I began studying Zen back in the 60s, in Berkeley, California.  Back then there were only a few of us, meeting in someone’s living room.  Shunryu Suzuki–who later became famous as the founder of Tassajara monastery and the author of the best-selling Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind—sometimes came from San Francisco and joined us for meditation, and then stayed for breakfast.  In those days he he made it a point to visit all the small Zen sitting groups in the area.

One morning he came with his wife, whom we called Okusan—a Japanese word meaning “wife”—and we all sat around a small table in the kitchen while a simple breakfast of rice, miso soup, and a vegetable was served.  There were maybe 7 or 8 of us in total, and I was intimidated to be sitting this close to the Zen Master in an intimate situation.  We ate in silence, and then it was time for seconds.  I stood up—I was the breakfast server— and asked Suzuki Roshi if he wanted seconds. He silently gestured with his hand that he did not.  Then I turned to Okusan and asked her.  She offered me a bowl and said, “Sukosh’,” which in Japanese means “a little,” although I’m not sure I knew the Japanese meaning at that time. 

 I was nervous not to make a mistake in front of the Master, and the vegetable of the day was summer squash.  To my ears she had said “squash,” but I wasn’t sure.  “Do you want more squash, Okusan?” I asked.

“Sukosh’,” she repeated.

I hesitated. “Oh, you want some more squash?”

There was an awkward silence, broken by Suzuki Roshi, who quietly said, speaking slowly and carefully and emphasizing each syllable, just one word: “Zucchini.”

As I served Okusan her zucchini, I struggled to understand what had just happened.  Was Suzuki scolding me for not understanding Okusan correctly? Was he suggesting to his wife that a better word to communicate what she wanted was “zucchini?” Was he conveying to me a succinct lesson in clear communication? Or was what had happened totally without significance, made important only by my self-consciousness?

I didn’t know, and I still don’t know, but after fifty years I still remember the incident.  One thing I do know, as I got to know Suzuki better, is that he never missed an opportunity to convey a teaching to a student.  He may have picked up on my nervousness, and was saying to me, “You are anxious because I am here, but really that’s just your ego getting in the way.  Forget about trying to look good and just serve the food.”

If that was the lesson, then it’s good general advice for everyone.  In the realm of communication, we should strive for honesty and directness, and avoid trying to make some kind of artificial impression.  That’s good advice in the realm of relationships and dating, too; couples could benefit by avoiding playing games with each other when they talk, rather than simply being forthright.  

There is a principle in Buddhism called “right speech” or “wholesome speech” (which I think is a better translation).  Wholesome speech is in short supply these days.  People in the public eye rarely talk straight; everyone seems to have an agenda and shades their speech accordingly.  Outright lying seems to be in vogue now too, as though in an anxiety-ridden, suspicious society that’s the only way to make your way forward.  But when everybody puts their thumb on the scale, so to speak, there’s no way to know what is the honest weight.  Everything turns into an advertisement or pitch for something.  For example, ten minutes after you do a Google search, an ad pops up elsewhere in your media feed encouraging you to buy the thing you searched for.  It’s like the whole world is on the take, at your expense.

I don’t know what Suzuki Roshi (who died 50 years ago) would think of such a world.  He might be aghast.  More likely he would not be surprised.  Part of being a person of Buddhist wisdom is understanding how people really are.  The Dalai Lama once said, in a book on anger, something like, “It’s important for a Buddhist to understand horror.”  That’s a strong statement, but it makes sense.  There is actually horror all around us, all over the world.  There always is. You have to understand it if you want to do anything about it.

Of course the little interchange I had with Suzuki Roshi and his wife didn’t have anything to do with horror; it was a just a small thing happening around the breakfast table.  But when Suzuki Roshi said “Zucchini,” he was saying something that was inarguably true.  Zucchini is something we could all agree on.  It wasn’t broccoli, it wasn’t string beans, it was zucchini.  

You can’t necessarily improve the world as it really is just by saying something true, but you certainly can’t improve it at all if you hedge, obscure, or shade the truth.  Wholesome speech is true speech.  There’s a lot in our world we feel helpless to affect or change, but we are responsible for our own speech.

“Zucchini.”  It’s a good lesson in straightforwardness.