The Burning of a Sanctuary: Reflections on the Loss and Legacy of Tassajara Zen Mountain Center

At twenty-eight years old, I first rattled over a stone-pocked, fourteen-mile dirt road into the Ventana Wilderness of California, arriving at the Tassajara Zen Mountain Center. At the time, it was the first traditional Zen monastery established outside of Asia. I was not a seeker of enlightenment; my roommate, Sherri, and I were simply two young women on a summer camping trip, drawn by the allure of the center’s famous hot springs. We were looking for a reprieve from the heat and the rigors of our daily lives, not a spiritual transformation.

Yet, life often unfolds through a series of serendipitous encounters. During our stay, we ran into a friend named John, who had previously been a familiar face in the leftist journalism circles of San Francisco before mysteriously vanishing from the scene. We found him by the baths, looking entirely transformed, dressed in a black kimono accented by a crisp white collar. He greeted us warmly and, in a gesture of unexpected hospitality, insisted on paying for a cabin so we could stay a few nights. As the summer season allows Tassajara to function as a resort for paying guests, we were able to linger. John soon became our guide, showing us the zendo and extending an invitation to join the meditation session the following morning.

That dawn, as the chanting of the bodhisattva vow—“Sentient beings are numberless. I vow to save them”—echoed through the hall, I stepped out into the morning light with a sense of clarity I had never before experienced. The Spanish word Ventana translates to "window," and that humble zendo truly became a window into a new existence. I had arrived as a striving, somewhat confused young newspaper reporter, and I left as a woman who had reconnected with a hidden part of herself—much like the beggar in the parable who discovers a precious jewel sewn into the lining of her pocket. That simple wooden building, with its profound silence and shared rituals, became my personal Chartres. Although I never committed to a winter practice period, I returned the following summer to live, work, and meditate. That was more than four decades ago.

In March, the sanctity of that space was shattered when the zendo mysteriously burned to the ground in the middle of the night. The loss was total. The fire claimed not only the structure itself but the essential artifacts of the monastic life: the meditation cushions, the monks’ robes, the sacred handsewn rakusus that signify lay ordination, and the oryoki bowls used for the ritualized consumption of food. Perhaps most heartbreaking was the destruction of an ancient, priceless Gandharan Buddha. Carved in Afghanistan during its time as a Greek garrison, the statue possessed unique, Graeco-Roman features. Today, only its face remains.

The tragedy was compounded in late May when a Bay Area woman was arrested and charged with arson, as well as for making threats against other Buddhist temples throughout California. In a chilling intersection of modern digital obsession and physical destruction, investigators found a Facebook page under the suspect’s name that included a video of the zendo in flames, posted just hours after the fire broke out. An earlier post on the same account suggested a paranoid belief that the FBI was beaming radio waves into her home. It was a stark, painful reminder that the chaos and psychological suffering of the outer world are not held at bay by the boundaries of a remote forest sanctuary.

In the wake of the fire, Abbot David Zimmerman offered a response that stayed true to the bodhisattva’s path. He expressed hope that the individual responsible would receive the care and support they require, while simultaneously acknowledging the necessity of being held accountable for their actions. His message concluded with a prayer: "May all beings be safe, at peace, and free of suffering."

As news of the fire spread across social media, the reaction from the community—spanning former monks, current residents, and long-time visitors—was a mix of profound grief and philosophical contemplation on the nature of impermanence. Many supporters began contributing funds to assist in the extensive cleanup and eventual rebuilding, an effort that will undoubtedly exceed the limits of insurance coverage. Others sought solace in the words of Dogen Zenji, the spiritual ancestor who brought Soto Zen from China to Japan. They quoted his teaching: "Firewood becomes ash, and it does not become firewood again. . . . Birth is an expression complete in this moment. Death is an expression complete in this moment."

The sentiment was clear: It is gone. Do not look back. Firewood is firewood; ash is ash. But for those of us who have spent years within those walls, the reality is more complex. My initial reaction was not a Zen-like acceptance, but a raw, human response of shock and mourning. Something I treasured, a physical anchor to my own history, has vanished forever.

I found myself reflecting on the teachings of my root teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh. He often spoke of the interconnectedness of all things, suggesting that if we look closely enough at a chant card, we can see the clouds that provided the rain to nourish the trees that were eventually turned into paper. For him, impermanence was not a synonym for extinction, but rather a process of endlessly shifting forms.

Tassajara’s history itself is a testament to this constant change. The hot springs served for centuries as a sacred refuge for the Esselen people, part of their vast ancestral territory, before they were violently displaced during the genocide of the 19th century. Following their removal, the site was transformed into a resort for white settlers, complete with a hotel and cabins. By the early 20th century, it had become a commercial destination for Hollywood stars, boasting amenities like a bar, a bowling alley, and a pavilion.

The trajectory changed again in 1967, when the San Francisco Zen Center—led by the Japanese priest Shunryu Suzuki Roshi and his American dharma heir, Richard Baker Roshi—acquired the forgotten resort and repurposed it as a traditional Zen monastery. Since then, the center has relied on the support of summer guests to fund the rigorous, austere monastic practice periods held in the fall and winter.

Tassajara has always existed in a state of precarious beauty. Tucked into a steep, wild valley, it is defined by the eternal, rushing movement of creeks and waterfalls and protected by granite ridges that rise like knife blades. Yet, this beauty has always been shadowed by the threat of fire. The zendo that burned in March was itself built upon the foundation of a hotel that had been destroyed by fire nearly a century prior.

Change has been the only constant. When I first sat in the zendo, we chanted a lineage of "Buddhas and patriarchs"—a list consisting entirely of men. In 2000, co-abbess Linda Ruth Cutts introduced a parallel recitation, honoring our semilegendary female spiritual ancestors, beginning with Prajapati, the Buddha’s aunt, who raised him and became one of his first nuns. The physical space changed as well, moving from the soft glow of kerosene lamps to modern solar power. The men who built the zendo, like my dear friend Jay Simoneaux, have passed on, and the master builder Paul Discoe, who was trained in traditional Japanese joinery, has moved on to other monumental projects. Following the pandemic, the once-casual, sybaritic summer guest season was further refined into a schedule dominated by meditation and yoga-focused retreats.

While the physical structure is gone, I find myself resisting the idea that everything has disappeared. Wood and stone carry the imprints of the human soul. Every hour I spent in that zendo is etched into my own body; the vibrations of our collective chanting did not simply dissipate, but rather soaked into the walls of my own cells. I am older now, and I recognize that in a decade or so, my own body will face its own "burning," returning to the elements just as the zendo has.

I plan to return to Tassajara this summer to refresh my practice among my peers, even if we must sit in a temporary, makeshift space. The Zen Center has indicated that the summer season will continue, albeit delayed. In the meantime, I have created a sanctuary in my own home office. Each morning, I set a timer on my iPhone, unfold a seiza bench, and sit before a worktable that holds a paper shredder, a printer, a Buddha statue from my father, and a Japanese bell on a purple silk cushion. The sacred and the profane sit side-by-side, reflecting the reality of my own internal landscape.

Dogen Zenji, in his Instructions for the Cook, challenged his followers to take a simple blade of grass and transform it into a sixteen-foot golden Buddha. My worktable is that blade of grass. The golden Buddha is my own breath, my own willingness to return to the mat, and the persistence of a tradition that has survived since the time of the Buddha and his aunt Prajapati. I remind myself that objects do not create the sacred; people do, through their presence and careful attention. The Buddha did not find enlightenment in a temple; he found it sitting on a pile of straw, touching the earth, and watching the morning star.

When I was young, I was a person disconnected from myself and the world. The Tassajara Buddha hall, sanctified by the concerted actions of everyone who bowed or sat there, opened a window that changed the course of my life. A year or so from now, when a new zendo stands in that valley, it will welcome a new generation of spiritual seekers—people who, like I once was, do not yet know they carry a diamond in their pockets. Supported by the silence and the ritual of their community, they will build a sanctuary within their own bodies, proving that any place where we sit with intention is holy.