Instead of taking his walk, he stayed to observe and honor the memory of his former housemate. It was moving to see, said the volunteer.
One volunteer told me that the day before my visit, a resident got up to take a walk when he realized a flower petal ceremony was about to start on the patio.
In an empty room, recently slept-in sheets lied in a crumpled pile on the bed. The TV played a foreign language show.
When the meeting came to a close, a volunteer offered to take us upstairs, where the residents sleep and spend a majority of their time. No one felt up to talking that day.
Barbara joined Zen Hospice Project around the time her mother died. She said she remembered thinking, "I want to be with people who are dying, then I will know all about death and be prepared for it. ... I'm still scratching my head."
Barbara, another volunteer, admitted to feeling old lately and not liking it very much. She said she couldn't keep up with the young people in her taiko drumming class.
Each volunteer knew the names and personalities of the residents upstairs. In cases where there is no family, they become like surrogate sons and daughters.
One volunteer vowed to stop belittling his problems by comparing them to those of the residents. Another described his struggle to let things be as they are.
The day before, a resident renewed vows with his wife. Later, the wife came downstairs and sat with Jeanne, a volunteer, while she arranged flowers. They talked about relationships and what they meant — the highlight of Jeanne's day.
Inside the main room, volunteers gathered for a shift-change meeting, which began with a 10-minute meditation. Afterward, each person shared a reflection.
A black banner hung on the door, indicating a resident had recently died. The Japanese script says something to the effect of, "without physical form, there is no emptiness."
Chairs were stacked in the hall to accommodate groups of visitors. Unlike in a hospital, the staff welcomes non-relatives to stay at a resident's bedside, so long as they don't disturb others.
Onward with the tour. We discovered an eclectic art collection strewn across the house. Many pieces were created or donated by former residents.
"The ritual takes on a life of its own, depending on where the family is at," Roy Remer, director of education and training, told us. "Sometimes the stories are joyful, sometimes there's complete silence."
Guests are invited to share a few kind words or memories and toss a handful of flower petals onto the body. If there is no family, staff will always participate.
When a resident dies, the mortuary attendant wheels the body onto the patio and friends, family, and volunteers gather around.
They're harvested from the garden, a tranquil, private hideaway. Here, the Guest House's most sacred ritual takes place — the flower petal ceremony.
A volunteer in an oversized cardigan and yoga pants corralled us for a tour. In the dining room, residents' families will often gather for a meal.
Every plate offers a variety of colors and textures. "If your big adventure for the day is that meal," she said, "let's make it as fun as possible."
"We feed a family of six every day: breakfast, lunch, and dinner," Erin, the former kitchen manager, said. Her specialties were avocado-chocolate pudding and chicken liver mousse.
When a resident enters the Guest House, the kitchen manager will meet them to find out their likes, dislikes, and any favorite ethnic dishes.
Upon entering, a familiar smell drifted down the hall. We followed it to the back of the house, where the (now-former) kitchen manager, Erin, whipped up a bowl of macaroni and cheese.
The cost of residency is based on a sliding scale, and the non-profit does not accept insurance or Medicare. But no one is turned away because of their financial situation.
Source: Zen Hospice Project
In 2016, residency cost about $800 a day.
