Night Boat

by Alan Spence

  I walked round the courtyard, breathed the cool night air. I stopped by the gate, stood gazing at the patterns weathered into the old, dark wood with its knots and sworls, its landscapes. The big, heavy wooden bolt had been slid shut. I slid it open and stepped outside, looked up. The sky was clear, the bright stars high and far. Worlds. Worlds away. Away in that infinite vastness, but also here, in this heart of mine. Vastness and brightness. Here.

  After the intensity of the sesshin a great emptiness overwhelmed me. I no longer recognised myself, but the head priest assured me this was no bad thing.

  What is this self you want to recognise? he said. And who are you that wants to recognise it?

  When Yotsugi-san sent another message, inviting me to visit him at his home once more, I was numbed. I did not know what to do.

  The priest read Yotsugi-san’s letter.

  This merchant, he said, is a benefactor of the temple. He has made a substantial donation.

  He turned the letter between forefinger and thumb, examined it as if it might have a secret to reveal.

  However, he said, and he paused. There is the daughter.

  The silence he left extended endlessly, a silence to be endured as my face burned and sweat trickled down my back.

  Is the merchant simply extending his patronage? Or is he looking for a son-in-law?

  Perhaps, he continued at last, you should meditate further on the koan I used during sesshin. The old woman burns down the monk’s hut.

  Embrace him, the old woman had said, then ask him, What now?

  What now?

  So it really had been directed at me. And once you became a monk, everything, everything, was a koan.

  I walked the same road to the Yotsugi residence. I even saw the same dog. But everything was different. Now I knew this was my koan.

  Yotsugi-san welcomed me warmly, asked politely how the sesshin had gone. I stared at him, found words.

  It has been a time of great . . . intensity.

  Intensity is good in a young man, he said. So too is . . . lightness.

  I truly did not know what to say. My tongue was useless, a heavy clapper in the great dull bell of my skull, unable to make a sound.

  Just as before, the shoji screen opened a fraction and the two young women stepped into the room, set down the teapot and bowls, the utensils of chanoyu, then the heavier tray with the stove, the iron kettle. Just as before, the two women backed out, bowing, like players in kabuki or noh.

  The screen slid closed and I sat staring at it. I knew what came next but still I was not prepared. It opened again with a swish, and she was there, in the room, bowing and kneeling on the tatami and just as before I felt as if I had been punched in the chest and I gulped in air.

  She was there in front of me, just as before, but this time the kimono was deep red silk shot through with purple.

  Hana.

  The smell of her, her own scent overlaid with jasmine. Sheen of glossy black hair, swept up.

  She was actually there, utterly herself. Just as before.

  Ekaku-san, she said, bowing again, hands folded. Welcome back to our home.

  My own hands felt clumsy as I brought them together in gassho. My face burned, as red as her kimono.

  Thank you, I heard myself say. It is a great honour to be here.

  So.

  Just as before.

  The faintest smile lingered at the corners of her red, red mouth as she looked down and busied herself with the tea powder and the bamboo spoon, the boiling water, the whisk.

  I had no small talk whatsoever. Language had left me.

  Her father intervened.

  This incense is called Spring Snow, he said. I think it is particularly fine.

  Particularly, I said, and could say not one word more.

  The boiling water poured on the powdered leaves. The tea whisked to bright froth. The deftness of movement. I was mesmerised.

  Ekaku-san was telling me, said her father, about his experience of sesshin. He spoke of its great . . . intensity.

  Yes, I said, rallying. It was most . . . intense.

  Perhaps you could tell us more, he said.

  Much of it, I said, is beyond words.

  As are a great many things, said Hana, handing me the bowl.

  This time I made a point of taking it carefully, mindful of my great clumsy hands. But this time, it was quite deliberate, she let her fingers touch mine, held them there a moment, just long enough.

  I ventured the opinion, said her father, voice droning, that intensity was admirable, but perhaps it had to be tempered by lightness.

  Yes, I said, aware that I sounded idiotic, but savouring the word as much as the tea. Lightness.

  I sipped.

  The tea, I said, is exquisite.

  Silence.

  Perhaps, said Yotsugi-san eventually, your mind is still in sesshin.

  The effects last for some time, I said.

  And throughout the sesshin itself, is everyone silent, day and night?

  There are long periods of silence, I said. But there is chanting from the sutras, and concentration on a koan, directed by the priest.

  Ah, he said, grabbing onto the word. Koans!

  Are they not very . . . difficult? said Hana, furrowing her brow.

  Poison fangs and talons, said her father. A quagmire to drag you under.

  He was puffed up, full of his own erudition.

  I read about koans, he said, when I was a young man like you. Does a dog have the Buddha-nature?

  We meditated on that, I said, and one other.

  Which one?

  The words were out before I could stop them.

  Old-woman-burns-down-the-hut.

  He frowned, as if I had contradicted him.

  I’m not familiar with that one, he said. It must be more obscure.

  Reluctantly I told him the story. I blushed ferociously when I spoke the line at the heart of it.

  The young girl caressed him, then asked, What now?

  I stared at the tatami as I said it, avoided looking at Hana. My face burned. When I reached the last line, the old woman’s rant at the monk, Yotsugi-san barked out a laugh.

  She told him, he said. No uncertain terms! Nowhere is there any warmth. Just what we were talking about earlier. Intensity without lightness.

  My bones felt dense, my flesh heavy. I felt trapped in my body, desperate to flee but unable to move. And once again the thought came to me that this was my koan. This here and now.

  I had no idea how long we had sat. We had eaten, though I had little stomach for it. When I glanced at Hana I could see she was uncomfortable on my behalf. She nodded in sympathy when she caught my eye, kept a smile on her face when her father spoke. And he saw nothing, understood nothing, just talked and laughed, drank sake, told endless anecdotes, his face a kabuki mask, his words washing over me.

  When the evening was over, he gave an exaggerated bow, laughed again.

  Burned down his hut!

  He bade me goodnight and asked Hana to see me out. In the doorway she said she hoped I would not be put off coming to visit again. I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out. I folded my hands in gassho and she held them a moment in her own small hands. Lightness. Softness and warmth. She raised her right hand, touched her fingers to my lips. I couldn’t breathe.

  What now?

  This was more intense than any koan. The world around me was dust and ash. I dreaded hearing from Yotsugi-san, I yearned to hear from him. When I thought of Hana I felt my heart being torn from my chest. I felt moments of wild exhilaration, but deep in my core I knew it was illusion, all of it, a kind of madness.

  Shakyamuni’s advice to monks in the Lotus Sutra was clear.

  Do not take delight in looking at young women. Do not speak with young girls, maidens or widows.

  And yet.

  The sheer intensity of the feeling. The sweetness.

  A month went by and the madness persisted. I would think I had conquere
d the emotion and it would overwhelm me again. I felt adrift, between two worlds.

  The priest summoned me, kept me waiting outside his room for a time, then shouted to me to come in. I knew he could see through me, and this time I was sure he would confront me and tell me I was worthless.

  I opened my mouth to speak but he raised his hand, said, No words!

  He sat, straight-backed, breathed in and out slowly. I listened to the breath come and go. A thin-legged spider made its zigzag way across the tatami. I waited.

  Eventually the priest spoke, a weariness in his voice.

  There is a verse, he said, ascribed to the monk Shoshu Shonin who resided on Mount Shosha in Harima.

  When worldly thoughts are intense, then thoughts of the Way are shallow.

  When thoughts of the Way are intense, then worldly thoughts are shallow.

  He wrote those words more than five centuries ago.

  The priest looked at me, his gaze direct, but not unkind.

  It is no small matter to attain human birth. And to arrive at a point where you are shaking off the world, and following the Buddha-path is the result of many lifetimes of seeking and striving.

  He breathed deep again, recited the Four Noble Truths.

  Existence is suffering. Its cause is desire. Desire can be conquered. There is a Way.

  The Way is not easy, he said. But nothing else has any meaning.

  He folded his hands, bowed.

  Nothing.

  Another month, and the priest summoned me again. He had received a letter from Yotsugi-san, dealing mainly with financial matters, his donations to the temple. But he had made a point of thanking me once again and wishing me well. He was most grateful for my actions in saving his daughter from injury. He would not be offering hospitality in the near future as he and his daughter were moving to Kyoto where his wife was already in residence.

  It is my understanding, said the priest, that the daughter is to be married to a young nobleman from a Kyoto family.

  He paused, then handed me a small scroll, rolled up and sealed.

  This was enclosed with the letter, he said. It is addressed to you.

  I bowed and took the scroll outside. The seal showed a flower. I opened it and read, a poem from the Kokinshu, copied out in delicate script.

  Over and over

  Like endless waves,

  My heart is carried away

  By memories of the one

  Who has stolen it.

  It was stamped with the same seal, the flower, Hana. The paper smelled of jasmine.

  MU

  I

  threw myself into the work with even more intensity.

  Beyond zazen and the reading and chanting of the sutras, the heart of the teaching was the koan study, grappling and struggling with these insoluble problems, unanswerable questions, battering against their impenetrable barriers till something gave and broke. There were two great koan collections, the Blue cliff Record and the Mumonkan, the Gateless Gate.

  The head priest told us that to awaken to the meaning of a koan required intense concentration, and great doubt. He quoted master Mumon.

  It’s like swallowing a red-hot iron ball. You try to spew it up, but you can’t.

  I felt myself choke, felt that solid iron blocking my throat, and once again I was the child Iwajiro, terrified of the burning hells. Swallowing a red-hot iron ball. I felt the panic begin to rise.

  The priest recited the first case from the Mumonkan.

  A monk asked Joshu, Does a dog have the Buddha-nature?

  I had heard the question before. Yes or No? To answer Yes was wrong. To answer No was just as wrong. What then?

  Does a dog have the Buddha-nature?

  Joshu answered, Mu. Nothing.

  The nothing that opens up when you realise, fully realise, the impossibility of answering Yes or No. And yet.

  Meditate on this, said the priest, till you sweat white pearls.

  And then what?

  Meditate and find out.

  Mu.

  Concentrate on Mu with your whole being, wrote Mumon, without ceasing. Then your inner light will be a candle flame illuminating the whole universe.

  I meditated on Mu day and night. In zazen I chanted it to myself, a silent mantra. I took my brush and copied out the symbol, again and again. Mu.

  I lived with the koan, thought about it, struggled with it.

  You cannot get it by thinking, the priest said, quoting Mumon. You cannot get it by not thinking. You cannot get it by grasping. You cannot get it by not grasping.

  I am sure this is helpful. I said. Nevertheless.

  The question has to be answered, he said. According to Mumon it is the most serious question of all. Does a dog have the Buddha-nature?

  He also says if you answer Yes or No, you lose your own Buddha-nature.

  Dog! said the priest. Now you’re swilling Mumon’s words around in your filthy mouth and spitting them back at me.

  If I’m a dog, I said, do I have the Buddha-nature?

  Cur! he said. Jackal! You’re rolling around in your own muck.

  I lived with the koan. It was with me in the meditation hall and walking the streets of Hara with my begging bowl. It was with me when I ate and when I lay down on my pallet to take rest.

  Mu.

  I’m eating, breathing, sleeping it, I said.

  Try pissing and shitting it, said the priest.

  That too.

  Well then.

  I continued, determined to break through.

  At times I felt I was so close, a single step away. It could be as close as my own heartbeat, my own breath. Then I would lose it, feel overwhelmed, beaten down by the sheer weight of it. I choked and gagged on that red-hot iron ball, unable to swallow it, unable to spit it out. It was stuck there, lodged in my throat, burning.

  And if you do break through, said the priest, you will be like a dumb man who has had a dream. You will know but be unable to tell. Meditate on that.

  Again the feeling of panic took hold. To be mute, unable to speak. To know it and have no words. Mu.

  One morning, early, I came out of the temple gate and walked through the village, head full of the koan. A thin drizzling rain fell, and I listened to the sound it made pattering on my kasa. It was too early to beg from door to door, or at any of the wayside stalls or teashops, so I kept walking, head down, thinking of Mu, concentrating on nothing else.

  Nothing. Else.

  Before I knew it I had reached the end of the village and I turned to head back. A scrawny old dog wandered out from an alley, and it stopped and raised its head when it saw me. We stood and looked at each other, acknowledged each other’s existence. He too had been soaked by the rain, his fur damp and bedraggled.

  Well, I said. Here we are.

  He sniffed the air, turned his head away.

  So tell me, I said. Do you have the Buddha-nature?

  Without hesitation he barked, at me, at the rain, at the day, at everything, and I threw back my head and laughed, then bowed to him three times.

  Later I wrote it as a haiku.

  Does this dog

  have the Buddha-nature?

  Hear him bark!

  I recited the haiku to the priest.

  So you’re showing your teeth now, he said. What next? Cocking your leg against the temple gate?

  But then he laughed. Hear him bark!

  The next time I came to him for koan instruction, before I could sit down he asked if I had eaten.

  Yes, I said, wondering why he was asking.

  Very well, he said. You had better wash your bowl.

  Now I recognised his question as another koan, another case from the Mumonkan, another story about Joshu. A monk comes to Joshu for instruction, and Joshu asks if he’s eaten his rice-gruel. The monk says Yes. Joshu tells him to wash his bowl.

  Was the priest assigning me this new koan? Was it because I had made progress with Mu, or because I was making no headway at all.

&
nbsp; Well? he asked.

  Do you want me to meditate on this now?

  Not at all, he said. I just wanted to know if you had eaten. That was all.

  Not only have I eaten, I said, I have also washed my bowl.

  Excellent, he said. Such diligence. Such discipline. Now, does a dog have the Buddha-nature?

  Mu, I said.

  I returned to painting the symbol Mu. I filled the whole page with it written large, in thick broad strokes. Mu. With the tip of a finer brush I wrote it again and again, covered the page in it like tiny bird-tracks. Mu. I made patterns with it, the words arranged round a central emptiness, a void.

  MU MU MU MU MU

  MU MU MU MU

  MU MU MU MU MU

  NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING

  NOTHING NOTHING

  NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING

  Does a dog have the Buddha-nature? I drew the old dog I’d seen in the rain, barking out Mu. I remembered the dog that had barked at me the first time I’d gone to Yotsugi-san’s home and taken tea with Hana.

  I drew the dog, barking, barking, Mu emerging from his open jaws. I laughed and drew a cow, bellowing Mu.

  Does a cow have the Buddha-nature?

  Mu.

  Whether it was the koans, or the place itself, the mind-numbing rigour, the repetitive routine, I began to feel constrained. I felt a great agitation, a need to get out on the road and walk. I needed movement, a break from the endless sitting. I asked permission from the head priest, and reluctantly he gave me leave to go.

  You can keep up koan practice while walking, he said. In fact it may help you break through. He also insisted I visit other temples, make the journey a pilgrimage rather than rambling and meandering to no great purpose. As I took my leave he called out to me, Have you eaten?

  Yes, I said. And I’ve washed my bowl.

  So it’s empty, he said. You can feast on nothing.