Two Years of Priesthood

Some years ago, I began considering Zen priest ordination as a path. My dharma sister Inzan had recently ordained, and so I went to visit her. Over tea, I asked her about renunciation—a word I kept hearing in relationship to priesthood. Inzan pulled a book from her shelf titled Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior by Chögyam Trungpa. Inside, I read:

What the warrior renounces is anything in their experience that is a barrier between themselves and others. In other words, renunciation is making yourself more available, more gentle and open to others. Any hesitation about opening yourself to others is removed.

I’ve kept this definition of renunciation with me all these years, tucked into my heart. But I had remembered the words differently, maybe unconsciously with more of a Zen flavor: Renunciation is letting go of anything that comes between you and intimacy with life. 

Years passed, and the day came when I was ready to ordain. Friends would ask me how I felt about becoming a priest. Was I afraid? Excited? “Honestly,” I’d say, “I’m most nervous about shaving my head.”

Hair had always been central to my identity. For most of my life, it was so long and thick that strangers would approach me to admire it. Who would I be without hair? I worried I would be unrecognizable to myself; that my shaved head, pale and never having seen the sun, would be ugly; and that shaving would hurt, leaving razor bumps and razor burn.

Stronger than my fear was my curiosity. In the Soto Zen tradition, shaving one’s head is one of the most important rituals of the priest ordination ceremony. It’s so important that in order to receive official recognition from the Japanese Sotoshu organization you must mail in a photograph of the moment. It’s a powerful symbol of renunciation—cutting off one’s hair as cutting the root of attachment.

Renunciation is letting go of anything that comes between you and intimacy with life. 

As part of that ritual, your head is shaved for the first time the night before ordination. It can only be done by a priest. I got lucky; I had three priests come over to shave my head that night. 

Inzan, Jefre, and Ian arrived with a PitBull electric skull shaver, a regular razor, shaving cream, witch hazel, and aloe vera. My dharma sibling Kōan, who had rented the apartment for us, stood nearby. I sat nervously on a chair in the bathroom, wearing a barbershop bib. The three priests stood around me in a circle, inspecting my head and strategizing.

Their goal was to shave my head completely except for one small patch known as the shura, which would be ceremonially shaved off by my teacher in the ordination ceremony. 

“Where should the shura be?”

“Right there, in the middle.”

“Okay, I’m going to start now!”

“Hmmm. It’s a little too much to the left. I think we should redo it.”

“That looks better. Is it too big?”

“It’s supposed to be the size of a quarter. So . . . yes.”

“Can I take a turn?”

“You shura can!” 

I sat, head bowed, entrusting myself to their hands. As they shaved, they told their favorite Zen teacher stories and made shura puns until we were all near-crying laughing. I felt their warm hands on my head, and their careful and confident razor strokes. This circle of priests held my fear and vulnerability at anticipating seeing myself in the mirror for the first time.

Finally, the moment came. I put my head under the shower’s warm running water, then took a towel to my head. I looked in the mirror. What a shining, unusual person—strange and familiar, and bright. And behind me, the faces of my four dharma siblings, lit up with love. 

As I lay in bed that night, I realized I had been so focused on how my head would look, I could not imagine how sensitive it would feel. My head was warm and tender, like a baby’s; the pillow was cool and unimaginably soft. The next morning, as Kōan and I walked to the temple, I felt the fresh and sudden breeze—so invigorating! My head had become like another hand, able to touch the world.

In the ordination ceremony, the climactic moment came. My teacher, Kosen Gregory Snyder Sensei, held my head in his hands and took a razor to the shura, the one patch of hair that remained. He made a few gentle strokes, then paused. He tried again. And then again.  

“Kaishin has notoriously thick hair,” Kosen Sensei said, pulling the razor blade with determination. The congregation laughed. “But we will get there!”

And together, we did.

Soon after that, Kosen Sensei was diagnosed with cancer. It was treatable with a high success rate, but the treatment itself would cause excruciating pain, bringing his body to the brink of death and then back again.

Kosen Sensei and Laura Sensei packed up their old Honda CR-V with pots and pans, clothes and ritual objects, and their two dogs, Molly and Milo. They left Ancestral Heart Temple for the city, where Kosen would receive treatment.

“They’re in their own wilderness now,” someone said to me.

And I was in mine.

I had imagined that as a newborn priest, I would be held by my teacher—and then turn around and offer support to others. I would give my life to the tradition, the sangha, and the temple; and my teacher would always be present, standing behind me, encouraging and guiding me.

Now I felt utterly alone, and terrified. You can do this, I told myself. Your teacher is sick. You must learn to stand on your own two feet.

But I had lost my footing. As a new priest, I was bewildered by how differently the world treated me. One person apologized to me for killing a fly. Another told me I was closer to God. Many others asked me if I was a monk. Sometimes I said yes, sometimes I said no. I felt like I was making it all up.

As they shaved, the wind came and picked up the little bits of hair, carrying them into meadow, the forest, the mountains. And with them, all my sorrow and grief and rage and fear.

Throughout it all, it seemed essential to keep my head shaved. I made every possible mistake: I shaved too often, I gave myself razor bumps, I cut myself, I put on the wrong aftershave, I didn’t use enough shaving cream, I used too much. . . .

One day, my dharma friend Sansei found me crying at the temple. “It just hurts,” I said. I meant more than my head. They understood.

With compassionate eyes, they asked, “Can I help you?” We set up a chair outside, behind Ancestral Heart Temple, overlooking the valley. Sansei draped a black cape around me, and turned on the electric razor.

As they shaved, the wind came and picked up the little bits of hair, carrying them into meadow, the forest, the mountains. And with them, all my sorrow and grief and rage and fear.

When Sansei finished, they brushed my shoulders off and looked closely for any stray hairs. 

“How’s that?” they asked.

“It hurts less,” I said, smiling. It was true.

I had reconnected with the teaching I received from the circle of priests, that night before ordination: To take refuge in sangha. To be vulnerable and ask for help. And when the support comes, to fully receive it—to allow it to knock me over and toss me around, like an ocean wave, changing me completely. That’s renunciation, for me. That’s how I let go of what comes between me and intimacy with life.

Yesterday was the two-year anniversary of my ordination. Two years later, and Kosen Sensei is thankfully cancer-free. And we are learning how to be teacher and student again, as the changed beings we’ve become.

Luckily, shaving has become easier; I’ve found my routine. I first give myself a buzz cut, leaning over a bucket to catch the hair. Then I step into the shower and shave my head wet with an electric razor, and finish with a manual razor. Once I’ve toweled off, I rub my scalp with the dark green oil that my dharma sibling Ray made me, which smells like eucalyptus and lavender. 

And then I look in the mirror. These days, I often notice how tired and happy I look—and how shiny! Not brand new, but still shiny. I put on my robes and step out into the world, vulnerable to every breeze. And I walk to the temple, where the sangha is there to greet me.

♦

Originally published on Kaishin Victory Matsui’s Substack. Reprinted with permission.