by Alan Spence
A verse from the Analects came to me.
Do not enter a state that is in danger.
Do not remain in a state that is falling apart.
This was the advice Confucius himself was giving me.
But my father was my father, and by ignoring his wishes at the end of his life I would be plunging him deeper into suffering.
All night I grappled with these opposites.
In the deepest sense, the best thing I could do for my father would be to continue with my meditation. He would benefit from that, as would all of humanity.
But he was not all of humanity. He was this one particular old man, beset by fear and doubt. By this one act of surrender I could alleviate his suffering directly.
My father.
My connection to him was karmic. Without him I would not be here. Without him I would not be here.
And yet.
I battled anger and frustration. I chanted the Daimoku.
Namu Myoho Renge Kyo.
I saw my mother’s face.
Namu Myoho Renge Kyo.
My mother. Her simple goodness. Her unshakable faith in the Lotus Sutra.
In a quiet place he collects his thoughts . . .
The verses came back to me.
Contemplating all Dharmas as having no existence, like empty space . . .
And yet.
Turn the Dharma wheel. Beat the Dharma drum . . .
The situation itself was a koan. Both extremes were right, but whatever I decided was wrong. Does a dog have the Buddha-nature?
Poison fangs and talons of the Dharma cave.
I entered into emptiness, concentrated once more on Mu.
Mu.
I sat on, heart open, mind clear. Towards dawn I saw there was a middle way, a compromise.
I would go back to Shoin-ji and put up with the squalor and the poverty and the misery of existing there for as long as my father was still alive on this earth. When he passed away I would once more be free to follow my own path, to go where I pleased. I could return here to the hermitage or go where the four winds blew me.
I stepped out into the cold morning light and bowed to the four directions, gave thanks to Mount Iwataki for its hospitality to me. In the rice bucket there was one last handful of rice. That too seemed like a sign. I would not ask my host to replenish the supply. I cooked it up into gruel as I did every morning and I supped it from my bowl, seated outside on the ground, looking out into the mist and clouds.
With my handful of belongings in a bag slung on my back, I headed down to take my leave of Tokugen-san and offer him my heartfelt gratitude, and thank his son, and Chin who had found this place for me, and I would tell Shichibei I would be returning with him to see my father.
Setting things in order.
As I left the mountain I sensed that yamabushi mountain-demon who had welcomed me on my first night was following me down. I even fancied I heard him call my name, Ekaku . . . Ekaku . . . and I felt he was sorry to see me go.
SHOIN-JI
M
y father had aged almost beyond recognition, shrivelled in on himself, his skin paper-thin. There was a hesitation, an uncertainty in his movements, a look of confusion in his eyes. But when he realised it was me coming in the door with old Shichibei, his back straightened and his eyes gleamed.
Iwajiro, he said, using my childhood name. My son.
Father, I said, bowing low, and I found there were tears in my own eyes.
Look at you, he said. You are skin and bone!
I survive on little, I said. But I am strong.
Yes, he said. I can see.
Shichibei had told me my brother had taken over the running of the inn, the way-station. He still lived in Numazu, but visited often, balanced the books, employed a manager to run the place and keep it in profit.
Yosaemon . . . said my father, then he stopped and seemed to have lost what he was going to say.
Your brother . . . he began again, concentrating.
Yes, I said. He is a good man, a good son.
Yes, said my father. But he doesn’t care about Shoin-ji.
It’s understandable, I said. He has other responsibilities.
The old place is disintegrating, he said. It is sinking into the ground and soon it will be no more.
It would be a great loss, I said.
It was founded by my uncle, Daizui Rojin. I studied there as a young man.
I know, I said. My mother told me this.
He looked confused, turned as if to speak to someone, then back at me remembering.
Yes, he said. Your mother.
I will go to Shoin-ji tomorrow, I said. I will do what I can.
His old eyes lit up, as if a great burden had been lifted from him.
I stayed the night in my old room, so small now, little more than an alcove, as small as my hut on Mount Iwataki. The futon had been rolled out and a stick of incense lit in the corner. Hung on the wall were a few of my early drawings and attempts at calligraphy, as well as the paper print I’d been given depicting Tenjin, the thunderbolt behind his head. Beside that was the scroll painting of the poet Saigyo, the one that had belonged to my mother, the one I had pierced with an arrow. I remembered the shame I had felt at that, my mother’s kindness. I looked closely at the painting and saw it had been repaired. My father must have seen to that, and again I felt moved, more than I would have expected. Beside the scroll was a little statue that had also been my mother’s, a wooden image of Kannon.
For a moment I was that child, the boy Iwajiro, and at the same time I was this man, in my thirties, the monk Ekaku, looking back at it all like something I had dreamed.
I sat straight-backed in zazen through the night. When I lay down briefly to take rest I caught for a moment the scent of my mother, the cotton of her kimono infused with the fragrance of jasmine.
I knew there was no point in hesitation or delay. If this was my karma I had to embrace it.
My father was too frail to make even the short journey with me to Shoin-ji. Just as he had done all those years ago, he gave me a little money, coins in an old purse. If the temple was as run-down as they said, the money would not go far. But it was a start. Just as my younger self had done, I kneeled and pressed my forehead to the ground, thanking him.
No, he said, this time it is I who have to thank you.
Shichibei walked with me to the road-end.
This is a good thing you are doing, he said.
Good, bad, who knows? I said. It is the thing to do.
It is the right thing, he said. I know it.
He turned back and I was once more alone, on my way. When I’d left here the first time, no more than a child, Fuji had appeared, shining above the clouds. Today the mountain stayed resolutely hidden in mist.
It was worse than I had imagined. The gate hung by a single hinge and when I pushed it, it came away completely and crashed to the ground, raising dust. I stepped inside.
Entering the Gateless Gate.
I called out, Hello! Is anybody there? But there was no reply. A torn shoji-screen flapped in the wind.
I peered into what had been the meditation hall and it was unrecognisable. The shrine area had been cleared, gutted, sat empty. The only incense was the tang of cat-piss. The roof was almost gone, the straw mats on the floor damp and rotted black, spattered here and there with birdshit.
Disintegrating into nothing, my father had said. Only Kaku can save it.
I stood in the open courtyard not knowing where to begin.
A rat went skittering across in front of me, into one of the storerooms. I followed it in but it disappeared. This room too was empty, and the one next to it, and the monks’ sleeping quarters. Then I went to what had been the library and was surprised to find the door intact and bolted shut.
There was a movement at the edge of my vision, something pale, and I turned, saw a skinny white cat slip out from a dark corner. We looked at each other, both surprised, and I bowed to the creature.
You are clearly the senior resident here, I said to the cat, far superior to brother rat who just ran off and ignored me.
The cat arched its back and watched me, sideways.
I assume you are the head priest, I said. I am the monk Ekaku, at your service. I am charged by my father with the task of restoring this place to its former glory and beyond.
The cat flicked its tail and gave a long mournful miaow.
I bowed again.
Namu Myoho Renge Kyo to you too!
But as I looked around I felt the chill of regret in my guts, an old familiar misery. I had given up my hermitage for this. But what my father had asked of me was impossible. It was another living koan to be faced down.
Mu.
The locked door of the library was intriguing. It was a challenge. Perhaps there were still books inside, artefacts the monks had left behind. I went in search of something I could use to break open the lock, and I found myself in the kitchen. At first glance it looked as derelict as the rest, but I noticed the old stove in the corner hadn’t been damaged or dismantled, and a few pots and pans hung from hooks in the roof beam. I brushed against them and they clanked together like dull bells.
I felt a sensation like cold water between my shoulderblades and trickling down my spine, a sense that someone was behind me, watching. I turned and there was nobody, but the feeling persisted and I turned this way and that, expecting somebody to step out of the shadows.
Maybe it was the unhappy spirit of some dried-up old monk who had spent his days here, contemplating nothing, only to end up among the gaki, the hungry ghosts.
I thought of the mountain-demon, the yamabushi who had stamped round my hermitage and loomed over me in the dark. It might be that the temple too had its own protective demon come to welcome me.
I breathed deep, counted the breaths. In for one, hold for four, out for two.
Hanging from the rafter was a big wooden paddle for stirring rice. I lifted it down, weighed it in my hand, laid it out on the tabletop. I picked up a bamboo pole, put it down again. Then I saw an old iron ladle, and it felt just right, solid and heavy. I carried it back through to the library door, wedged it into the gap and tried to prise it open.
I heard a noise behind me, and before I could turn I was struck across the back. I dropped the ladle and staggered forward, lost my footing and fell to my knees. Another blow cracked the top of my head, but I managed to turn and look at my attacker, stared straight into his eyes, wild and glaring. I recognised him.
Kakuzaemon, I said.
The old cook, heavy rice paddle in his hands, peered at me, confused.
I thought you were Daikoku descending from the higher worlds, I said, ready to batter me with your mallet and knock some wisdom into me.
His mouth hung open and he gawped like a carp. He threw down the paddle and folded his hands, bowed.
Ekaku-san, he said. Sensei. Forgive me. He got down on his knees and touched his head to the floor.
Come on, I said. Get up. There’s no harm done. And I’m glad there’s still somebody here to look after the place.
They knew you were coming, he said, but not yet. Not for a few days.
They?
The abbot of Seiken-ji and other senior priests.
Of course, they have jurisdiction over this place.
They have a plan, said the old man, to install you as the resident priest here.
Ah.
They’re going to hold a ceremony, make it official.
I laughed. They can call me Hunger-and-Cold, the Master of Poverty-Temple!
I indicated the library door with its lock. Now, I take it there’s something in here that’s worth protecting?
Very little, said Kakuzaemon, and he brought out a rusty old key from the folds of his threadbare robe.
We can work with very little, I said.
The door creaked and swung open and I stepped inside. The room smelled of damp and mould and rot.
Creditors had to be paid, said Kakuzaemon. The artefacts and furnishings were sold or pawned. A few were taken to Seiken-ji.
For safekeeping, I said.
He nodded, chuckled.
On a table in the centre of the room were a few books, wrapped in cloth and covered with a blanket. Among them was the Lotus Sutra. I picked it up, touched it to my forehead.
A good start, I said, feeling the weight of the book in my hand, smelling its mustiness.
There was a noise from outside, like somebody coming in at the ruined main gate.
More looters and pillagers? I said. Local hooligans? Or the abbot himself come to welcome me?
Most likely it’s Teki. He’s been out begging and foraging for food.
A young monk appeared in the doorway.
Teki-san, said Kakuzaemon. This is Ekaku-Sensei, come to restore the temple.
The monk was carrying a sack over his shoulder. He dropped it to the ground, bowed so his head was lower than his waist, then he straightened up, nodded towards the sack, lying there.
Rice, he explained. And yesterday I got some old shoyu that was going to be thrown out.
Ah, I said. So I have two gods of fortune come to greet me here – Daikoku with his mallet and Hotei with his sack.
Kakuzaemon said he would do what he could in the kitchen and Teki went to help him. I wandered around, looked in a few of the other rooms and everywhere was the same, the ceilings falling in, the screens torn, the floors rotting. Eventually I found an old broken palanquin that had been dragged indoors. I thought if I climbed inside it and wrapped myself in a blanket, it would offer at least a little shelter through the long hours of zazen and grappling with koans.
The white cat padded by, watched me with a kind of detached curiosity.
You see, I said to him. I have found my meditation seat and my shrine.
He yawned and headed off towards the kitchen.
After a while I followed him through. Old Kakuzaemon was peering into a heavy iron pot on top of the stove. Teki sat waiting, vacant. The cat feigned disinterest, disdain. It was like a little scene from a theatre performance, a drawing for a woodblock print. Interior with old cook, young monk and temple cat. All three of them looked up at me as I came in.
I could smell the rice, the rich earthiness of it, slightly burnt, catching the throat, and behind it something else, faintly rotten.
My nose must have twitched. Perhaps I made a slight grimace of distaste.
The shoyu was rancid, said Teki. That is why they were throwing it out.
I nodded, looked into the pot. The old man had cooked the rice first, then let it cool and added the shoyu mixed with water. It lay on the surface, a thin scummy discolouration flecked with white. The whiteness writhed and broke up.
Maggots, I said.
I was planning to scoop them out before we ate, said the old man.
Probably a good idea.
We eat what we can get, he said.
Indeed, I said. Nevertheless . . .
I chuckled and the old man looked relieved. He ladled the maggoty scum into a bowl, went outside to pour it onto the ground.
He didn’t want to kill them, said Teki. He’ll want them to hatch out.
I grunted, gruff and noncommittal, bowed to Kakuzaemon when he came back in. He dished out some of the food into three bowls, I offered up a prayer of gratitude and we ate, and I only found the one maggot, fished it out wriggling with my chopstick and set it to one side, bowed again and thanked the old man.
When we’d eaten I looked earnestly at both men, saw how worn and haggard they looked, thin and gaunt from this hard life, the struggle and lack of food.
I am grateful to you both, I said. I have no way of making things any easier. Our only assets here are the moonlight and the sound of the wind.
I climbed into the palanquin and they helped me get wedged in, seated upright, wrapped around with an old futon so I wouldn’t fall over during the night. They said they would see me the next morning and they bow
ed and took their leave.
Somewhere in the small hours, the thin time between worlds, great Jizo Bodhisattva came to me in a dream or a vision. He sat in the full lotus and his form was vast, infinite, filling all of space to the further limits of the universe. I had a question to ask him, and he told me to ask it, and I managed to put it into words. How do I attain full realisation and manifest it in my everyday life?
The Bodhisattva replied, It is like sitting inside a dense thicket of razor-sharp thorns.
I woke with my veins like ice, the hairs still standing on the back of my neck.
Does the cat have a name? I asked young Teki.
He had returned from another afternoon of begging, brought more rice, a few limp vegetables, even a small piece of dried fish. Perhaps it was the smell of the fish that interested the cat and he tangled himself around Teki’s legs, purring.
No, said Teki. We just call him Cat.
I laughed. That certainly keeps it simple!
Teki bent over and stroked the cat behind the ears. The purring grew louder.
We should call him Nansen, I said.
Nansen.
You know the story, I said, and the koan?
I have heard it, he said. But he looked wary, a little afraid.
I told the story again anyway, to remind him.
Two monks were quarrelling over a cat. They both claimed to own it. Nansen grabbed the cat and drew his sword. He said if either of them could say one good word the cat would be saved. They said nothing and he cut the cat in two.
Teki looked shocked. He picked up the cat purring at his feet and held it to him, protective.
Later, I said, Nansen mentioned the incident to Joshu, who took off his sandals, put them on his head and walked out of the room. Nansen laughed and said if Joshu had been there he would have saved the cat.
Teki was tense, stared at the floor.
It’s a difficult story to understand, I said.
There was a silence, both of us listening to the purring of the cat.