--- ai_generation_date: '2026-10-17' ai_model: gemini-3-pro-preview ai_prompt_hash: 964013ba audiodharma: talks: - date: '2026-10-15' is_meditation: true mp3_url: https://audiodharma.us-east-1.linodeobjects.com/talks/26448/20261015-gil_fronsdal-imc-guided_meditation_beginnings_and_endings_over_and_over.mp3 section_slug: guided-meditation-beginnings-and-endings-over-and-over speakers: - speaker_name: Gil Fronsdal speaker_url: https://www.audiodharma.org/speakers/1 talk_start_time_seconds: 0 title: 'Guided Meditation: Beginnings and Endings, Over and Over' url: https://www.audiodharma.org/talks/26448 video_unavailable: false - date: '2026-10-15' is_meditation: false mp3_url: https://audiodharma.us-east-1.linodeobjects.com/talks/26449/20261015-gil_fronsdal-imc-dharmette_gil_stories_4_of_5_zen_monastery_life.mp3 section_slug: dharmette-gil-stories-4-of-5-zen-monastery-life speakers: - speaker_name: Gil Fronsdal speaker_url: https://www.audiodharma.org/speakers/1 talk_start_time_seconds: 1895 title: 'Dharmette: Gil Stories (4 of 5) Zen Monastery Life' url: https://www.audiodharma.org/talks/26449 video_unavailable: false collapsed_sections: - guided-meditation-beginnings-and-endings-over-and-over location_city: Redwood City, CA video_unavailable: false youtube: id: XFw85Y0YHNU imprecise_upload_date: null title: 'Guided Meditation: Beginnings and Endings, Over and Over; Stories (4 of 5) Zen Monastery Life' upload_date: '2026-10-15' uploader_str: Insight Meditation Center uploader_url: https://www.youtube.com/@InsightMeditationCenter youtube_url: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XFw85Y0YHNU --- # Guided Meditation: Beginnings and Endings, Over and Over; Dharmette: Gil Stories (4 of 5) Zen Monastery Life - [Gil Fronsdal](https://www.audiodharma.org/speakers/1) _This is an AI-generated transcript from auto-generated subtitles for the video above. It likely contains inaccuracies, especially with speaker attribution if there are multiple speakers._ ## [Guided Meditation: Beginnings and Endings, Over and Over](https://www.audiodharma.org/talks/26448) Hello everyone, and welcome to our meditation session. I'd like to offer you a variation of something I taught yesterday, not at 7:00 a.m., but at the half-day sitting at IMC. We have an English expression: "just a moment." A moment is an ambiguous length of time. Some people will say, "Just a moment, I have to go get something," and it might be 30 seconds, it might be three minutes. So how long is a moment? It's longer than a snap of the fingers. William James[^1], the American philosopher, psychologist, and great student of religions, talked about the saddleback of the present moment. It's kind of like a curve. We could have just as well called it the humpback of the present moment. It starts in one direction, goes up or down the saddleback, comes to the bottom, and then comes back up again to the past. There is no sharp line between the past and the present, or the present and the future. Somehow, in that moment, there's the center of gravity for that moment here. It's not a clearly defined, distinct time like one-tenth of a second, one second, or three seconds. In different situations, we say a moment is something different. What I'd like to suggest is that a moment of mindfulness can be the length of time it takes to breathe in and breathe out. As you begin breathing in, that's the beginning of the whole world of the present moment in our experience. With the inhale, we get the experience of our direct, tangible, perceivable world here and now. Allow it to begin with the in-breath, grow to the top of the in-breath, and then with the exhale, fade away. Stay with the whole moment: the arising and passing of the moment, the beginning and end of the moment. This is the moment to be present. You don't necessarily have to string those together, as if it's a continuous awareness that's non-stop. There's a rhythm to it where the moment arises and passes. It's born and fades away. See if that rhythm of momentary experience keeps you engaged with your experience, as opposed to your thoughts about other times, other places, or your reactions. Let the thinking mind, the figuring-out mind, the analyzing mind, the story mind—let that rest. Let it have a vacation. You don't have to do that, in favor of this amazing rhythm of the world arising with the in-breath. The moment arising with the beginning of the in-breath and disappearing at the end of the out-breath, only to return over and over again. Assume a meditation posture. It's often good to choose a posture where it's clear that there are no restrictions on your breathing. There's not a collapsing of the chest or collapsing around the belly, which makes it a little harder to have a relaxed, easeful breath. If anything, it's open enough that nothing gets in the way of the full inhale and nothing gets in the way of the full exhale. Generally, that's a posture that allows the chest to be open and allows the belly to hang forward and expand outward. Gently close your eyes. Then do a deep check-in to your breathing itself, without any judgments, without seeing it as a problem or thinking that it should be different. Check in with your breathing, asking, "How are you, my friend?" and listen carefully. Don't judge. Don't try to fix. Just like you would with a friend, just accompany. Find out how your friend, the breathing, is right now. And without any special effort, judgment, or analysis, check in to see what it's like. What's the experience like for you when you begin the inhale? Is it sudden? Is it gradual? Where in the body does it begin? Is it pleasant, unpleasant, or neither? Checking in. What is it like when you come to the end of the exhale? Does the exhale fade slowly or suddenly? Where in the body are the last sensations of breathing out? What might be the final sensations of breathing out? Now let the moment be the time between the beginning of the inhale and the end of the exhale. The world begins with the inhale and ends with the end of the exhale. You don't need to take anything with you from between the end of the exhale and the beginning of the inhale. No past, no future, no memories, no judgments. Allow everything to begin fresh and new with the inhale. This time, this world, arising with the inhale, passing with the exhale. Riding that rhythm. Everything new with the inhale. Everything passing away with the exhale. See if you can let go of everything at the end of the exhale. Nothing carried with you into the beginning of the moment now. With the inhale. And as we come to the end of the sitting, continue in a simple way with the practice of the moment. The moment of breathing in and breathing out. See to the degree that it's possible to let everything begin fresh with the inhale because everything has passed away with the exhale. Everything is fresh with the beginning of the inhale. Nothing carried over from the exhale. If you continue this way, bring to mind the world of people that you live in. The people you know, the people who are strangers. What would it be like to continue to know them in the span of breathing in and breathing out, where your sight, your presence is fresh for them? Nothing carried over. No memories, no judgments, no hurt feelings. No desires from the past. As you breathe in, seeing others fresh, complete. And as you exhale, let them fade away, disappear from awareness, from thoughts, from ideas, only to return fresh with the next inhale. With that fresh awareness, new awareness of this people world around you, as you exhale, wish them well. Fresh awareness on the inhale, and wish them well on the exhale. May you be happy. May you be safe. May you be peaceful. May you be free. May all of us, in our ability to see with fresh eyes, see people more fully, unburdened by our past judgments and ideas. And may we wish them well. All beings. May all beings be happy and free. And may it begin with the ways in which we regard them. May the ways that we see them and relate to them be an offer of happiness, safety, peace, and freedom. Thank you. ## [Dharmette: Gil Stories (4 of 5) Zen Monastery Life](https://www.audiodharma.org/talks/26449) Hello, and welcome to this series where I talk about stories from my life. Yesterday, when I spoke, I made two references to how there was a deeper knowing inside. One was not so sudden, but it was the evolving discovery that meditation was a place for an inner expressivity, something deep inside, some sense of wholeness or integrity that felt so right to sit in. That's what meditation was: to return to this sense of wholeness, this integrity, this vital goodness, just by being peaceful and quiet and settling in. When I first lived at the San Francisco Zen Center at Green Gulch Farm, I decided at a moment's notice not to go to graduate school when this inner knowing suddenly appeared in my body that I should go to the monastery instead. That was in August. Then, in January of 1980[^2], I went to Tassajara Zen Mountain Monastery[^3] in the Ventana Wilderness, in the Los Padres National Forest[^4]. It's inland in the wilderness from Big Sur. It is a beautiful place. There is a fourteen-mile dirt road to get all the way in there, up and down and around into deep valleys, far from the world in many ways. I remember when I was driving in there, I was getting a ride from San Francisco, and we stopped in Carmel Valley, the last little town before heading in. There was a little shopping center there with a bookstore. The people I was with were shopping for something, so I had a few minutes free. I went into the bookstore and went right to the spiritual bookshelves. Because I had very little time, I randomly pulled down a book—some kind of New Age or Eastern religion book. I opened it at random and read a sentence that went something like: _The problem with human beings is that they resist reality._ I closed the book, put it back on the shelf, got in the car, and drove to the monastery. That sentence reverberated in me. I decided that it was kind of a negative statement and I wanted to say it in a positive way. So I reframed it for myself: _The solution in life is to participate._ That worked really well for Zen practice. Zen practice is a lot about giving yourself over to the activity you're doing, not resisting it, and being fully there. That was not necessarily easy for me to do. I had resistance. Part of the Zen practice there was to really give myself over and overcome the resistance, to dissolve it or see it, and not have it stand in the way. That served me really well in meditation, too—this idea to participate fully with what you're doing. In meditation, freely participate, not with strain or over-efforting, but with the fullness of, "Yes, this is what I'm doing now." That exploration of how to participate became a very important part of Zen practice for me. I remember when I first got to the monastery. After a few weeks, I overslept one day and came to the morning meditation late. In my mind, the monastery was a great, powerful authority figure with strict discipline. I was convinced I was going to be expelled from the monastery for oversleeping. I spent the whole day waiting for someone to come up to me and say, "You have to go." When I went to bed that night, I was so surprised I was still there. No one had even mentioned anything; no one had noticed. Somehow, something shifted inside of me. Not that there was a lot of permission to do things, but maybe I didn't have to carry the weight of other people judging me or disciplining me. I felt like I now had room to breathe in the monastery. As I stayed there, I loved being in the monastic life. The daily life was wonderful. Participating, just following along in the schedule, not having to make a lot of choices—the bell rang, go to work; the bell rang, go to a meal—just being fully there. So much of it was contemplative or meditative in style, so I just loved settling in. I was there for a long time. There was a continued settling. Just being in a practice environment, absorbed in it, and allowing it to permeate me was a fantastic thing. Except on the days off. Every fifth day was a day off. It was a five-day week, which was a little bit confusing with our seven-day week. When I had days off, I had a lot of time alone. I went for wonderful hikes in the mountains there. But it was also the most difficult time for me because that's when I was left to myself to think, "What am I doing with my life? What should I be doing? Should I go back to graduate school, or should I stay and practice Zen?" Part of the reason to go to graduate school was to address what I thought at the time was one of the great environmental issues: soil erosion. I wanted to help the world. But I also had a mistrust of people who wanted to help. Somehow, it felt insincere or egotistical, or it was based on unformed ideas of mistrust. So I spent a lot of time pondering this question of what to do, not being able to choose or decide. There was a lot of inner turmoil on those days, on those hikes. Then I'd come back for the next day at the monastery and I'd be back in the flow. This rhythm happened every five days, having to deal with my personal challenge. After about a year of doing that, I decided not to go to graduate school, but really put that aside and stay in the monastery. Then one day, I was on one of those walks, wondering, "What should I do?" And I realized, "Wait a minute, Gil. You've been circling around this question for a whole year, just going around and around. It's not taking you anywhere. It doesn't seem like there's any solution for you in this way of thinking." Something inside of me arose: "Let me start over. Let me start my life all over and not know what I'm supposed to do, and just take the next step." It was a wonderful place to make that decision because the environment was so special. First, the next step was simply the next step on that mountain path that led back to the monastery. Then, in the monastery, the next step was the bell ringing and going to meditate. I was just responding to the circumstance that this is the next step. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I don't have to know the big picture or the purpose of my life. I can just follow along in the simplicity of this. Because the thinking mind that spends all this time thinking is not reliable. I was just so fortunate that that's where I made the decision—in the monastery—because it put me back into the practice and the flow of it in an even fuller way. It had a big impact on me. I remember going up to one of the Zen teachers at some point. We spontaneously passed each other on the path in the monastery, and I said, "I feel like I'm becoming a response machine." It was very unfortunate to call it a "machine," but what I was saying was that I felt like what I was becoming was simply something that responds to the situation. I just want to respond. I'm just there, open and available, and that's what I'm becoming: just a delightful response apparatus. This idea that something natural inside wants to meet and be present continued. Around the same time, I saw a magazine with pictures of tremendous human atrocities from a war, with people getting killed and bombed. Seeing that in the middle of the monastic life just tore something open in me. A whole new level of compassion and concern for the world arose. I said, "This needs to be addressed. This needs to be met." I didn't have any ideas of what to do, but it had a big impact on me. At one point, after being in the monastery for—I suspect it was a little over a year, maybe a year and a half, after all this had unfolded—one summer in July, the abbot was going to come visit. The abbot at the time didn't come very often to the monastery, and there weren't many opportunities to meet and talk with him one-on-one. If we were lucky, maybe we could do it two times a year, sometimes three. But he was making an unusual visit to the monastery, and I knew I had a chance to ask to see him. So I did, and I got a time to see him, but I didn't know what I was going to talk about. I sat looking at the river. The monastery is at the Tassajara River—a wonderful river, a real river, not just a creek. I sat at the edge of the river, looking at it and thinking again, "What should I do? What should I do with my life?" Here I was going to have a chance to talk to the abbot. So there was a kind of concentration of attention and presence, driven by the need to do that because of this meeting with the abbot. Sitting there, suddenly, there was this kind of explosion inside. Again, the body had the answer. I didn't have the answer. The body said, "Become a monk. Get ordained. Become ordained as a Zen monk." It was so clear. The knowing was absolute. There was no question; I knew that's what I was going to do. But because I'm a rational person, I guess I felt like I should have reasons. So, after knowing that was the case, I came up with reasons. So if the abbot asked me—because I was going to ask him if I could be ordained—my reason was that I wanted to respond to the suffering of the world from the deepest place that I knew where it could be addressed. I felt if I went off into the world and dealt with soil erosion... it's extremely important to do that, but it's not going to touch the people that I support and help. It's wonderful, but it doesn't touch their deepest place of suffering. I felt like I would have a dissatisfied life if I wasn't able to meet suffering at its root. I didn't know if I would be effective. I didn't know if this was something I could do. But I wanted to have the satisfaction of being able to meet suffering at its deepest place. The only way I knew to do that in my limited life was through Buddhism. So I went to the abbot and asked him if I could be ordained. To my surprise, he quickly said yes. I thought it would be a bigger process. In Zen, you have to sew your own robes to be ready for the ordination, so he told me to start sewing. I did, thinking it would be a few years before I'd be ordained. Then, by the end of the summer, he told me, "Be ready to be ordained in December." I was surprised again by how quickly it happened. It turned out to be January of 1982 that I was ordained. That was meant to be for a lifetime, stepping into this deeper world of being a monk, which I loved being. Being a monk in some way that would be able to meet the suffering of the world. So that brings me to the end of that phase. Tomorrow, I'll tell you the story of the next phase. Thank you very much. --- [^1]: **William James:** An American philosopher, historian, and psychologist (1842–1910), often called the "Father of American psychology." [^2]: Original transcript said "January of 1990," corrected to "1980" based on the timeline later in the talk where he mentions being ordained in January of 1982. [^3]: **Tassajara Zen Mountain Monastery:** The first Zen training monastery outside of Asia, located in the Ventana Wilderness area of the Los Padres National Forest, inland from Big Sur, California. It is operated by the San Francisco Zen Center. [^4]: Original transcript said "Sapadras National Kind of forest," corrected to "Los Padres National Forest" based on context.