by Alan Spence
At first light he sat up and stared at me, confused.
Wise Crane, he said. Is that you? What are you doing here?
I told him I was meditating, and Kannon was looking after him, and all would be well. That seemed to reassure him and he lay down again, slept far into the morning.
Over the next week, the days fell into a pattern, a routine. I made the soup three times a day, flavoured it with a little ginger. That was enough to sustain us. I mixed his foul medicine morning and night, and although he protested and made a fuss and grimaced when he drank it, he always swallowed it down.
Jukei could only visit twice in that week, and couldn’t stay long. When she came she brought a few vegetables, a little rice and pickle to add to the rations.
Thank you for looking after him, she said, with great seriousness.
In the afternoons Bao would recite poetry to me, and I could see the old fire was still there. As he chanted the words of Li Po and Tu Fu and Basho, his eyes blazed.
For my part, I told him of my travels all over Japan, the teachers I had met, the rogues and madmen. He was particularly taken with my account of Fuji erupting.
And you sat there, meditating? he said.
I did.
He shook his head.
You have a gift for storytelling.
I vow to use it well.
I hope you have continued to write verse.
From time to time, I said, when the mood takes me.
You had the makings of a great poet, he said, and a great artist.
Perhaps, I said. But the most important thing is breaking through, penetrating the Zen Barrier.
And can poetry and painting help achieve that?
They can express it in some measure, I said, for others. Beyond that . . . I do not know.
I chose the way of poetry, he said. For better or worse.
Expedient means, I said. Whatever drives you.
Wise Crane, he said. You are well named! I hope many will receive your wisdom. And I hope you will not give up verse altogether. I still have the haiku you wrote when you were here, the one about Miss Fuji and her snowy skin. Now that’s poetry!
I reached into my bag and brought out an old notebook I carried with me, full of my scribbles and sketches, drops of poison drool that dribbled out of me. I found the poem I was looking for, tore out the page and handed it to him, and he read it through.
Looking up – Mount Washizu,
Vulture Peak.
Looking down –
fishing boats
along the Shigehishi shore.
Ah, he said, and he nodded. Yes.
Please keep it, I said. I have another copy on a painting of the mountain, the boats, the shoreline.
Thank you, he said, and he touched the page to his forehead. I shall keep this along with Miss Fuji and your poem about the incense burning down.
I am honoured, I said.
So you should be.
At night while Bao slept I still kept watch over him. I would doze and sleep for an hour or two, but the night hours were an opportunity for me to meditate intensely.
I had sat unmoving, entering into great stillness, profound silence. Suddenly I was aware of an oval-shaped light, the size of a cat’s head, appearing just in front of me. Then it expanded and surrounded me, and before I knew it I was rising up into the air, flying. I moved rapidly and somehow I could make out the countryside far below, the outline of Toba castle, in the distance the shoreline of Ise and the Kii peninsula.
I knew I had to put a stop to this and I let out a loud cry, and immediately I was back in the room, seated in zazen. Bao had sat up and was asking why I had shouted out.
I knew some demon had tested me, but I also knew it had used the power of my own mind. I would have to be on my guard.
Gradually Bao regained his strength and was able to walk around the temple grounds. When Jukei saw this she was overjoyed, thanking me and praising Kannon for her compassion. But I could see a sadness in her eyes which I couldn’t understand.
You see, she said to Bao. Now you are well, brother Ekaku has fulfilled his promise. He will leave us and be on his way.
Then I saw that Bao had understood, and his eyes too looked sad.
The next morning I gave Bao a little drawing I had made of Kannon, smiling benignly, above a verse I had inscribed.
Her expedient wisdom
extends in all directions.
There is nowhere
that Kannon is not.
Bao and Jukei walked with me to the gate and said goodbye, and I saw both of them had tears in their eyes.
SHOJU ROJIN
I
had heard that the priest Shotetsu, renowned for his scholarship, was giving lectures at Eigan-ji temple in Takada and I set off walking. It was good to be back on the road, in my old robe, my straw kasa, my bag slung over my shoulder.
Shotetsu’s theme was The Eye of Men and Gods and his lectures were spread over several days. There were two hundred monks crowded into the main hall and I sat attentive, back straight, ready to learn. But the priest was a disappointment. He droned on endlessly about matters that were abstract and theoretical, minute and tedious points of doctrine. I grew irritated and restless, felt I was wasting my time.
I wandered around the temple grounds and beyond, and found an ancient shrine that had been built by the local clan. The building was small and dilapidated, smelled of dust and mould. But the walls were solid and the roof was intact. It felt abandoned, as if no one ever came there, and that suited me perfectly. I cleared a space in the corner, resumed my meditation on Mu, my interrogation of nothingness.
For seven days and nights I sat there, only leaving when I remembered I had to eat or drink, piss or shit. When I did come out I looked around in amazement. I sat in the dining room, shovelling a handful of rice into my mouth. Or I looked at my fellow-monks as if in a dream. I even went back once or twice to the lecture hall, heard the priest still droning incomprehensibly. None of it had any meaning or substance. My own being was surrounded by a white haze, and what passed for the real world was transparent, shimmering, crystalline. This must be some kind of satori, an answer to the koan, the realisation of Mu. But I knew intrinsically it was not enough. There must be more and I had to push on. I went back to the shrine and sat.
I sat for three more days and nights, not moving. The breath came and went of itself. I was here, in this shrine, but I was moving beyond it all. Then, as light began to break on the tenth day, a temple-bell sounded, far off, the faintest echo. But as I listened, the sound grew and swelled as if it had clanged inside my head. It resonated, endless, as if the universe itself were a great bell, ringing, ringing.
This, I knew, was the great realisation, the great emptiness, wonderful, marvellous.
I let out a roar and I thought of Ganto, the great shout he let out at his death. I saw I had misunderstood the story, and I shouted his name.
Ganto! Ganto! You were right! You were right!
Two or three monks were walking nearby in the temple grounds. They came rushing towards me, thinking I was dying.
Ganto! I shouted again. He was right to cry out! His murder by those bandits was neither here nor there. He was letting it all go. He was stepping into this.
I thought they would see the light shining out from me, but they looked fearful for their own lives, as if I might attack them. I laughed and brushed past them, ran into the temple compound looking for Shotetsu, the expert on all things Zen. Surely he would understand the depth of my realisation.
He had just come out of the lecture hall after giving his final discourse. A few monks stood around, obsequious, waiting to ask him questions. I stood right in front of him.
Look, I said. See for yourself. I have crossed the barrier and stepped through.
He peered at me, uncertain and afraid.
Indeed, he said. I am glad your time here has been well spent.
I could see in his eyes he had no idea. He was unable
to grasp the reality. He was useless, full to the brim with his own thoughts, and he had nothing to say to me.
I was scheduled to stay a few more days at Eigan-ji and I saw the place with fresh eyes. I returned several times to the little shrine and looked at it with great fondness. Here I had broken through into this vast emptiness. I took my place once more at morning zazen, the same but not the same.
We were divided into groups for study of points raised in the lectures. Shotetsu put me in charge of one group.
In the light of your great realisation, he said, and he smiled. But I knew in my heart my realisation was true. I imagined nobody had come close to this state in three hundred years. As if to test me, he assigned a new arrival to the group, a monk with a fearsome reputation. By all accounts the monk made everyone uncomfortable, had a habit of glaring at anyone who expressed an opinion, challenging them to back it up.
So you’re dumping this worthless character on me? I said.
Nobody else can deal with him, said the priest. The only thing he’ll respect is physical strength and brute force.
Fine, I said. Send him to me.
The monk came in and looked around him. He was over six feet tall, an impressive presence. We sat facing each other and he waited to hear what I had to say.
I’m Ekaku from Hara, I said, and I have a fearsome temper. If you cause trouble I’ll throw you out, send you back where you came from.
I understand, he said. My name is Sokaku. I come from Shinano province.
He bowed and touched his forehead to the floor. When he straightened up I bowed in return.
I can see you have gained some insight, he said. The other monks are tiger-feed. The world will chew them up and spit them out. As for the priest, he’s just licking drool from the lips of dead masters.
I laughed and invited him to join us. He went to the back of the room and began sweeping the floor.
During the discussions he stared straight ahead. Occasionally he would grunt or snort, throw back his head and laugh.
Tiger-feed, he said to me afterwards. Drool from the lips of the dead. You should keep your own counsel. Or learn from a true master.
Like you? I asked.
Like my teacher, he said. Shoju Rojin. If you like I can take you to meet him. Perhaps he will appreciate your realisation.
Sokaku was water in the desert, rainfall after a long drought. If Shoju Rojin could produce a disciple like this, he was worth meeting. We left before dawn next morning, quietly and without taking leave, set out on the road to Shoju’s hermitage in Iiyama.
On the way Sokaku told me more about his teacher. He was in a line of descent from the great masters Gudo Toshoku and Shido Munan. He was their Dharma-heir and his teaching was rigorous. He accepted few students, and even fewer survived his methods.
But you have survived, I said.
I have been in his poisonous clutches for many years.
And you think I am ready?
Perhaps, he said. It’s a refining fire. You’d be heated in his furnace and battered on his anvil. Do you think you’re ready?
I am anxious to meet him.
Of course, said Sokaku, he may just bite your head off and send you back where you came from.
Are you trying to tell me something?
I am telling you the way is not easy. Remember Bodhidharma himself left home at the age of six and sat at the feet of his master for twenty years before he understood the teaching.
As we walked along I composed a poem, expressing the realisation I had experienced.
A bell rings in vast emptiness.
This very moment
there’s nothing to be sought.
Nirvana is right here.
We arrived at the village towards evening, a scatter of houses at the foot of Iiyama Castle. The castle walls were silhouetted, stark and gloomy against the sky. I could smell wood smoke but the single street was empty, except for a miserable skinny dog that barked halfhearted, as we passed. We pressed on through the woods, along a rough track. The hermitage was no more than a few wooden buildings huddled together in a clearing. An old man was chopping wood. He was stooped and bent, and I took him for an elderly monk who’d been given this menial task. But he straightened up as we approached and Sokaku prostrated before him, touched his forehead to the ground. Then he stood up again, hands folded, head still bowed.
Sensei, he said to the master. This is the monk Ekaku from Hara who has travelled with me from Eigan-ji. He has attained some measure of enlightenment and is eager to learn from you.
The master wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He was thin but had a wiriness, a sinewy strength. The lines across his forehead were deep furrows, above his eyebrows a deeper knot at the chakra, the third eye.
He turned his gaze on me, looked fully at me, and through me. I opened my mouth to speak but he raised a hand and stopped me, rendered me dumb. Then he grunted and walked away.
I’m glad I came all this way, I said to Sokaku.
You have a lot further still to travel.
Either he is arrogant, I said, or I am useless.
For all my bravado, I had been shaken. Just by raising one hand this old man had reduced me to silence, my mind numb and cold like iron.
Come, said Sokaku, and he led me to the kitchen where a sullen monk was cleaning up and reluctantly served us some rice gruel. A single ladleful into each of our bowls. Sokaku bowed and thanked him and I did the same, then we rinsed the bowls, drank the water.
There were only four other monks visiting the place, hoping for instruction. I found a corner in the dormitory, lay down to rest my bones for an hour or two. I dreamed I had descended into one of the burning hells where I was stretched out on a slab of red-hot metal and master Shoju raised an iron mallet, ready to pound me into nothing.
At first light we sat outside on the hard ground and the master sat before us.
Zen? He said, as if someone had asked a question. Don’t talk to me about Zen!
He cleared his throat, spat in the dust, continued.
Zen has been in decline for centuries. By the Ming Dynasty it had withered away to almost nothing. Sure, there’s some of its pure poison left here in Japan. But where to find it?
His eyes glazed and he looked beyond us, into the distance.
Looking for stars in the midday sky, he said, then he brought us into focus again, glared at us.
And you, he said, you stinking bunch of useless reprobates, you stubble-headed halfwits. You’re deaf and blind and couldn’t stumble over it in your dreams. You couldn’t even imagine it. You wouldn’t recognise it if it came up and bit you.
He waved a hand, dismissive.
Useless, he said. Inert and lumpen. Look at you all! Sacks of rice draped in black robes.
He closed his eyes and took in a long, deep breath, let it out again slowly. Then he told a story.
There is a great barrier which has to be crossed. Only if you cross it can you continue on the Way. And the barrier is manned by a row of ferocious guardians who are there to interrogate you and determine if you’re fit to continue.
A man approaches the barrier and explains he is a wheel-wright.
Show us, they say. And he sits and makes a wheel. He shows it to the guardians and they examine it, turn it, let him pass.
Another man comes up to the barrier, says he is an artist.
Show us, they say. And the man takes brush and ink, paints a picture. They let him through.
Next comes a young girl who says she is a singer.
Sing for us, they say, and she does, a sweet folksong that melts their hard hearts, and they let her through.
Then comes a priest of the Pure Land sect. He folds his hands and chants the Nembutsu with great power. Namu Amida Butsu. They bow and let him through.
Another figure approaches the barrier, a man in a black robe. He tells the guardians he is a Zen monk and one of them asks him, What is Zen?
He stands there dazed and du
mbstruck, unable to utter a single word. He sweats like ten pigs and his robe is drenched. He smells like a pile of dung and is just about as articulate.
The guardians observe his pitiful response and don’t let him pass. They dismiss him as a fake, a charlatan, a rogue. They send him packing, let him wither away in the darkness, outside the barrier.
Shoju closed his eyes again, then opened them and glowered at us, spoke quietly but with an intensity that seared.
And you, he said. All of you. Is this to be your fate? In some unimaginable future. When you’re dripping with realisation and have temples and followers of your own, perhaps you’ll accept an invitation from a rich parishioner to go and eat at his home.
For a moment I remembered visiting the home of Yotsugi-san when I wasn’t much more than a boy. I saw Hana’s face, smelled her perfume. My face burned.
I can see it, said Shoju, continuing. You’re lolling back on thick cushions, eating and drinking your fill, accepting it all as your due. Then someone, innocently, asks about some obscure aspect of Zen, asks you to explain it to them. And of course, you can’t. You’re so lost in the mire of your own delusion you can’t say a word. Your heart thuds, you break out in a fetid sweat. Like the monk in the story you have nothing to say and your misery casts a black shadow over the whole room.
He punched the palm of his hand with his fist, made us jump.
It’s a disgrace! he shouted. The shame of it is unthinkable!
We bowed our heads.
If you want to avoid such a fate, he said, work hard. Concentrate. Otherwise you’re dead men, bound for hell.
He grunted, indicated we should go. The session was over. But as I bowed and turned away he spoke to me directly.