by Alan Spence
Surpass the ancient one.
Discomfort. Suppressing rage at the stupidity of existence. Naming is taboo. Ordinary folk had once been executed just for uttering the emperor’s name, for speaking it or writing it down. Misery inflicted on misery in the name of power, and the power itself illusory. How to make sense? Keep walking. Go beyond. The dust of the world? Shake it off. Cross the barrier. Sit with the ancients. Transcend.
In pain I walked on, struggling, struggling.
Seated by a mountain stream as a whole day passed, concentrating on Tozan’s fourth verse, Arrival at Mutual Integration. Rush of water. Stones in the bed of the clear stream.
The master swordsman
Is a lotus blooming in fire.
The spirit within him
Soars to Heaven.
Glint of steel. Blades clashing. Mind challenging mind. Cutting down ignorance. The sword and the swordsman as one. In the heart of the fire, the lotus, its petals of flame. Rising, rising, soaring free.
After long sitting, painfully getting to my feet, almost falling over as I stood up, aching in body, clear in mind.
The absolute singularity of every thing.
In a temple in Kyoto I’d seen a Chinese painting, maybe five hundred years old. Tozan crossing the Stream. Staff in hand, robe hitched up, wading across a river, intent and purposeful, his face calm.
Making my way back down, unsteady but sure, I composed a verse of my own.
Beneath the mountain
the rushing stream flows
without end.
This is Zen mind.
Satori is not far.
I would write it down wherever I stopped for the night.
Before dawn I was back on the road, heading for the next temple. As I walked along I clearly saw old Shoju Rojin’s face in the random shapes of the clouds, in the rough bark of a tree, in the pattern worn on an old clay wall, and I heard his voice in my head, unmistakable.
Is that it?
This was what he had asked me, questioning my understanding. He had guided me through the first four verses, the first four ranks, the stages of enlightenment. Then, as if it were an afterthought, he’d said, Why are there five verses and not just four?
I’d answered feebly with the title of the fifth verse, Oneness Realised. I set to meditating on it once more.
Who dares to equal him?
All men want to leave the ordinary life.
But after everything he comes back to sit
Among the dust and ashes.
It seemed to me that the distance between this level and the one before was so narrow, the gap so thin, that it should just be a matter of stepping through. Tozan crossing the stream.
I saw Shoju’s face again, the way he had looked at me, compassionate, not judging.
You can’t expect to understand it all at once.
Through the worst of winter I tramped the roads, the trails, the mountain paths, exhausting myself mentally and physically. I grew thin from the walking and the lack of food. My feet were cut and blistered. My lungs were congested and at night I coughed and choked, unable to rest. But worse than all that, I grew sick at heart.
The great Zen teachers of old were like the dragons of legend – one drop of water and they achieved everlasting transformation, total liberation. Bodhisattvas of the past had gone beyond limitation by entering true emptiness.
What, then, was wrong with me? I had experienced these moments of awakening, of kensho. I knew discrimination. I had grasped the secrets.
And yet.
I was unable to integrate my realisation into my everyday life. I had to transcend attachment, even attachment to wisdom. Otherwise I was like a doctor who knew all the theory of medicine but was unable to cure an actual disease. If I couldn’t help myself how could I help even one other sentient being?
I saw old Shoju’s face again, heard the words of Tozan’s final verse.
All men want to leave
The ordinary life.
But after everything he comes back to sit
Among the dust and ashes.
Jaw set, eyes wide open, I spurred myself forward.
One clear morning in early spring, as I approached yet another temple to hear yet another talk, I heard a voice I recognised calling my name.
Ekaku! Ekaku!
I turned and saw my Dharma-brother Sokaku, from Shoju’s hermitage.
Sokaku! I said. You see, even our names rhyme.
We sound like a pair of old crows, he said, cawing at each other.
Kaku! I laughed. It’s good to see you.
No more the Zen corpse, he said.
After all my wanderings, I said, I’m a corpse-that-walks.
Now that you mention it, he said, there’s not much flesh on those bones.
And you’ve been pounded away to nothing by old Shoju’s hammer-blows!
He drew himself up to his full height. He was still an impressive figure, but I could see that the years of study with Shoju had tired him out.
The master often asks for news of you, he said.
I will always be grateful to him, I said. He pushed and cajoled me through the barrier.
And what then? Sokaku asked.
Endless journeying, I said, in wind and rain.
We left a silence between us, comfortable. Then I asked if he might do me a great favour.
Ask, he said.
I drew in a deep breath.
The master instructed me in the Five Ranks of Tozan.
Sokaku smiled, said simply, Yes.
I am sure he imparted the same teaching to you.
Again Sokaku smiled, said, Indeed.
I had difficulty with Tozan’s final verse, I said. And the master asked me why there were five verses and not just four.
And he said you can’t expect to understand it all at once.
Yes!
Sokaku laughed, said, This was the master’s koan.
I waited a moment, continued. And he taught you, he guided you through all five ranks. He transmitted the teaching directly to you.
Again he drew himself up, stood tall, filled his lungs with air. Then he laughed again and bowed to me.
You can see right through me! he said. What do I have to hide?
I met his gaze, stared into his eyes.
You can transmit the teaching to me, I said, just as you received it, directly.
For a moment he looked uncertain.
It is not easy.
We were passing an inn, not far from the temple gates. I stopped.
Perhaps some sake would make it easier!
We stepped inside where a group of other monks had settled themselves. Mindful that there was no sake allowed in the temple grounds, they had stopped to fortify themselves for the session ahead. They raised their flasks and drank a toast, Sakasaraba! Farewell to sake!
This is their mantra, I said to Sokaku, and their pledge of renunciation.
Let me renounce sake, he said, but not yet!
I fetched a flask and filled a cup to the brim, placed it in front of Sokaku.
Liquid prajna, I said. Pure wisdom.
He raised the cup to his lips, but before he could take a sip I grabbed his wrist and held firm.
You can drink after you give me the secret of the Five Ranks.
No, he said. Let go of my hand.
I gripped even tighter.
If you drink all that sake, I said, you’ll be in no fit state to teach me anything.
His brow furrowed, but he could see the truth in what I was saying. Reluctantly he set down his cup.
Very well, he said, and he straightened his back, composed himself, took in a long deep breath.
Let us begin.
The other monks were still being boisterous, but one of them had been listening to our exchange and saw what was happening. He hushed the others, told them to pay attention, but they continued laughing and knocking back their drinks.
Sokaku ignored them, began to speak.
Y
ou have to view it differently, he said. The Four Ranks, completely transformed, become Five.
I let out a shout, stopped him.
Not one word more! I see it! I understand.
And I did. Not the words themselves, but the wisdom embedded in them. Everything was clear, translucent. And for a moment I saw old Shoju’s features on Sokaku’s face.
Who dares to equal him? I quoted. The current of ordinary life. He comes back to sit among the dust and ashes.
Sokaku was about to continue, to remonstrate with me about my interruption, but something in my manner stopped him dead.
It’s like looking at the palm of my own hand, I said, holding up my hand, flexing the fingers, laughing.
What happened? asked the monk at the other table, the one who had wanted to hear.
The rhinoceros of doubt just fell down dead, I said.
I don’t get it, said the monk. I don’t understand.
Don’t worry, I said. You can get it from me.
I turned to Sokaku.
Now you can drink your sake!
Next morning I sat with Sokaku in the lecture hall, listening to a treatise on discrimination. Sokaku was hungover, his face grey.
That one sake became four, he said, then five.
Like the Five Ranks, I said. Four became five!
The lecture was a blur, he said. I slept through most of it.
You didn’t miss much.
He groaned, then looked at me hard.
Yesterday your understanding seemed genuine and profound.
It was, I said. It was a moment of true kensho, a real awakening.
It’s not to be taken lightly, he said.
I know that, I said. For all the joy I felt, it’s a serious matter. Direct pointing at the ultimate. The interpenetration of the Apparent and the Real.
As I said the words I heard old Shoju challenge me again, asking Is that it? And this time I could answer, Yes, that’s it!
I shook Sokaku’s hand and thanked him, and he looked deeply moved.
The Gates of Dharma are manifold, I said. I vow to enter them all.
ZEN SICKNESS
T
he awakening had done nothing to improve my physical condition. In fact my illness grew steadily worse on the long trek back to Shoin-ji.
No physician could help me – none of their drugs and potions did the slightest good, in fact, if anything, they made me feel worse. And the monks and priests I asked were useless, spewing out banalities about letting nature take its course, or telling me to ignore the body and its suffering as so much illusion.
Some illusion!
I was in constant pain. My chest burned, my lungs felt dried out, scorched and seared, so at times I couldn’t breathe. I was drenched in sweat, my head was on fire, but at the same time my feet and legs froze as if immersed in snow and ice. There was a roaring in my head, like the rushing of a mountain stream.
The slightest effort left me exhausted, burned out, drained. I shrank from daylight, but darkness and shade depressed me. Yet somehow that old dragon between my legs found the strength to spurt his fire in the night and lose even more energy, dissipate chi. I was saddened too to find the old temple, like me, beginning to run down, slide into dilapidation.
Late one afternoon I sat on the verandah outside my room, watching the light change towards evening but taking no joy in it. Breathing was painful, sitting was painful, just being was painful.
I heard a voice near me, high and reedy, cracked.
So, you are suffering. What are you going to do about it?
I turned and saw a wizened old man, his face leathery and lined, grimy and weathered as if from many months on the road.
I was just passing through, he said, and I heard about your sickness. Again I ask, what are you going to do?
Nobody can help me, I said. The problem is my own.
The old man spat.
Such arrogance, he said. You may indeed be beyond help. But then again, perhaps you have been seeking advice from fools who know nothing.
Are you saying you can help?
He laughed. I cannot cure you, if that is what you are asking. But I can direct you to someone older and wiser who may be able to guide you, if you seek him out.
I was shaken with a spasm of coughing, spat up a gob of bright red blood.
Who is this man? I asked when I had recovered. And where can I find him?
His name is Master Hakuyu. He lives in the mountains of Shirakawa, in Kyoto. He is almost four hundred years old.
I was shaken with coughing again, spat another bright red flower in the dust. When I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and turned to speak to my visitor, he was gone. I struggled painfully to my feet and shuffled to the gate, but he was nowhere.
That night was the worst yet. The pain and misery were almost beyond endurance. I didn’t have the strength to sit upright, but when I lay down I coughed and retched all the more. I choked on my own thick acrid spit. I sat up again. I burned and I froze. When I did drift for a moment into sleep, I was beset by monsters and demons, creatures of fire and ice, preparing to devour me. I was losing the will to go on. Then in the midst of it all, towards dawn, I saw the old man’s face again, and he was telling me without words that I knew what I had to do.
The journey was hell and it almost killed me. Aching in every bone, every nerve, every sinew, I dragged my sagging carcass for mile after mile, by sheer force of will made it to Kyoto. Then I headed north past the hills at Kurodani and on to the village of Shirakawa where I stopped for the night at a little ryokan. In the tiny room I dropped my pack in the corner and collapsed on the floor, lay there wrapped in a single rough blanket, sweating and shivering the whole long night.
At dawn I managed to sit up and chant the Daimoku, felt a great heat spread out from my navel and through my chest. I had a strong sense I should get out on the road early, and it was as if some unseen hand was helping me to my feet, shouldering my pack and pushing me out the door.
The old landlord and his wife were alarmed. They were lighting a fire in the kitchen, wanted me to stay and eat something, perhaps reconsider my plan altogether until I was well. But although I had eaten little I had no appetite for food. Not even the smell of the tororojiru she was preparing could tempt me. Usually just the sound of the mountain yams being ground to pulp with mortar and pestle had me drooling. But not today.
I must be sick indeed, I said, if I cannot eat this wonderful food.
The old woman nodded, appreciating the compliment, but still appeared concerned for my health.
Perhaps you are fasting? said the old man.
Yes, I said, grateful to him for offering the excuse. That is the truth of it. I am on a pilgrimage.
And what is your destination? he asked.
I am looking for the great Master Hakuyu.
Ah, said the old man.
Yes, said his wife.
You know him? I asked.
He never leaves his cave, said the man. But we hear stories from monks who go to visit him.
They say he has lived there for three hundred years, said the woman.
Some say longer, said her husband. Five hundred, a thousand.
And you believe this? I asked.
Who knows? said the old man. Anything is possible.
What else do the monks say?
Some say he is a man of great wisdom, said the old man. Others say he is a madman who talks nothing but gibberish.
Well then, I said, I will have to find out for myself. That’s if I’m capable of judging. Perhaps I’m the madman, for dragging myself all this way through wind and weather!
The old woman’s concern showed once more in her eyes.
Perhaps later you will feel like eating, she said, and she spooned out some of the tororojiru, now cooling, into a bowl. Then she drained off the broth, scooped a good portion of the noodles and yams into a bamboo bowl with a tight lid. Then she wrapped it in cloth and handed it to me, bowing deep.
I
am touched by your kindness, I said, taking the wrapped bowl and placing it carefully in my pack. This was my favourite dish as a child. My mother used to make it for me specially, and I have never lost my fondness for it. I am sure from the look and smell of it, this is as good as I’ve ever tasted.
She waved my words away, fussed with her apron, but her eyes twinkled.
I thanked them once more and walked as steadily as I could out to the edge of the village. I passed two monks, one young, one old, and asked if they knew the way to Hakuyu’s cave. The young one said he’d heard stories of Hakuyu but that was all they were, just stories, and he doubted if Hakuyu even existed.
The older monk apologised for his young friend.
He’s an idiot, he said. He knows nothing. Of course Hakuyu exists, but whether you’ll find him is another matter. And if you do, who knows if he’ll speak to you? And if he does, will his words make any sense?
I’ll take a chance, I said.
He nodded and pointed up into the mountains.
You see that stream, he said, up above the treeline?
I could just make it out, a thin line.
That’s the grandly named Shirakawa River, said the monk. His cave is up there.
Have you been there? I asked. Have you sought him out?
He shook his head.
Without going out of the door, he said, quoting Lao Tsu, you can know the Way of Heaven.
So, I said, doing-nothing is best?
The further you travel, he said, completing the quote, the less you know.
In that case, I said, I shall continue my travels till I un-know everything.
He laughed and bowed.
If we find your bones by the roadside next spring, is there anyone we should notify?
Notify heaven and earth, I said. Notify the four winds.
Good luck in your quest, he said, and we went our separate ways.
Useless, I said to myself as I walked on. Idle talk. A waste of time. Zen banter on the road to hell.
The wind whipped up from the north, cold and stinging, made my eyes water. The ground underfoot was rough and uneven, the narrow road became a path, the path a track up through the woods, the track fading to almost nothing.