as a postdoc. Of course I joined the music scene and got to know several nice people. Through the music friends George and Glenna Houle I heard about Zen activities. Real Zen with a Japanese monk as teacher. They had weekly meetings with him. Eagerly I asked whether I could join.

The next week I was welcomed in the group, present in the house of Mary Kate Spencer. The teacher, Kobun Chino, was as one would expect a Zen monk to be. Friendly, simple and to the point. His lectures were short and the 1 1/2 hour the meeting lasted was spent mainly with questions and answers.

An example. One week a woman would ask Kobun whether Buddhism had precepts. “Yes. I will tell you next week.” This made all of us curious. Next week Kobun said: “The Buddhist precepts are as follows: do what is good and do not do what is not good.” In the discussion that followed it was also implicitly made clear that we also had to do something else: purify the mind.

The meetings were inspiring. There I heard that there was also a Zendo, a place where one could sit–as meditation was called in a non-pretentious way. Sitting would start at 5:30 a.m. and I was asked not to come too late. I talked two girls of the orchestra into joining me and early on a morning we drove together to Los Altos.

A zendo

The Zendo was located there at the private home of Les Kaye (picture shows another but similar one). We arrived at 5:15, and no one was there yet. Although it was still dark, the place was so inviting that we had no hesitation to enter the unknown private property. We opened the door and ! there was the space. Dimly lit, with sitting mats all along the walls. On top of each mat a round pillow. On the wall a small statue and a Japanese scroll. Near this place some bells and a temple block next to a mat and pillow. This place had an exquisite sense of order and beauty. Later I learned it’s name was ‘Haiku Zendo’.

It was clear that we had to sit on one of the pillows on these mats. We each chose one and I felt back under Montessori conditions. The three of us sat down facing the middle of the room. Just

Les Kaye

before it turned 5:30 some people moved in. Mary Kate Spencer went to sit next to the bells. A man in a robe–later I learned it was Les Kaye–went to one of my female companions, made an elegant bow to her and whispered something in her ear. She got up. He repeated this to me, but now I could hear the message: “Could you please face the wall.” The rectification was done so gently, that making a mistake was a pleasure.

We sat. After 40 minutes a simple bell stroke signalled to get up. We walked slowly for 10 minutes. Then again a period of 40 minutes sitting. After the second sit we did some bows. Then we all were given a text. Mary Kate started playing the bells and we chanted the Maha Prajna Paramita Sutra. It was about emptiness.

The complete session was very impressive. After it was over we all left, without saying anything. Kind nods where sufficient for good bye. Later Mary Kate advised me to come on Thursday mornings. Then there would be breakfast after sitting. So I did. Often I would drive together with Glenna and Mary Kate to the place. The getting up early, the nightly scent of Eucalyptus, the beauty of the Zendo, the tasteful and friendly breakfast. Nothing special, it was just pure pleasure.

One time only I did come too late at Haiku Zendo. Self-consciously I opened the door and sneeked to an empty pillow and mat. A woman on the pillow next to me made a bow, remaining in her sitting position. The gesture said: “Welcome, nice to have you here.”

Often Kobun would join us for the thursday morning sits and breakfast. At one of the occasions I told him in private about experience A. He was positive about it, but did not enter details or tell me what to do with it. But I felt encouraged and continued to go to practise.

Music had always played an important role for me. At age 5 my father had bought an old-fashioned record player (of the type on the logo of His Master’s Voice, turning 78 times a minute). First I got acquainted to the easy sounding ballet music Giselle of the composer Adam. Later my father came home with several records containing Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, probably at the advice of his friend Nol Prager, an excellent violinist. I told my father that I did not like the Rite of Spring. He told me to listen a couple of times to the music after which I probably would like it. Being obedient I so did and after a while I started to like Stravinsky. It was only many years later that I learned to appreciate for example Mozart and Bach. Indeed, at the home of Nol Prager–who lived until 1952 in Amsterdam and since then for the rest of his long life in Firenze, Italy–I asked if he would play the violin for me. He did not want to do it, but when I kept insisting finally Nol gave in. Then he did play the famous Chaconne for violin solo by Bach. Although feeling that I had to listen quietly through the 15 minute piece, I did not understand the music at all.

My uncle Kees Koopman did play long nights Chopin after returning from work. During summer holidays I often stayed at his farm near Zierikzee and laying in bed I enjoyed his playing. Inspired by this I started at age 10 to take piano lessons from a young woman Marion, who studied at one of the Amsterdam advanced music schools and rented a room in our house. Her teaching to play the piano required a 100% devotion. Only after mastering a piece I was allowed to start with the next one⁹. I think it was she or perhaps her fiancé Brian Pollard who advised me to audit for the Amsterdam youth orchestra. As my talent was limited and the piano was not needed in the orchestra, at the suggestion of the conductor Bram Heijmans I started to play percussion and later the timpani. Playing timpani in orchestras remained a lifelong hobby. Often being bored at school or later at academic work¹⁰, music was a real challenge. Also it was a natural way to get to know people.

The main reason to mention these autobiographical details is to indicate the influence of music on our state of mind. I went to a concert for children (a so-called ‘youth concert’) at the Amsterdam Concertgebouw, just one block away from where I lived. It was one of the last times the Concertgebouw Orchestra played under conductor Eduard van Beinum, who died later that year. The program was the Daphnis et Chloé suite of Ravel and after the break the Rite of Spring of Strawinsky. The music was overwhelming. Ravel describes in the composition Daphnis with minute detail the experience of orgasms¹¹, notably female¹² ones. The principal climax, that so much impressed me as a schoolboy, is in the second movement ‘Lever du jour’ (in the youtube video played by the NHK orchestra under Ashkenazy, this comes after a ‘foreplay’ at moment 4:16). The power of the music can compete with that of the actual sexual experience itself. Some people claim that one should not listen to music motivated by the experiences it evokes, but only to enjoy the musical structure. Well, I disagree and this is one of the musical examples showing why. But then they may mean something different. Music can describe mental experiences mindfully. Joy in music is not joy in daily life. It is as-if joy or for that matter as-if angriness (often present in Beethoven) or as-if orgasms (Ravel). That is art. [The two reproductions are paintings of Marc Chagall for a booklet 'Daphnis and Chloe' issued by him with many great illustrations of his hand.]

As mentioned the Rite of Spring was performed after the break. By the time I went to the concert it was a somewhat familiar piece to me. Then the music arrived at the passage ‘Cortège du Sage‘ in the first movement (the youtube fragment shows this passage in the reconstructed original Nijinsky choreography at time interval 2:52-3:54). The structure there becomes at its climax highly complex: 14 different rhythms¹³ are being played simultaneously. (This passage is audible and visible on this youtube video at time interval 6:17-6:33.) Hearing and seeing the musicians of the orchestra play this passage was too much to ‘canalize’, to cope with. The orchestra was working hard, concentrated and as-if obsessed by the music and the ritual it depicted. Then something happened: I lost ordinary consciousness, but kept another one, hithertoo unkown. All this could be seen from a distance and yet in full clarity¹⁴. It was not long after this concert that I had the first time experience A. [Pictures of Marcela Giesche, left, dancing the chosen one in a version of the Sacre in which she remains alive by Bianca van Dillen; and of the maidens, right, in the Nijinsky reconstruction by the Joffrey Ballet.]

At Utrecht University, where I did study mathematics, a symposium baring this title was being held. The speakers consisted of a theologian, a psychiatrist and a Buddhist. I was not yet interested in meditation and, in spite of the trend of these days, neither in drugs. This was probably an effect of my father. In the early sixties he had done some experiments with LSD. As a clinical psychologist he had access to the stuff and did some trials with volunteers. These included himself and some artists. One writer, Simon Vinkenoog, made headlines when he reported after an LSD trip: “I am feeling so much like bread”.

The reason for going to the symposium was my interest in mysticism. From age 12 on, a couple of times I had gone through a powerful experience. It started by pondering about the vastness of the universe, followed by

Distant galaxies (NASA/STScI)

thoughts whether there would be other beings far out there, and then finally coming to the idea that we may be all alone in this universe. Then the train of thoughts was continued, being transformed in experiences without words. And then: there it was, the overwhelming experience lasting only a few moments. I called it ‘experience A’. It was both extremely fearful and enjoyable at the same time. During A the act of perceiving is seen as more special than the contents of perception. The fearful aspect was caused by the possibility that ordinary perception is not there any longer; the enjoyable aspect by the fact that one nevertheless does perceive. It is an experience on the borderline of existence and non-existence. In an attempt to convey the quality of the experience, I had written the story Neighbours. Ernst published it in our school magazine Climax.

It was with mathematics teacher Fred Fischer that I discussed about this experience. Not because the experience had anything to do with mathematics, but because I felt comfortable with him. He gave me existentialist books to read. Through these books my attention was drawn to Buddhism. The meaning of the notion of nothingness, present in both the existentialist and Buddhist literature, seemed to come close to the experience. Actually I was eager to evoke A at will. But reading the existentialist or Buddhist writings did not help to achieve this re-occurrence.

So I went to the symposium. The theologian had some beautiful quotes from Eckhart, Hadewich and Ruusbroeck. But the given metaphysical foundation for the experiences was not according to my taste. The psychiatrist did recognized the beauty of the mystical experiences. “But”, quoting some prophets of the Beat generation, “why should one go through the effort of climbing a high mountain in order to enjoy the view, if there is a fast cable car consisting of mind enlarging drugs?” I forgot whether he warned about the negative aspects of drugs. Then came the Buddhist, Peter van der Beek, who spoke in a convincing way about ‘inner calm’ and similar mental states. He recognized that probably one could get these states by the use of drugs, but added that in Buddhism this was not allowed. The reason is that one then becomes dependent on these chemicals. He explained that there is a clearly outlined path of meditation toward these states and advised that one better could follow this method.

As usual there was a forum discussion after the talks. It was not very inspiring, because the three speakers all spoke their own language. But my choice was made. If I’d ever want to obtain altered mental states, then meditation was the way.

Towards the end of high school Ernst and I went to an Italian café near the Leidseplein. Enjoying a cappuccino–for us a recent discovery–we discussed an issue of the Scientific American devoted to the living cell. More and more was becoming known about this smallest unit of life. How it divides itself and how hereditary information was coded chemically. The expectation was that eventually all life processes would be understood, including those in the human brain and consciousness.

“But”, I objected, “look at our school-book of biology. It describes the process of hearing. `Sound consists of airwaves. These arrive at the tympanum of the ear, where they are transformed into mechanical movements and then into pulsating nerves. The signal of these nerves arrives at the cortex of the brain and then we hear.’ This explanation is utterly unsatisfactory.” What exactly does happen at the cortex? This was not yet known. But that was not our main problem. It seemed that no matter what science will find out about brain processes, there will always be a gap between the theory and our personal experience.

“Actually,” I continued “there is already a puzzle about the fact that we seem to have our own consciousness. Why is it that you are you and I am I? Why am I not you? From the data we have, we only can say that this place here is a café and in this corner there are two persons discussing. In order to state the asymmetry between us, one could say that one of the two does not have eyes⁵. Indeed I can see only your eyes, not mine. But I cannot say that that person is me. The only thing I can say is that one of the persons is having no eyes and that that person is the one talking right now!”

Some years later I met Michael Corner, a colleague of my father. He was a brain specialist, and I asked him what he thought about the consciousness problem. The answer was remarkable: “In our field we do not speak about consciousness. It is banned from our scientific language. But in my free time I do think about it often⁶.”

After leaving school Ernst and I continued different careers. He started to study biology, did his bachelors, but then stopped, as he did not want to kill animals. Perhaps he would have liked the study of ethology. Instead Ernst became an virtuous and extremely popular pop musician. His groups⁷ enjoyed a lot of success in the Netherlands; for his second group the high popularity in the 1980ies (and as a come back in 2000) had neither been equaled before nor after. I started to study mathematics. I did finish a masters, but became more interested in the process of doing mathematics than in the subject itself. My PhD⁸ was in the field of mathematical logic. This subject answers questions like why there are axioms and what is their role in mathematics. It moreover distinguishes provability from truth and different kinds of infinity. All very fascinating, but I would give all my established results in this field for knowing the answer to the hard consciousness problem.

We went to the Montessori Lyceum. The educational system developed by Maria Montessori (1870-1952) is child directed. She bases it on an idea of Socrates seeing the teacher as a midwife: not filling the child with ready to swallow knowledge, but helping the child to get out of him or her what is potentially there. Montessori implemented this approach by using the method of self-control of error. For each task that was given to the child, it was absolutely clear whether it is performed in the right way or not. In this way the child does not become dependent on the judgment of the teacher, which in traditional education so often is humiliating (not because it comes from an adult, but because the reason behind it is usually not made clear). Moreover, if something is not done right–and one usually is not right at the first attempt–then there is no need for the teacher to tell this to the child: it will be clear. As a consequence, children do not get frustrated by the many times they hear `wrong’, nor get the improper motivation to work for compliments when they hear `very good’, as they would in a traditional educational setting. Montessori education makes happy people and happiness is very precious in this world. It was recognized that small children do not like to sit still on a chair behind a table. Therefore at Kindergarten we were always allowed to take a small rug, roll it out and perform our work on it, while crawling around the material.

The Montessori method is developed at its best for Kindergarten and Elementary School, less so for High School. Nevertheless, in the early 1960ies, the general atmosphere at the Amsterdam Montessori High School was that of freedom in restraint and relaxed concentration.

We had great teachers. There was the fascinating Rein Bloem (pronounced ‘Bloom’) teaching Dutch language. In his field he would point out unusual phenomena. “Take a noun like `straw’. You drink your soda with a straw. It is often a plastic or paper straw. In rare cases it is a straw straw. Note the expression `A straw straw’. We call this phenomenon reflexive usage.” But Bloem taught much more. To analyze movies (his treatment of Fellini’s movie 8 1/2 was masterful); or how to behave among hypocrites (“If they try to get to know something about you, ignore the topic. When they have given up: just tell them!”). Also he would every other year undertake the full production of a theater play. In my years he did The Tempest of William Shakespeare and Under the milk wood of Dylan Thomas. Many pupils of school got involved: acting, making costumes, technical support, taking care of the make-up, etcetera. But Bloem was not just the producer, above all he was the grand director and inspiring teacher how to act on stage. Also he introduced us to Japanese Noh theatre.

Then there was Fred Fischer, a brilliant mathematics teacher. “So is only in approximation 1.41212. As I just showed you, no matter how many decimals we provide, it remains an approximation. So you may wonder why we say that exists. Well, it exists because WE WANT IT.” Compared to Bloem the style of Fischer was introvert. For example he did not undertake school-wide happenings. But he would invite pupils with an interest in 20th century classical music to his home. There we listened to Schönberg’s second string quartet and heard the added soprano sing `Ich fühle Luft von anderem Planeten³‘; to his wind quintet, about which Fischer commented “Dry as dust, but just listen”; and to Bartok’s violin concerto.

There were other good teachers. But Bloem and Fischer are singled out for a particular reason. One morning in class Bloem would wait until everyone was quiet. He showed us a piece of chalk and asked “What is this?” We ventured to answer the obvious. Then Bloem threw the chalk against the heater, breaking it into smithereens, and shouted “WHAT IS IT NOW?!”. We were flabbergasted. In this way he started his lesson on Zen. About ‘Zen and the Art of Archery’ with its quintessential ‘It shoots’ (not the archer), about koans, about the unconventional in Zen. I did not understand it, but it all was so consistently absurd, that it had to mean something.

Fischer had his other approach. When one would ask a philosophical question, he would discuss it at length, provide background material and advice. Through these discussions we also came to speak about Zen and Buddhism in general. He advised me to go to an exhibit of the unconventional Japanese monk artist Sengai in The Hague. Seeing `The plum-blossoms’ I was struck by the effectiveness of the brush-strokes portraying a branch of a fragrant plum-tree in twilight under the moon (there was also a poem on the scroll, so that helped appreciating the fragrance part).

This was the general climate in which we were introduced to Zen. And yes, in the early sixties we did read Kerouac (On the road and later Dharma bums), did read books of Daisetz Suzuki on Zen, did read Lao Tze (who was our biggest hero), did burn incense at parties where we danced on music of Gerry Mulligan made for the movie I want to live. At one of these occasions–the house was affluent–I saw with my friend Ernst for the first time a sitting Buddha statue. We liked it, not knowing Buddha had any relation with Zen, and tried to torment ourselves into the full lotus position. It took some weeks, but we succeeded. Then we tried it out by positioning ourselves in two adjacent alcoves along a not often used passage at school. When nevertheless a girl walked by, she freaked out, and we felt great. Later we became better at the full lotus and continued reading our books.

But we were not only interested in books. A few months later we had our first yabyum with two girls: we in lotus position and the girls like a rider on a horse face to face with us. We did not do it though in the way of our fantasy: we were all completely dressed. But in this way I did get my first kiss.

A five day Zen retreat. Time to get up was 3:40 a.m. and the evening before I offered to take responsibility for the wake-up bell. I knew this at least would give me the motivation to get up at all. When my alarm-clock rang at 3:30, I noticed that the somewhat mountainous climate made the nights very cold. Dutifully I went around the sleeping rooms to wake-up everyone. Sitting. 40 minutes in half-lotus or Burmese sit preferably without moving the legs. In spite of the uncomfortable position I fell asleep for some moments. Then I woke up as the pain was growing in my legs. The cold and the pain were taking their turn to keep me busy. Most students–as the meditators were called–enveloped themselves in a blanket. I did not have one. “Why didn’t I take a blanket?” went through my mind. “Did not think of it while waking up the others, and moreover walking under a blanket like a phantom is not exactly the dress-code for waking up people.” Daydreaming on these and similar thoughts. But mostly there was pain and the cold. The bell indicating the end of the sitting period was a relief. Walking meditation. As usual 10 minutes, performed very slowly. In the dark hall, lit by a few oil-lamps, one could see the vapour coming out of each person’s mouth or nostrils. We were like horses in a meadow during a cold winter night. It was allowed to go to the bathroom during the walk rounds and I sneaked out of the meditation hall to get a blanket. After the walking round we did a second sitting session, again for 40 minutes. I did not really get warm in spite of the blanket. Sleepiness and stiffness were also bothering. This time the cold did win from the other disturbances. I stayed awake. After the second sit it was breakfast time. Still shivering I went up to the dining hall, following the others. Eating was done in a formal way using oriyoki.

Oriyoki

Three bowls of food: rice-porridge, vegetables and some fried tofu and onions. Not bad, specially because it was steaming warm. At the end each of us had to clean the bowls in a ritual way. Hot water was poured in them and with our chopsticks and a kind of spatula we had to wipe them clean. Then we had to drink that water. My mind cognized it as “used dishwater” and I had to gag at it. Other students drunk it obediently and I forced myself to do the same. Actually its warmth was nice. In the meantime it had become light. We went back to the meditation hall. Feeling somewhat better I continued. Sitting session. Walking round. Sitting. Walking. Sitting. It became warmer at last. Now it was the pain that was bothering most during sitting sessions. Walking. Sitting. And so on. In this way the day passed. Next morning it was as cold as the first one. The motivation to get up had diminished. No longer bothered by ideas about a dress-code I took with me the warmth of the bed when going for the wake-up round. Sitting in the meditation hall. This time pain and sleepiness were the disturbances. Only for me it seemed. During the practice the group was concentrated and serious. No one showed the slightest sign of wanting to quit. The students were varied. Artists, former hippies, housewives, university students and other nice people; all having different ages. Looking at them, now transfigured again into steaming horses, questions came up. “There must be a very serious reason,” I wondered, “why we are doing this; or else we are all completely mad!?” This was Buddha’s puzzle: “What is meditation all about?”. I did ponder over it at the next sitting session. But then the pain brought me back to here and now. Again I did pull myself through the day.

Kobun Chino

For personal reasons (my mother came to visit me from Europe) I could stay at the retreat for only two days. At the beginning of retreat, the friendly teacher Kobun Chino Roshi (1938-2002) had agreed with this. That evening I left. Back in the world I was happy to be out of the place. The earnest discipline had surprised me. But, to be frank, it did not have a strong appeal. “So why is one doing this?” and Buddha’s puzzle remained.