NEW YORK — Nestled in a nondescript charcoal building at 400 E. 14th St., the Chogye International Zen Center of New York welcomes its members as early as 5:30 a.m. for the Buddhist practices of bowing, meditation and chanting. Upon entrance, members slide off their shoes, place their belongings in white wooden cubbies and trade their winter coats for lavender and gray robes of varying lengths. A dozen people showed up on a recent Saturday.
The morning practice commences in the bowing room. Some members wear socks; others let their naked toes graze the floor. Then, with pristine synchronicity, the bows begin: right knee to the floor, left knee to the floor, right palm, left palm, forehead, palms together, feet to standing, repeat — 107 more times. A latecomer arrives; before stepping through the door’s threshold, he raises his hands to his heart and bends toward the altar before scurrying to an open cushion. There is a name for this gesture: gassho.
According to Manu, a Zen teacher from France, gassho has many meanings: hello, how are you, pardon me, thank you, goodbye. Manu has a beauty mark above her lip, hair cropped to her ears and a slight gap between her teeth. “It means everything!” she says with a congenial smile. When entering or exiting a prayer space, Zen Buddhists put their palms together into gassho to show courtesy, respect and gratitude.
The bowing ends. Members file into the meditation room across the hall. Save for three Korean scrolls that hang above the Buddha’s altar, the meditation room’s walls are unadorned. Strewn about the burgundy-brown wooden planked floor: square, circle and diamond-shaped pillows intended to make the seated meditation more comfortable. Members opt for various seating positions. Some kneel, supporting their posterior with a small pillow, creating a tripod with their bodies. Others assume cross-legged, lotus, or half-lotus positions. According to Manu, the best position is simply the one you feel most comfortable in.
“This,” she says, motioning to her full lotus stance, “is just to support the work you’re doing up here,” raising her hand to her head.
For 40 minutes, the gentle hum of deep breathing washes over the room, punctuated every so often by the wayward cough, sniffle or grunt. For at least half that time, one bald bespectacled man’s eyes flutter in the back of his head. Several assume the elusive halfway-open eye — a technique employed to keep the meditator grounded in reality while exploring the contours of their mind. Others keep their eyes fully open but cast their gaze downward. A few minutes before the seated meditation concludes, the bespectacled man takes a bathroom break; before he departs, he brings his palms together in gassho, briefly nodding at the altar before exiting the room.
The meditation flows immediately into the chanting practice. Teachers jaunt around the room to hand first-timers chant books that include full lyrical texts, both in Korean transliteration and standard English. What once was a dull hum — meditative breathing — has crescendoed into a resonant swell of voices from baritone to soprano. All chants are delivered in Korean; only The Heart Sutra — famous for its assertion that “form is emptiness; emptiness is form” — gets a double feature, chanted first in Korean, then in English.
Before the final chant, Alan, a Korean-American Zen Buddhist from Flushing, gently corrects a newcomer’s hand placement. She had been holding the book with arms outstretched, gripping each page like an analog map. With soft eyes and an avuncular smile, he guides her hands towards the center of the book’s spine, thumbs touching, palms facing. Gassho.