It is with heavy hearts that we announce the passing of Senior Monastic Michael Choke Yukon Grody who left this life on Wednesday, February 28th, following a six month ordeal with brain cancer. In the end, it was a peaceful death with family and one of his monastic brothers at his side. The following morning, Yukon’s monastic and blood family gathered at dawn to perform the liturgy for the newly deceased, which included caring for his body and dressing him in his robes. Afterwards, everyone joined in the zendo for a morning service in his honor. The sangha gathered again the following Monday at Wiltwyck Rural Cemetery in Kingston for a liturgy service that accompanied his cremation. His funeral took place on Sunday, March 31st at Zen Mountain Monastery.
Read about Yukon’s journey and watch a slideshow of his life.
Funeral Service on Easter Sunday For Choke Yukon:
for Choke Yukon
Dancing on water
clouds scatter in laughter
Slipping into night
there is mystery beneath this surface
You have just now
hidden your face
hushed your voice
released your mindstream
As we let loose our mourning song
Where should we turn to find you?
How will we know when we meet again?
One robe, one bowl
Clouds & Water
Dancing
Tenkosan Doshinji
March 3, 2024
For Choke Yukon
Outside the cold window
A bright moon hangs full
I see you lying there,
Beautiful enfolded husk
On a bed of purple satin
In a river of rose petals
—sudden strangeness together
I stare with soft eyes….
waiting for an announcement
of a mistake—
that was not made
AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Ambassador of Love
Beloved Grody-Sattva
Sometimes wearing a god mask
Sometimes wearing a devil mask
singing gospel over the top to enliven
living beings.
I have no more words for this —this!
Only hearing your voice ring out:
“ Knuckle—Now, get on with the living”!
Immeasurable gratitude
Immeasurable loving
Fucho Hojin
Brooklyn NY
March 3, 2024
“Be Careful What You Ask For,” a talk by Yukon given on March 1, 2020 at the Zen Center of NYC.
Senior Monastic Yukon makes us a gift of his perspective on practice after 37 years, focused on the skillful means we employ to maintain our practice. Be careful what you ask for, he says: This is a constant practice of releasing what we cling to, and we cling to everything. Practice dismantles both hopes for the future and thoughts about the past, and to have peace we have to open up to the gifts of the Four Noble Truths, the Eightfold Path, and all that helps us release the anxiety of not knowing who we are.
https://vimeo.com/430362146?share=copy
A tour of the Monastery garden from the summer of 2020, with Mn. Yukon Grody and Laurel Johnson.
A talk given by Yukon in August 2020 on “Garden Dharma”
[lights out in the bamboo grove office]
a content orange temple cat perched on a rusty legged table
in the bamboo grove office at dawn’s light
Ether-Rudy swished his tail excitedly
just like he did in life when
stalking the garden mice
but this hunt was for
another light –
————————
-which manifested as a subtle shifting of shadows in the fabric of great reality
revealing a gently shimmering radiance from the Jizō House:
that giant of a cheerful man smiling freshly liberated
from the final winter of his suffering –
thus old friends again were
well met in this familiar
bamboo grove office:
“Hello there, dear one…” said the cheerful giant
whose bright eyes matched his ear to ear grin.
Rudy purred – his tail up twitching lightly
he arose to nuzzle his man clad in white.
Then Rudy said to Yukon: “Look…!
All of our friends have arrived
to see us off…”
————————
All the glimmering morning stars chatted excitedly behind cloudy shrouds that
swirled above the misty heights of Tenkōzan along with the tall mighty pines,
the wild animals, the garden, and Mother Earth herself bore witness
to the ethereal formlessness of temple cat and monastic human
and many dharma siblings and friends sitting in the zendo
(and also in private homes and hearts near and far):
This was no ordinary kaddish, to be sure!
Then the grove office lights went out,
and as I blinked my eyes…
the bamboo grove office
was just a grove.
—————————
And now the concentrated light of the former feline and his dear keeper
slowly dispersed, rising to the vast sky to light the newly born day:
this brightened the hearts of many friends and dharma siblings
awash in the radiance of memories old and recent
comforting words of encouragement
sustained by practice and the gifts
of compassionate engagement
that saves countless
sentient beings.
—————————
Though my tears now well up like a flood
(Even our time together was short)
I am deeply grateful
my dear Yukon,
to have met you
in this life.
GROWTH
It’s been a long time.
We catch up at the Japanese place
With the menu that never changes.
Everything’s from scratch.
I don’t check my watch.
It’s been 25 years.
You tell me about a friend’s pregnancy
And stories about your dead orange tabby.
We joke how you get down on all fours
When you meet pets and babies.
I say, “You over-water and over-feed every living thing.”
You say, “I’m a simple monk. I love my simple life.”
I order us everything on the menu.
You say, “I’m a pig” and smile, which means: “Thank You.”
During dinner, a quiet tumor grows in your head,
Pushes against the edges of words,
And imperceptibly stretches
the pauses between them.
In the coming days the doctors will name it.
Meanwhile, I tell you what I have learned
about lotus root.
Because of its many seeds,
Eating it is a prayer for the next generation.
It looks like a potato on the outside.
But cut open— it’s lacy,
A wheel with cogs.
They say the holes offer
A view of the future.
It is crunchy salty sweet
Dipped in vinegar and mirin.
I hold up a slice and
Peer straight through to you.
You giggle,
Looking back
Through the pickle.
Dear Sweet Yukon,
I’m recalling you in your bamboo grove office, inviting all of us in, to sit and chat and listen.
With Love, and gratitude,
Kyudo
OX
-For Yukon-
Yukon with the chicken suspenders.
“I’m from the city! I didn’t know a thing about gardening!” And then you told me how you just fell in love with the petals of a dahlia.
Yukon with your dramatic, playful boisterousness; introducing me to his “snappies”
…snappies! of which I then planted last summer; those flowering dragons of towering jaws.
Yukon your joyful exuberance heart spilling over and out – where did it all come from –
Just spilling over all of us, I have such gratitude – !
I have such gratitude.
Yukon sitting on the bench in his bamboo grove vibrating with birds, respite from the heat
Looking upon the garden, being with the garden, seeing.
And the successes, the failures.
The living and the dying.
Season after season.
The bamboo grove.
Birds filling up the spires of green, filling the air with their voices,
you were not able to join them.
I heard them raise their voices.
Yukon saying to me when I recently came back at the Monastery: “Welcome home.”
Is it possible I had never felt more welcomed and at home in that moment.
And yes, Yukon welcome home.
Welcome home.
This past July, Yukon and Hokyu came all the way up to our small town in the Adirondacks to perform the memorial service for my husband, for which I’ll be forever grateful. Yukon charmed the audience with his mix of goofiness and profundity, and many, many people afterward spoke of his warmth and directness. One person said, “I never knew a monk could be friendly and funny!” I think my favorite memory of Yukon, though, dates back to Miami Beach about fifteen years ago, where my husband and I had a condo. Yukon came down and spent a week with us on his vacation. One day we decided to take a ride on the Duck Boat, a ridiculous tourist attraction. It was an amphibious vehicle that began with a tour of the town’s old deco hotels and then drove down a ramp into Biscayne Bay (guests were asked to quack as this happened), to explore the various islands and homes of “the rich and famous.” Yukon loved it. He laughed the entire time, and occasional quacking became part of our conversations from then on. I have a picture of him beaming in front of the Duckmobile. Silliness aside, we spent many hours talking over the years, mostly about our childhoods, gardening, and the Dharma. I loved him, and miss him with a mix of pain and joy that such a person existed in this darkening world.
When Choke Yukon visited Aotearoa, he fell in love with the Piwakawaka (Fantail)
Fantail by Haare Williams (for Yukon)
“I see you now
Preening in the kowhai bough
teasing flick of tail
dancing a merry hail
flirting, dancing side to side
Cheeky you taunt the solemn pose
of haughty kereru and tui
mischief and curiosity
makes you flick and flee
from those who would chastise you.”
To be enfolded in a Yukon hug, who could ever forget this……….
Hoki mai ano
Ah- come and give me a hug
Choke Yukon
good morning to you
dear greeter of souls
today you are moving
like a cloud amongst us
the trace of your garden
in the morning air
the light of your eyes
sunflowers still a dream
in your calloused hands
it’s cold in the mountain
still, you are here, warm
by the fire, talking honey
with us weary strangers
gentle reminders
in the flickering flames
no rush, no rush, no rush
the greenhouse flowers
line the dining hall
here we move slowly
with the morning shadows
as cherry blossoms
bud in your smile
by the gate…
we arrive
whether here or not
dear greeter of hearts
we are no strangers
to your soul
Mona Zamfirescu
Dear Yukon the Grody,
(Vaster than the Candian territory by far!)
It was in the depths of the winter of 2003
(That got to -27 degrees Fahrenheit!)
At Zen Mountain Monastery,
That I first met you dear man,
After flying into New York from Aotearoa New Zealand,
A Kiwi desperado desperately wanting to be free!
( As free as Jack Kerouac’s ‘bee inside he”!).
There were two parts of me….
One was keen to stop and sit and practice
The “dropping away of body and mind” in the monastery,
The other was keen to “beat” down the road
With the ghost of Neal Casady
His fingers thrumming on a big old driving wheel,
Racing from the East coast to the West, and back again,
Chanting: “Yes! Yes! Yes!
With this head full of ideas
and the Clash’s mantra, ‘Should I stay or should I go?”
Tearing me apart.
Suddenly there you were,
Laughing eyes and laughing heart!
And your open arms…
and there was nowhere to go but right into them…
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Right into your big compassionate embrace!
Your wonderful way of so easily being yourself…
( Like the “bee inside he!”)
I love you so much Grody, you jolly old elf you!
Your voice, your song, your “ju ju”
( Really good “ju ju”! )
I love you dear Yukon,
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Dropping away of body and mind,
(Dropped!)
Aieeeeee!
Still beating down the road that never ends…
See you soon dear friend
Dear Heart!
Your last dharma words to us . . .
(In the letter you sent with those beautiful autumn leaves) said:
“I saved these fall leaves for you –
snow now replaces the spot where I found them…
I carry you with me always.”
I carry you dear Yukon, I carry you too. . .
Maringi ringi noa nga roimata…
(The tears flow unchecked! )
Arohanui
Kia kaha kia kotahi ra!
(Our strength lies in our unity!)
Love always,
Suido the Nick.
.
I came to the monastery because my life had fallen apart, big time. I was in such a depression that it was hard to talk. I don’t mean a conversation; it was hard just to open my mouth and say simple things to people.
One day early on I came to the monastery to register for a program. Yukon was sitting behind the desk downstairs. I walked up to the desk, carrying my stuff, and he looked up at me and saw my face. Without saying anything, he got up, walked around the desk, came up very close to me, and grabbed my shoulders. Then he shook me, firm but also gentle, not saying anything, just looking into my eyes. He paused and then shook me again, all the while looking into my eyes with the most loving expression, not saying a thing. He did this a couple of more times, telling me without words that it was going to be alright.
Shobon
(29 Feb ’24)
an onion moon for Yukon’s passing
waning, rising
low and gold and startlingly large
in the clear air between city blocks
higher and less yellow in the slow zoetrope –
my late cab home crawls north
the calendar pretends this is an extra day
i only worked his garden once
july: flowers swelling into squash
i brought him plants i didn’t know
“are you cultivating this?”
“no” i ripped them out
shook dirt from roots
like from a child’s hair
we sat side by side and looked at frogs
and younger people pulling weeds
someone found a fat white grub curled up in fear
and threw it in the woods beyond the deer fence
the weeders are now asking about “do not kill”
but life and death embrace in garden beds, with limbs entwined
“you did the right thing,” Yukon says,
“you gave it a chance to live”
(and 4 March ’24)
One time after work practice in the Garden I told Yukon that I get nervous prior to Dokuan or Daisan. He gave me some suggestions but the most important was “Don’t ever pass an opportunity to see you Teacher”. Thanks, Yukon.
What a beautiful welcome
The twinkle in those eyes
Met
“Your munk” was how Yukon would sign his emails. And he was my munk – from the person who gave me beginning instruction at the Temple in Brooklyn in 2004 to the person on the phone from his vacation in August 2023, already showing some signs of confusion with language comprehension. My sweet munk.
He also was everyone’s munk. He loved to give me love life advice – and he was good at it, despite being a celibate munk. He used to say, “Why do you want love from just one person when you can have love from everyone?” His life was the example of how to do that.
When Yukon had to have his first eye surgery, I went with him and we stayed overnight in a Holiday Inn so he could have his post-op appt the next day. On the drive there, he shared that he was scared to go blind. The surgery was a four-hour procedure. Despite whatever fears he had, he had the entire nursing and front desk staff laughing and promising to come to the Monastery to visit by the time I returned to collect him. He was high as a kite from the pain drugs and I had to herd him into the car and from the car to the motel because he was chugging around the parking lot singing. I remember laughing and laughing with him while we ate Thai food and watched home renovations shows on TV, no doubt in direct contradiction to his instructions to rest and not get stirred up. His amazing big appetite was undaunted by eye surgery. Later, I also took him to get a tumor removed from his finger (which he loved to force people to touch). He had a big breakfast after that too. Such a giant, joyous appetite for life!
Some random memories: Laughing til we cried and our stomachs hurt so many times – a true bond through laughing. Looking at the tender little plant sprouts in the Jizo basement and crying together at their fragility and optimism. Coffee, biscotti and a bit of gossip in his room over hosan. Him teasing me when I started taking myself too seriously – doing an exaggerated imitation of me that guaranteed a laugh. The way he turned every song into its Ethel Merman version, “Yukon, sing it for real!” And so many more.
My munk, I love you so much!
(I am attaching some pictures of him doing one of the things he loved best. And a picture of his dear Rudy, taken about a week before he died.)
The pix!
Volunteers in the garden
Tough asparagus stems in the soup pot
Amaranth on the altar
Tears fall, noses run, knees ache
The wind roars through the trees
This is love
Oh my “Munk”! I don’t know how I will feel… not meeting you ever again in the flesh?
Your embrace! You could hold so tightly, ribs could crunch and hurt under pressure. Hurting almost with delight… “oh! my munk!” Laughing so hard at your funny words, at the funny faces you made… hurting with delight again. “Oh! my munk!”
Today the pain of no more embrace, ever, and yet…
How many times have we talked about death, the death we would like to meet… “without kicking and screaming” you said… “in the garden amidst Jizo bodhisattva struck by lightning and herbs and flowers growing in abundance. This is how I would like to go.” Well, you did certainly show all of us how to do this. The last time I did see you, round face, sparkling blue eyes and smooth baby skin, not able to move, all words directly from the heart: “Oh God! Oh honey!.. this is amazing,.. incredible… tell me about you… I love you… love you even more.”
Only peace and calm in your room. Only love in your room. Old Buddha, easing my pain in silence… hand in hand, smile in smile. A last kiss before an “Au revoir. Au revoir mon ami” … a last smile keeping the heart to break even more.
So many memories in decades of meeting each other, practicing together, in the city or in the mountains… witnessing encounters with others, at the bank, in stores, on the ferry, in the prison… always clearing the air, creating a joyful atmosphere… every word an offering, every gesture an embrace. No magic into this, even if it comes to mind… only incarnate love offered to one person at a time. Always entering the marketplace with a full embodied loving presence.
How can I pay my debt towards you, my dear “munk”? Following your exemple… practicing loving and kindness as you did… holding you in my heart until my own end? No doubt here, you are beside me, with me and in me wherever I am.
Not a cloud in the sky at the moment, the storm is over.
Tenfu
So much I could say about this amazing guy who I saw only once a year but was one of my most cherished friends and, in so many subtle ways, a teacher. Yukon’s kindness and sensitivity as a jikijitsu inspired a talk I gave some years ago on management and the difference between waking people up and beating them down. But the memory that always comes back when I think of Yukon is of having breakfast on a retreat. Yukon sat at the table with me, set down his bowl, bowed, picked up a spoon, and said, with no trace of irony, “God, I love gruel.” So many lessons in that moment.
The old Zen garden
will be just the same next year
but for what is gone.
Yukon:
I love Yukon with all my heart. In session, my therapist asks that I think of a person with boundless love with whom my inner suffering beings can take refuge. Often in this exercise it’s a parent or family member. I always think of Yukon. So lucky that I have encountered him, to know that kind of love. I imagine some people never encounter such effusive lovingness, familial or otherwise. His love remains in me (and perhaps us all): embracing suffering with a ginormous hug.
I came to the monastery during the covid period when I was 21. Yukon really looked out for me. When I had a moment of panicked black out in the zendo, he asked the work supervisor to put me in the garden so he could have some time with me, talking through what happened, and sharing his own experience and wisdom-love in his bamboo office. My young friend overdosed while I was in residency, and after going home for a couple weeks, I returned to the monastery still cut open with grief. Yukon was so there for me, holding me in moments when my body screamed with sobs. He was a knower of grief and really met me where I was in those moments.
Walked on Los Angeles Avenue here in Berkeley CA few days ago, where Yukon lived in college (actually quite close to where I live). Spring is bursting in this rainy ness.
Innumerable gifts, silliness, deepest heart… innumerable beings fiercely held in boundless love… flowers everywhere are singing !
with no sound and nothing heard
a chanting voice that could make a songbird envious
prajnaparamita
Yukon was such a friendly person, I will miss his happy smile and his funny comments. He helped make new practitioners feel welcomed. I enjoyed sharing his energy in the garden, the kitchen, and the Zendo.
Nine bows!
Sweet lavender fills the air,Grass sways in the cool evening breeze, The moon and coyotes wail,Ha! A triumph of life,Smiles cascade all who encountered you….Oh sweet monk truly a life well lived!!! Thank you!!!
Latest but not last love note to Yukon
Who will call me knucklehead now? Invite me to his sisters place to run the huge miniature train set Mandy has? Chase the black bear away from the bee hives? Go snow shoe hiking and lose patience because I’m so slow. Who will greet me at the front door and compare our injuries and surgeries, the ones that old people have like hips and knees and eyes. That last one is a doozy- brain cancer. You win. I’ll catch up some day. Who will look at me like I’m the most beloved person in the world, then turn around and tease me. Ya knucklehead. We two knuckleheads were at Bread Alone on a Tuesday September 11, 2001. We noticed a low flying plane streaking down the Hudson valley to the city. At the monastery, Sankai greeted us and told us a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. A TV was set up in the dining room and we watched the 2nd plane hit. We watched it over and over in disbelief in every replay. The towers came down, and bodies fell in ground shuddering finality. I left for a while to my parents in California, back again as a short-lived student of Ryushin. Short-lived as he was short-lived as an MRO teacher. You were assisting with the not-so-new-student-once-again ceremony. I moved back to the West where my daughter lives, different temple, still White Plum. The years flow, skitter, and skip beats. We greet each other each time like it’s only hours ago. We chanted the cremation service for Mary B just last spring, and now it’s your turn. Like the beautiful song you sang with Mandy, a verse and then the plaintive “my turn” followed by pure love in song. Pure love, that is what we live in all the laughter, annoyance, taunts, stories we share, work in office, kitchen, garden, so many zendo hours starting and ending in the dark, in the joys of others, in the losses of who and what we love, in the traumas of friends, extending the love that cracks open in such times to all who suffer. I last saw you in the garden in Ango closing Sesshin in June just before you went on the family vacation that stole your voice. Tried to steal your voice. Can you do Ethel Merman again for us? Or the bodhisattva operetta that got the silence in the kitchen rule ever after? I guess it’s my turn. I’ll do Ethel Merman for you within my daily chant of your name for the 49 days of your transition. And ever after, your life enfolded in mine.
For a man who let the whole world in….
For Yukie:
In stillness you slipped away
leaving behind gifts of love and compassion.
Tears flow.
To Yukon, the hugging monk, Your warm and welcoming body is now part of the air I breathe. May my heart grow as big as yours. You are, have always been, Love.
Oh Yukie! With each one of these memories I read and see, my heart quickens in delight shouting, “I know him!” It’s funny how a heart can feel so full and so void at the same time. What a pleasure to have had my turn with you, your trickster self, nudging and teasing me until I shifted my direction. I remember you coming into the kitchen when I had people fixedly and diligently working as fast as possible, you opening the windows to let in the breeze, bringing stools to the older folks; no sanctimonious words, just a little side eye and an eyebrow. Did I get it? Oh yes, I got it! Thank you for your way of breaking through. It still tickles me inside.
I arrived for a brief stay at ZMM at a time when it felt like everything in my life – work, relationships… were coming apart and the world felt more dangerous and less stable than I liked to imagine it being. The first night there I was curled in the alcove by the fireplace. Yukon crawled in next to me and said, “You just have to keep making room and opening to it all, sweetie.” The world has a less spark, love and wonder without him.
https://youtu.be/fjyPPtLWTQM?si=6nmylWTQAhajNBDQ
i will miss him forever
Dearest Yukon
at home with your Rudy
smiling daffodils
Your effervescent joy.
Your scintillating smile.
Your thoughtful consideration.
Such a privilege to have known you, Yukon.
You knew how to put some love into all of our lives.
Thank you.
With nine bows.
No one could equal your hugs and love the way that you do. I will miss my Brother Bear.
My thunder Jizo,
Thank you.
I’m remembering your furious, pulsating tomato head as I was messing up on doan during your officiation of Daihishin Dharani.
I’m remembering horseshit-pizza runs. Bringing along some apples and carrots for our four-legged suppliers. Loading up the truck. Then two slices each with a coke from Benny’s, and two Cherry Garcias from the gas station on the way home.
I’m remembering the purposely unmaintained plot in the garden where you let the wild things grow. Carefully tending to the garden and also opening up unreservedly to the untameable. The lightning-struck garden Jizo is emblematic of your way, and steps in my heart – jingling its incessant arrival in supple, tender rain; soaked through and through.
Unreservedly open, off we go. I love you, big bro.
baby gjeegj
Cha-la papa ~
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7zcD36O4_g
This is such a cool video for lots of reasons, and the section at 6:20 where Yukon is talking about how he used to dress when he was playing music in NYC always brings a huge smile to my face.
When I became a student after coming to the monastery for a bunch of years, he gave me a big hug and said, “Welcome to the family!”
When I started to learn how to do liturgy at the Temple, at one point he pulled me over and advised me not to modulate my voice so much, but to be “more like plain water.” He laughed as he told me how he used to try to sing the liturgy because of his musical background, and how hard it was for him to not add flourishes to it.
I love visiting the garden when I’m at ZMM and the last time I was there I was thinking about how there is so much Yukon in the garden: a little extra, in a good way. So much life, so many little thoughtful touches, so much beauty. Thanks Yukon. I’m so glad I got to share some time with you. Wherever your journey takes you next, in whatever forms, I’m sure you’ll continue to bring joy to others.
I met Yukon many years ago at the Monastery during a month long residency, Yukon, Jessica, and other residents would all pile in my car on days off and head to Woodstock N.Y. it was great hanging with Yukon, he was such a kind person! He will be greatly missed! God bless you Mike!
Dear MRO Sangha,
I will always remember Yukon’s immediate warmth and friendship whenever I returned to ZMM, regardless of how long the interval might have been. That, and the strength of his teaching by example, remain with me and will not be forgotten.
I am forever grateful.
Greeting me at the monastery door, your smile and strong, warm hugs, your energy, stories of your family and monk life, secretly wishing for garden work so I could hang out with you, taking such care planting every little sprout because you taught me to, a place for the weeds, your glorious way with words….you were taken from us too soon, but within the sadness, I try to focus on celebrating you. xo
The garden is a smile that lost a tooth.
Thank you Yukon, for putting up with all my questions.
You were a wonderful friend to me when it seemed I was the youngest person in residency. I will miss your laughter, and your singing (eat your heart out Mandy Patinkin^^) and the way you were so personable, even Daido couldn’t stay annoyed with you for long.
Love, Zach (Shodo)
As part of a raku class, we participated in the general chores of the monastery. One of my assignments was the garden, where Yukon set me to work pulling weeds. I was quite familiar with the weeds and was nibbling on edible ones as i worked. Suddenly I was startled by Yukon, who was curious to see what I was munching on. As I began to explain & show him the edibles: purslane, chickweed, dandelion, sorrel, etc. he became very excited at the abundance and could not wait to add them to the monastery meals. His enthusiasm and interest was such a wonderful gift, a memory I shall carry with me always.
When I signed up for a week at ZMM a few years ago, I had no idea that I would be spending time pulling weeds with the great bodhisattva Yukon. When I left for the week, I shook his hand and thanked him for everything I had learned from him. Of course he pulled me into a bear hug and thanked ME.
He was the best.
Yukon, your open arms of friendship will continue to extend through all of us outward into the world. Thank you.
Ruhatsu 1985, our first for both of us, Michael and I sat beside each other. Ever since, we’d been features of sangha for one another.
This winter, as I learned of Yukan’s illness, I felt reminded of my godmother’s aphasia. She, a Tertiary Franciscan who published her account of the loss and recovery of language the year that Daido met my father, ’79. I felt into the time Daido’s son Asian was undergoing a range of treatments for a brain tumor, and how, when Maezumi Roshi gave Daido several healing stones from Koryu Roshi, who used the stones on Hiroshima in accord with Shingon lore, Daido told Maezumi that he didn’t need instruction in their use, that he already knew how from his grandmother’s example.
I felt into Daido’s reluctance, in those years of Asian’s healing, to use the name Maezumi gave him, Muge, ‘no hindrance’, due to ‘being a tall skinny Italian in LA’.
Today the MRO fulfills that ‘the Great Way knows No Hindrance’ by going where Daido wouldn’t, into the inclusion, equality, identity imparitives of LGBTQ+ awareness.
Equanimity and love personified
It was you when we met in this life
Openly connecting
Nobody a stranger
Compassion as
Tending to gardens of life
You will be missed dear Yukon
Even though you are here.
Yukon received many cards, gifts, and letters of support during his illness. They are currently on display in the dining hall.
…
Rest Peacefully my friend Yukon and Rudy💜🎶☘️
Yukon, May your love and light seed the world😘
Yukon, beloved brother! Friend!
You who carried the brocade of love, the green of willows, the shine of sunflowers, the jump of frogs! How I love you. How I miss you! You are home. Your courage inspires and your kindness fills the great heart. May you and Jizo and your beloved Rudy continue to fill the heavens and earth. I will listen for your call. I will call to you!
Shinji
For the past nine years since I encountered the Monastery, Yukon and I play hide-and-seek.
On the stairs between the zendo and our rooms during my residency: We hide behind each other’s footsteps, and then suddenly Yukon jumps out, mouth and arms open trying to block my way. His black robe spreads out like big wings, wider than the curved wooden stairs, trying to catch me like I am a worm, a big worm. I giggle, sliding and jumping on the stairs, hiding under and seeking a way through his black wings. Yukon hops and flutters, laughing quietly yet wildly, blocking and then making an opening, and suddenly at the end of stairs, he stands still and pushes the door to the zendo wide open for me.
At the end of the evening sitting, if Yukon is ahead of me, he speeds up, hides behind my door, then jumps out, flapping his robe, his black wings, sounding ‘good night’ then disappearing into his room.
When he helps me carry my luggage, he delivers it to his room, not mine. We laugh and he turns and puts the luggage in my room.
There are no hugs like Yukon’s hugs, covering you like the wings of a mother bird. When Yukon comes to hug me, I find myself stepping back or shrinking smaller and smaller, meeting his hugs…when I tap on his bald head, he bounces back the mmmm sound, saying so good, so good, so good…when I squeeze his nose, he sings back sweetly, cha la la…
The joy stirred up through playfully shifting identities is penetrating. And being Yukon’s playmate is like a magnet attracting magnet, running the stream of wonder…
On my way to the garden, my body naturally shifts into silly mode, dancing, bouncing, stretching its territory to meet gardener Yukon. Seeing you, Yukon gives you a fresh flower just received from the earth. Then we walk together to the pond, offer those flowers to the Jizo and we bow. Bowing was Yukon’s way of playing hide-and-seek during the workday, hiding the good guys – the worms – safely back to the soil, seeking the bad guys ruining the crops, Yukon bows to them..bows to the lives saved and taken to give life.
And bows to the wonder and beauty of and from the earth. Try this incredible herb, he says, and puts it in your mouth. Smell this incredible flower, he says, and puts it in your face. Sometime there was dirt on them, yeah, I eat dirt, you know, I eat dirt, he says.
One early morning, after Yukon’s hip surgery, I see a couple of birds in the garden joyfully bouncing on a bald-headed bush, like dancing on a trampoline. I wonder what kind of plant is making these birds so happy. Later I find out that these bald-headed plants are late-stage dandelions, finished with their golden blossoming, their transformation into fluffy white-haired balls and the releasing of their seeds in all directions. Bald-headed dandelion monks.
Now gone is the body of monk Yukon, I stand here in the dirt, sensing the pliable trampoline-like ground. I see that’s what Yukon has become, through simplicity and giving.
If he hadn’t been monk Yukon, trampolining wouldn’t be so high, so vast, and so joyful.
Now gone, monk Yukon.
Does hide-and-seek continue??
Throwing, hiding, covering, disappearing, seeking, spreading and returning…
All directions echo Yukon’s hugging voice.
I love you, I love you so much baby, I love you…
Where are you now?
Be still
My last day of residency, June 2021.
Yukon,
Such a treasured being for so many.
Will be dearly missed, but not forgotten.
May you have an auspicious incarnation.
Kensan
So many years have passed
And still….
Rays of love from your twinkling eyes
The sound of your effervescent laugh
The prickliness of your scruffy beard
The comfort of of your big bear hugs
The warmth of your boundless generosity
You left an indelible mark on me, and I feel so fortunate to have shared so much with you along the way. Your spirit will forever echo deep within my heart, nudging and inspiring me to be more, more myself, for the sake of all.
With abiding love and gratitude for all that you shared.
Kirsten (Tosei)
I met Yukon in May 2005 when I arrived at the registration desk for my Introduction to Zen Training Weekend. He was the bookkeeper, a job he was emphatically unsuited for. He called his intuitive style of bookkeeping “making spaghetti,” + it took the meticulous + beleaguered financial manager more time to untangle the spaghetti than Yukon spent making it.
He also served as the cook for many years. His grocery shops were legendarily long, + when I started doing the shopping, the checkout people at Adams + the guy who filled the bulk bins at Sunflower unfailingly asked about him, told me to tell him hello from them; year after year they asked after him. If you ever met Yukon yourself, you know that he made an impression. Speaking of making impressions, when we were repainting the zendo one year, he took his paint roller + rolled it right across my bottom, leaving a big white rectangle on the seat of the camo pants I wore back then. He was bawdy + naughty + deeply devoted to the Three Treasures.
When I was leaving the monastery, we had a long talk at the picnic table adjacent the garden—Rudy, the orange tabby, love of Yukon’s life, weaving between us—+ I felt that he helped impart to me the possibilities of living a joyfully unpartnered life, of having an erotic relationship with everything: people, animals, land. That instead of tethering that big love energy to one person, or to biological children, I could have it freely available for everyone + everything. He showed me the possibility, a profound gift that I lean on every day.
Yukon’s dharma was relational, which is why you didn’t often see him sitting at the front of the zendo giving talks. His teaching happened in the quality of the interaction, in the emotional attunement, in the unreserved love that he gave. A single look, word, or touch conveyed a sermon of I see you + perhaps most piercingly: I care about you.
In his final years, he made the garden into its own meditation hall, where he tended to the new green sprouts + to the hearts of everyone lucky enough to be assigned there for work practice. Among his many raised garden beds was what he called The X Box—a bed where he let wild things grow: weeds, the undesirable things most gardeners get rid of. He knew the power of wildness given a proper container.
Yukon’s dharma was powerful because you could feel it. It wasn’t a performance; it was his very being, down to the marrow. He had known profound suffering in his life, + he knew that right relationship with life, with one’s own body + mind, could transform that suffering. His teaching was potent because it was accessible, right there in the relational space between the two of you. It was how he imparted training + instruction in a way that never eclipsed his care for you as a living being contending with your own anxiety + suffering.
Yukon also taught me what it might look like to take care of oneself as an unpartnered person: the need for nourishing solitude, for self-love, for attending to the little pleasures. I will never forget spending the better part of two consecutive Rohatsu sesshin sick in his room while he provided coverage at the Brooklyn Temple. It was the greatest place in the world to be sick: a sweet little window looking out over the trees lining the Esopus, a wild altar with a central Buddha figure carved out of deer scat, everything in its place, + most memorably: a mug-sized, plug-in hotplate to keep one’s coffee hot. That level of attending to one’s pleasures + needs where possible made a deep impression on me.
Anyone who walked Atlantic Avenue with Yukon knew how long it could take to go just a few blocks, because he was going to stop + get on the ground to greet every dog he saw. His love wasn’t anthropocentric; he took the “all beings” thing very seriously. He was a walking clinic in joy + care + humor + playful naughtiness. He was the embodiment of what a life became when all the drag of second-guessing, perseveration + dividedness has been worn smooth: a high-velocity love train.
As he was dying, I often thought of what the poet Danez Smith said of bell hooks when she passed in 2021: “what a way to go, you pass on to the next and everybody talking about love, love, love, love, love.”
I just found out about Yukon’s passing last night. Although I only spent a short time with him, (a month long residency in July 2023 + a ZTW in late 2022) his kind ways impacted me so deeply. I’d like to share a couple of memories:
When I first met him during my ZTW and sat down to talk with him, he was immediately so warm and loving towards me. I ate with him during one of the meals and he showered me with compliments, stating that he felt there was a “realness” to me. This was such a kind, kind compliment. Similarly, I was once working in the garden with him and he asked me if I was mad at him for calling me “Bixster.” I totally was not mad at him, in fact I love nicknames. That was when he relayed to me that he felt I was “complicated” and “moody.” Something about this made me feel very seen (in a positive way.) I was nice that I could be seen in all of my moodiness, and still receive so much love.
I loved, loved, loved working in the garden with him. It was always so nice when he would give us a break and let us nibble on some blueberries.
One time over hosan, I was eating some cold pesto pasta while standing in the kitchen with some friends. Yukon comes over and asks if he can have some, and before I could even get the word “yes” out of my mouth, he’s already chowin’ down. He then started to complain about the fact that it was cold, and also about the fact that I was standing up eating it. He then said “I’m yelling at you while I’m stealing your food, I love it!” This was a funny memory with Yukon that I’ll always cherish.
Maybe I’m just not feeling it quite yet, but I’m strangely not very sad about this passing. It’s hard to know why, but I think it’s because in my mind, Yukon lived such a full, full life.
Yukon, thank you for your warmth. You touched the world with your smile and kind heart.
Bix Shindo Spanierman
Yukon of the Garden
Moments after
we’ve been told
that work practice
is silent practice,
you’re perched
on a hillock
waxing poetic
between a row
of romaine
and red-veined chard,
your backdrop
a bright blue
spring sky.
We, your audience,
your humble crew,
in our misshapen
straw hats,
sticky with sunscreen
and bug spray,
listen as you
orate the simple
magic of seeds
and seasons,
of food and flowers
that flow
generously
from this small
piece of land.
Meiju chuckles,
says in a low voice,
aren’t we supposed
to be quiet now?
Perhaps you
don’t hear her,
but in any case
you ignore her
because this is
a moment of awe!
We are all here together
in the midst
of the miracle
about to put our hands
in the dirt,
about to dig
and weed
and bring forth
sustenance
and beauty,
and therefore
immeasurable joy.
Gigantic sunflowers rise,
snapdragons pop,
somewhere, Rudy stalks
and pounces.
You chat on
as we toil,
complimenting
our sweaty efforts,
thanking us
again and again
for our noble
seventy-two labors.
Things are as they’re
meant to be.
Oh, Yukon,
How will you
speak to us now?
In cosmos and marigolds
Blueberries and lisianthus
Yukon was such an inspiration for me. We did Jukai together and I will always remember Daidoshi explaining why he chose that Dharma name for him. He said it meant (and means) “Joyful Practice”. If anyone could ever fully embody their Dharma name and manifest it day to day it was (and is) Yukon. Farewell and love to you my Dear Brother!
My first memory of you is you sitting on the back steps in full summer like a circus strong man in a muscle tee, pretty ripped (!), and sporting your exuberant moustache.
“Grody!” Daido yelled from the screen doors, silencing the chatter among the few of us there. “If you want to be my monk, you’re gonna have to get rid of that moustache!”
Your face: the five stages of grief over a succession of ksanas. Flashing from horror to sadness to acceptance to bemused mischievous to ready resolute.
You home leaver!
Much later, you are Shuso at the front of the zendo, mid-sesshin. You say gently but loudly, with courage, to the room (to me?): “Sit with some dignity. You’re a human being!”
All the post-sesshin embraces, rubbing faces, your razor-grade sandpaper stubble quietly tearing apart my cheek, month after month after month, season after season, year after year.
When my heart broke, you took me out to dinner. So many people reading this have been at that meal with you.
You dharma-orgy knuckleheaded love monk!! All the beings you have loved and who have loved you right back! How couldn’t we??!
Love on, Yukon, you cosmic body teacher of everything worth knowing!
Last Dharma Words of Hakuyu Taizan Maezumi Roshi, read by Yukon, from the “One Way Ticket” CD
When I first started coming to the monastery, I had to travel 12 hours to get there from Kansas. When I would arrive on the first day of sesshin at about 4:00 pm, I’d get off the bus and drag my suitcase up the bumpy drive to the monastery. Yukon would be there, walking back and forth in front of the building. He would always smile and say, “Welcome home”, and I knew that all the hassles in traveling to get there had been worth it. I truly felt the warmth of having come home. If I hadn’t worked in the garden for a while, I’d tell him, and the next work period I’d find I was assigned to the garden. I appreciated Yukon’s generosity, empathy and humor so much. There are so many ways his presence radiated kindness and taught compassion by example – no words necessary. I will miss him.
And then I met Yukon…
Of all the encounters, no other demarcates time in such a way…
And then since October, I had the honor of being one of his caretakers. To be with Yukon in health was the greatest of blessings; during illness, however devastating, the greatest of privileges. My goodness, so grateful.
Oh, my dear brother. I love you. Do you see these seeds you’ve sown?! They’re endless I tell you! Endless!! Just look! An abbondanza! For you… no… for you! And then, this one? In bloom?! It’s beyond! Beyond! What now?!! I know…
On day 1 of my stepping into the Monastery you started teaching me how to Love.
Yukon is the monk who tended to my shy fear of being with people as a visitor at ZMM. I wandered the garden with him, talking to flowers and buddhas along the paths. When I was having trouble sitting, he led me from the cushion to the bench. I felt warmed and cared for in his company. Missing him now, I will pass on the love he gave.
I arrived at ZMM a few months before your ordination, when you had finally shaken off those years of doubt; those years of trying to convince yourself that the Zen monk life was not your life. And I so admired your beautiful and total failure at that convincing, of your complete letting go of your previously imagined life. But we both knew it was really never a choice for you as we both knew and often joked that I was never going to be “monk material.”
We pissed each other off more than a few times over that first year of my arrival, like brothers in close quarters can often do. I was too sensitive to your big personality and you were too impatient with my daily attempts at hiding emotions. But you got over your flashes of annoyance so quickly even though I held onto mine for days. That warm, big-hearted acceptance nourished me in just the right way my friend and was an essential reason why I stayed and practiced (both at ZMM and Fire Lotus) for those many years.
I am honored to have given you another heart to fold into your limitless love. As much as the daily rites and rituals of Zen practice “saved you,” it was family (and everyone you met you anointed family) that made you whole. And so it has all come to this.
I always termed Yukon as the “Happy Buddha” of all the monastics. His joy and never ending smile were a great comfort to me as I was entering the path. While his talks were always the shortest of any of the teachers, they usually included more laughter than any other and a different way to access the dharma. His hugs were deep and his company full of laughter. He truly served as a doorway for so many to feel safe and welcome to the sangha. Thank you for your light Yukon. You will remain forever in my heart and in the heart of the time I spent at the temple.
31 October 2023
My dearest, treasured brother,
Oh Yukon, what kind of gift was it to be truly seen on the edge of our fulfillment as younger men?
You were part of my very first moment at the monastery. Out of my own longing for some kind of honest connection, somewhere, I shamelessly flirted with you, alas the only tool in my arsenal at the time, and one with which I sensed you yourself had enjoyed success as a younger man. My awkward declaration of your suitability for me as a mate you affably rebuffed by assuring me that, “Oh, I’m sure you’ve had plenty of types in your life.” And walked on to the garden.
I knew I had just met a man living out the fullness of being wanted exactly where he also wanted to be wanted. You no longer needed anyone else’s story for your life. And I was changed.
Brother, how was it that we knew when we met this man, this seemingly wild, mercurial maniac, that this was also to be our great way? He was vital, and he invited you, as he later invited me, to experience a morning in our lives. Out of his own great heart he saw the men we had always been and created for us a way, a place where these innate, remarkable qualities would thrive. And he set us to work recreating that mirror of love where thousands of women and men might awaken to their own dawning.
We were deeply touched my brother, seen so deeply and so freely that it made us unafraid to touch and see others, just as you saw me one morning walking to the garden. You are inextricably tied to every life giving memory I have from the monastery.
As the carefully curated image of myself slowly began to dissolve on that hill between two rivers, I came to trust your precious generosity. You knew then, as you must still know, that the only way to achieve something beautiful, by which we have always meant life-affirming, is to trust our innate sense of proportion and balance. It takes a lot of silent hours to finally “Trust yourself.” Maybe you weren’t always aware of it my beautiful old friend, but you were always fearless about what was truly important. And I watched that selfsame fearlessness transform a rock into a garden, a stick into food, a lost man into an awakened being. I watched you, brother. And I learned.
My life is simple. The deeds which I believed gave my life value continue to fall away and I live with such gratitude that the delight of a golden red leaf on the autumn wind brings me to tears. I am able to work, now at Trader Joe’s among gentle, kind people; a perfect place in the market for an over-educated, anal-retentive gay man. There is no end to joy.
Gratitude is at the very root of this heart. How lucky, how unbelievably lucky we are to have been birthed at such a place and in the company of such people. I imagine you now, even as you crawl through memory’s shards and the utter disorientation of chemo-so-called-therapy, still grateful for this most extraordinary life we have been given. As you have always been, you still are that most generous of men.
I hold you, always lightly and with great delight, in my heart. Journey freely my precious brother.
With all love,
Tendo
In Yukon’s Garden
How deep did you go?
Deep enough, it seems, to unearth a molten joy.
Beaming and brimming with it,
naturally, you gave it away.
To the seedlings, the trees, the asparagus,
the blueberry bushes, the chipmunks, the zinnias,
the lettuce, the monarchs, the crows,
the soil, the worms, the water, the air.
The cats, the mice, the barred owls,
the walls, the paint, the paint brushes (so carefully tended!),
the stones, the wood, the cushion,
and countless bodies and hearts.
When serving, my mantra is: feed the Buddhas.
What a joy it was to serve you rice, salad, or tea.
Always a sweet sound of recognition, a small smile.
In my mind, I kissed the top of your head each time we bowed.
Did you feel it?
Remember the time I splattered coleslaw on you?
Those crazy salad tongs at the temple that flung open erratically?
I was horrified, and you chuckled.
We laughed heartily after the zazenkai.
Then you told me stories of your life before the dharma,
and these helped me more than you know.
Remember when we met the bagel place across from NY Presbyterian Hospital in Brooklyn?
We were there to see your dharma sister, Senjin, for a difficult conversation.
She wasn’t pleased when, in your efforts to show love, you talked to her like she was an infant.
When she rolled her eyes at you, it was hard not to laugh!
My heart eased a bit.
This just days before her passing.
Earth deity, yaksha of old, like mycelium, you are vast.
Rooted deeply, you play at the upper edges of the ether.
showering us with flowers, nourishment, and joy.
I’ll see you again, Yukon, in another form.
Hosui
I remember smiling, together.
We planted lettuce,
and I still wonder…
if it was actually, planting us?
He was Yukon
I last saw him in the greenhouse
the day the Monastary reopened.
It was just the two of us. He said,
“I have something for you”, and he
grabbed a leaf from one plant,
something sweet from another,
and without warning shoved it into
my mouth. It was shocking, but it
was delicious, and in true Zen
fashion I was instantly
transported from the darkness
and isolation of a pandemic, to a
place of openness and no footing.
The first time we met he called me
Sergeant Preston in reference to
the 50’s TV show, ‘Sergeant
Preston of the Yukon’—In the
show Preston patrols a vast
wilderness with his dog King. The
two were inseparable partners,
kind of like Yukon and Rudy, and I
can just now imagine a seven year
old Yukon loving that show—
“Sergeant Preston…I’m Yukon, he
said, his face lighting up! It
seemed like a meaningless
connection but it was comforting
and I would learn: In a universe
of a billion corners, there was that
one corner where Yukon and I
were it’s only occupants, and that
was always a special place.
Barry Preston
April 2, 2024
I came for a week long Sesshin many years ago, and was struck my Yukon in a few encounters I had with him working in the garden. He beamed with so much joy and presence, and seemed like a master teacher to those working that day. He asked us to bow to the dead plants and thank them as we took them out of the garden, showing such great respect to the earth. His quiet passion and wholeheartedness was one of the highlights of the trip for me.
Your wisdom and humor will remain in our hearts and minds forever. Thanks for being you!!
Gary
Your smile, your warmth. Your mischievous eyes! You are celebrated in life as you are in death. You have touched so many people. Oh! The smiles we have while we tell your stories! Thank you for providing space. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Shuso Poem for Yukon 11/03
Would there were words
for the sweet blind f0rtune
of encountering you
Michael David Grody
bouncing thru Greenwich Village
belting your brand of
Yiddishkeit blues
And what are the words
for the courage it took
to come out of the closet
whole at last and brokenhearted
relinquishing your dream of Woman
What words can express
the sudden swift clarity
with which you heard your calling
and answered it fully
true as a compass
to the morning star
Yukon, you’ve shed ancient armor
even as you’ve grown more tempered
like steel relishing the shaping fire
red-hot and hammered
you’ve let this mountain forge
reveal your strengths
Would there were words
for the giggling side-ache
pell-mell mirth
or the way you tender
to the injured
trusted surgeon
wielding the clean knife
closing wounds with sutras
strong and fine as spider silk
Dearest Choke,
would there were words
that burned as brightly
O heart’s home
and merriest of flames
Love.
Sybil Seisui Rosen Thomas
Yukon was the first monastic I met when I visited ZCNYC in the early 200’s. I remember the zazen and the walking meditation. As I watched a room full of white folks in grey robes walking silently, I thought, “Not for me.” Then after the service Yukon came up to me and we started chatting. He was so funny and outgoing! I thought, “I get this guy. Maybe they’re not so weird after all!” 20 years later what I miss are the hugs, the unconditional love I felt whenever I was around Yukon, and his wonderful, deep, sonorous voice.
Dear Sangha,
Thank you for all the beautiful memories of Mn. Choke Yukon.
I did not get to meet him in person, but hearing his story feels uplifting and life affirming.
All best wishes.