by Alan Spence
I felt an expansion in my chest as I breathed.
The ten thousand things are filled
With the vital energy of creation
And burst into blossom.
And you, he said, turning his gaze on me, Ekaku, Wise Crane, this is what you have to achieve in your meditation. Your illness arises from letting your heart-fire rush upward. This is against the natural flow. The energy has to be directed downward, otherwise you will never regain your health and composure.
For a moment I was assailed by the thought that this might happen, that I would never recover my strength.
Hakuyu smiled, reading me.
Fear not, he said. You are a great sage, unborn as the heavens and the earth, as infinite as space. You just have to realise this truth.
I bowed with folded hands.
Now, he said, before we proceed, let us eat a little simple food, to sustain ourselves.
He brought two bowls of berries and nuts, and we ate in silence, then drank more cold water from the pure spring above the cave. Again I felt refreshed, had no need of more.
So, he said. Where were we?
Awakening, I said. Realising the truth.
Yes, he said, and is this not what you have been seeking? You probably think I am an old Taoist spouting a philosophy that has nothing to do with Buddhism. But what I am teaching you is pure Zen. One day you will realise this and smile.
I did smile, and he laughed.
You see, he said. You have realised it already. Now you have to realise that you realise it!
He straightened his back again, took in another long deep breath.
You are reduced to this state of illness by false contemplation, that is to say, contemplation that is diverse and diffused. The way to cure you, then, is through true contemplation, which is, in effect, noncontemplation.
Once more he was speaking in aphorisms, sutras.
True contemplation is noncontemplation.
He let the words resonate, settle.
In noncontemplation, he said, you are beyond all discrimination, beyond all conscious thought, in pure undefiled meditation. So, no foolish talk of giving up your study of Zen. The Buddha himself taught that we should cure all illness by drawing the heart-energy into the soles of the feet. Consider that.
I sat, absorbed in his words, and he gave me simple advice on meditation practice.
Go to a room where you won’t be disturbed. Sit on a mat and keep your back straight. Close your eyes and contain the vital energy within your heart. When your breathing would not disturb a feather, count three hundred breaths. In time your ears will not hear and your eyes will not see. Heat and cold will no longer disturb you. The poisonous stings of scorpions and bees will cause you no harm. Eventually you will no longer breathe in or out. Your breath will flow from all the pores of your body, rise upward like mist, like clouds. All your ailments will vanish, and you will see with perfect clarity, like a blind man whose sight has been restored.
He opened his eyes wide, stared at me.
Once you reach the age of 360, you should have made some real progress towards becoming a true person!
He chuckled to himself.
What you have to do, Ekaku, is cut down on words. Devote yourself in silence to sustaining the primal energy.
To improve your sight, keep your eyes closed.
To improve your hearing, avoid sounds.
To sustain primal energy, remain silent.
So, he said. Now.
And the rest of his teaching he transmitted in silence, directly through meditation.
I wanted to thank him but I had no words. I bowed. He nodded.
When I was a young man, he said, I fell prey to the same illness as you, but I was in a much worse state. I suffered ten times as much as you. The doctors wrote me off and said I wouldn’t survive. I prayed to the deities of heaven and earth for their help, and, miraculously, they responded with their guidance and protection. Within a month of practising introspection, I was cured of my ailments, and since then, through all these years, I’ve never known a day’s illness. I became carefree, like a crazy hermit. I lost all sense of time, never knowing what day it was, or even what year. I had no interest in worldly pursuits or desires. I left Kyoto and went to live in the mountains of Wakasa, wandering here and there. That was my life for thirty years. Now I look back and it has no more substance than the fleeting world dreamed by Lu-sheng. Do you know that story?
I had heard the tale, but wanted to hear it recounted by Hakuyu. I asked him to continue.
There was once a young man named Lu-sheng, he said, who set off towards the capital to make his way in the world and find fame and fortune. On his way to the city he stopped at an inn to eat and rest. While he waited for his food to be prepared, he stretched out and fell asleep. And he dreamed that he did indeed find success and was rewarded with promotions to higher and higher ranks, till eventually he was appointed Prime Minister with jurisdiction over the whole land. He awoke from the dream with the smell of food in his nostrils. Perhaps it was some of that delicious tororojiru! But he realised that he had just dreamed a whole life for himself, and he saw that actually living such a life would be as fleeting and empty and meaningless as his dream. So he returned home and pursued the life of contemplation.
For a moment Hakuyu was lost in his own contemplation, a faint smile at the corners of his mouth. Then, as if remembering I was there, he turned his gaze on me once more.
So, he said. Now I live here all alone in this isolated spot. I live from moment to moment. My needs are few. I have some scraps of worn clothing to wrap around my old bones. I have that one threadbare blanket you borrowed last night. But even in the depth of the coldest winter night, when the wind cuts through the thin layers of cotton and I should freeze to death, I do not. And even during the dark months when there are no fruits or berries to gather, and there’s no grain for me to eat, and I should starve to death, I do not. And it is all due to this introspection, this contemplation.
His bright eyes burned.
Young sage, he said, I have just given you a secret that you will never use up in this lifetime. What more can I teach you?
Nothing? I said.
Nothing.
As I took my leave of Master Hakuyu I thanked him once more, and he said there was no need.
Practise the meditation, he said. That’s all.
The time I had been here was short, fleeting – an evening, a night, a day – yet it felt as if it might have been a whole lifetime. As I picked my way slowly down over the rocks, I could feel the chill of evening, see the light start to fade on the distant peaks, the clouds, the tops of trees far below. I stopped to gaze at it all and felt a huge emotion swell in my chest. Infinite vastness. No sound but the wind blowing.
I suddenly remembered losing my way on the ascent, hearing the woodcutter’s axe, recognising in him the old man who had sent me on this quest, recognising both of them in Hakuyu himself.
Breaking the silence came the sound of wooden geta, quick choppy steps clip-clopping behind me. I turned and there was the Master, heading towards me over the stony ground, moving effortlessly as if strolling through some Zen garden. He waved when he saw me turn, and he quickened his pace. When he reached me he was perfectly relaxed, his breathing easy.
It’s easy to lose your way on these mountain trails, he said. I’ll lead you down to where it’s easier.
I bowed in gratitude, and he strode off ahead of me down the ragged path, his clogs sclaffing, a thin stick for a staff in his right hand. Every so often he looked over his shoulder and laughed.
All right? he called out to me.
Never been better.
When we reached the stream, the Shirakawa River, he stopped and said if I followed it down I would easily reach the village before nightfall.
There was a silence, and for a moment I thought I saw a sadness in his eyes.
There was something I wanted to ask, I said, but I forgot.
; Ah, he said. Questioning already!
I told him about the old man, and the woodcutter, and I asked him straight out if he himself was both of them.
He looked amused.
What do you think? he asked.
Yes, I said. I think you were.
Like some old Taoist shape-shifter?
Perhaps.
Who knows? he said. Maybe they were emanations I sent out to fetch you. But then again, are we not all one?
He laughed, and my vision blurred, and for an instant I was looking at the old man, then the woodcutter, then an ancient Chinese sage. Then it was once more Hakuyu’s leathery face smiling at me.
I bowed low, hands folded in gratitude one last time.
He nodded and turned away with a wave, and I stood watching as he made his way, light on his feet, back to his own realm above the clouds. When he finally disappeared from sight I picked up my pack and continued my descent to the world below.
MOUNT IWATAKI
M
y wandering continued, brought me back to Hofuku-ji where I paid my respects once more to Nanzen. He was happy to see me again, though I didn’t have many new poems to show him. He said he often spoke of me and still expected me to achieve great things.
An old priest named Sokai lived in the neighbourhood, another shiftless advocate of do-nothing Zen. From time to time he slithered into the temple and regaled the monks with a lecture or a sermon. One day I heard him tell the story of master Muso who once decided to spend the whole summer in solitary retreat, in a hut in the mountains, eating nothing but a single dried persimmon every day. With rigorous austerity, he would concentrate entirely on his meditation.
Muso had just arrived at his retreat, on Mount Kentoku, when he was approached by a young boy in monk’s robes who offered to be his attendant for the whole time he was there. Muso explained he would be living on one dried persimmon a day and he could not feed the boy. The boy said, Just give me half a persimmon a day. That’s all I ask.
The master thought the boy would soon tire of the regime. He would last a day or two then run off. So he agreed to let him stay.
The monks listening to the story chuckled in anticipation and settled down to hear the rest of the tale.
One month went by, said Sokai. Two months. The young monk never tired, he was never bothered by the lack of food. He swept and cleaned, he fetched water. If he wasn’t working at his chores he was reading, or chanting the sutras. Muso was grateful and deeply impressed. On the last day of the retreat he summoned the young man to thank him and offer him a gift, the only thing he had, the surplice he was wearing round his shoulders. The young man bowed as if he had received a priceless gift from the gods. He raised the surplice three times with great devotion and draped it over his own shoulders. He said he would go on ahead to the village at the foot of the mountain and arrange for food to be prepared for the master. He touched his forehead to the ground, then sped off down the mountain path.
Muso was weak and frail after his months of austerity and privation, and his legs shook as he made his way, step by step, leaning on a stick, down the steep path. It was almost noon when he reached the village, and a man came out of the first house and bowed down in veneration. The young monk had told him to expect the master, and it would be a great honour to offer him food after his long months of effort.
Where is the monk? asked Muso as he stepped into the house.
He was here just a moment ago, said the man. Let me go and find him.
Just then one of the villagers came running up and said he had seen something miraculous. He had been passing a shrine across the road when a young monk came flying out through the screen doors, without opening them, then soared away into the distance and disappeared over the mountains. What he had seen was not humanly possible.
They all hurried over to the shrine, pushed open the door and peered inside. Muso saw a small statue of Jizo Bodhisattva, and draped round its shoulders was the damask surplice he had given the young monk. When he looked closer he saw that the face of the statue was the young monk’s face. It was unmistakable. They were one and the same.
Word spread through the village, and beyond, and people started converging on the shrine. It became a place of pilgrimage, and the story was passed on, from generation to generation, that Jizo Bodhisattva himself had taken incarnation to help Master Muso.
When Sokai had finished his story there were appreciative noises from the monks, a spatter of applause. A few of the simpering idiots even had tears in their eyes at this wondrous tale of divine intervention. But the story had caught my imagination for a different reason altogether. What inspired me was the intensity of Muso’s resolve and determination, his deep faith and devotion.
That was what I was after, and if Muso could achieve it, so could I.
I took my leave of Nanzen and set off alone with no particular destination in mind, determined only to find some remote spot where I might meditate in complete seclusion with total intensity, a spot where I might follow the injunction, to wither away with the mountain trees and grasses.
Initially I headed towards Mount Kokei, for no reason at all. I walked for miles across desolate moorland, bleak and barren, step after step, exhausted in body and mind. What demon had taken possession of me, driving me on like this, further into the wilderness? Then I saw in the distance a small wayside temple. Perhaps the monks would offer me some tea and a little rice to sustain me on my journey. As it happened, the head monk was Chin Shuso, someone I had met before on my travels, and we both laughed, delighted at the coincidence.
No such thing, he said. We were destined to meet again.
I told him of my quest, and he asked, Why Mount Kokei? I told him I had no idea.
It’s certainly very beautiful, he said. But if it’s not to your liking, or you can’t find what you’re looking for, don’t hesitate to come back here. I know of a place not too far away that may be just right.
I thanked him and headed on my way, and as I left he called out after me.
Don’t forget, what you’re looking for may be right here.
I spent the next week wandering in the mountains of Kokei, and it was like some heavenly realm, some sanctified place described by the ancient sages and poets. The sheer beauty of the landscape made the heart soar, magnificent mountains rising out of lush forest, thick green foliage. In a setting like this it was impossible not to feel serenity and calm.
I had brought a little tub of cooked rice with me, and I ate a handful every day. I drank water from clear mountain streams. I walked for miles, searching for some sanctuary, some small hermitage where I might cut myself off from all distraction, spend months in solitude like Master Muso. But I found nothing. The travellers I passed on the remote paths were few, and nobody could help me. Heavy-hearted and disconsolate, I made my way back to the temple of my friend Chin.
I was sure you would return, he said. Your search was like looking for the stars in the midday sky.
An expression used by Shoju Rojin, I said.
In any case, he continued, perhaps Mount Kokei is just too beautiful, too perfect, and that in itself might have been a distraction.
Perhaps, I said. Now, you said you knew of somewhere that might be just right.
He nodded, eager, his eyes twinkling.
There’s an old layman by the name of Tokugen. He’s a devotee of the Pure Land. He’s well-to-do and he’s a good friend to the temple, a real benefactor who is always happy to help us out.
Such people are jewels, I said.
He has actually built a little hermitage that is lying empty. I took the liberty of telling him about you and your quest.
And he didn’t drive you away with blows?
On the contrary, he is eager to meet you and would be honoured if you would take up residence. It’s almost as if the place has been waiting for you.
Perhaps because of my exhaustion, for a moment I was quite overcome. I bowed deep, thanked my old friend.
It
’s a few miles north of here, he said, on Mount Iwataki.
Iwataki, I said. I like the sound of it.
Iwataki.
We set out early next morning and made good time on the road.
Distances are always less when you’re in good company, I said.
Old Tokugen-san was waiting to meet us at the road’s end, grinning and nodding and bowing to us with folded hands, eager as a young acolyte whose master has given him some task to perform.
This is true devotion, I said, and I saw him wipe his eyes with his sleeve.
When he’d recovered he offered us tea, then said the path up to the hermitage was steep and long, and he wouldn’t be able to take me there himself.
My old legs, he explained.
But his son would show me the way. He was waiting and would leave as soon as I was ready.
I am ready now, I said. As ready as I’ll ever be.
Chin had to return to his duties at the temple, so he and Tokugen-san said their farewells to me, and I set off following the young man along the path to Iwataki. He carried my few possessions slung over his shoulder, and a wooden five-bushel bucket of uncooked rice. This would be my sustenance, my equivalent of Muso’s half-a-persimmon-a-day. I wondered for a moment if the young man might likewise be Jizo Bodhisattva in disguise, but it seemed unlikely. He was awkward and shy, and this made him almost sullen, as if he were showing me the way under sufferance. He made no conversation and I didn’t torture him by asking him any questions. But my gratitude to him was genuine. When we reached the hermitage he set down the bucket of rice and immediately gathered firewood for later, and he took another bucket and fetched water from a stream.
I remembered a haiku I’d read, and I recited it to him.