by Alan Spence
The child is yours, he said. You must accept responsibility.
I breathed deep, from my core. I answered him, said three words.
Is that so?
My reputation for purity had been hard won over many years of self-discipline, ferocious austerity. Now, overnight, it had been destroyed. I had fallen. This young girl had come to me for refuge, they said, and I had taken advantage. No doubt, they said, it was not the first time. No doubt. Even some of the monks left the temple.
One morning young Taku came to me, the one I had teased about the girl’s persimmon Zen.
It is unbelievable, he said.
Well then, don’t believe it.
It is unthinkable.
So don’t think about it.
I can’t understand it.
It is not to be understood.
He looked even more perplexed.
Take it as a koan, I said. Grapple with it as you would any other, struggle with its poison fangs and talons. Conquer it and go beyond.
He looked so miserable a great roar of a laugh burst out of me. Then I bowed, recited from the Four Great Vows.
Sentient beings are numberless. I vow to save them all.
He mouthed the words, silently repeating them.
Fangs and talons, I said. Go beyond. Now, meditate.
Weeks passed, months. By now word had spread and my reputation was in tatters. Folk in the village would turn away if they saw me in the street, they would cross the road to avoid me. Begging for our livelihood became more difficult, but the few hardy souls who still had faith in me gave more when they could. Somehow we survived. We got through the winter, looked forward to the coming of spring. Taku didn’t ask about the situation again. He grappled with it, his koan.
One clear, cold morning he came and told me the girl’s mother was at the gate, carrying a bundle. I told him to show her in.
The woman was uncomfortable, distressed at having to be here, having to enter this place.
How is your daughter? I asked.
As if you care, she said. She’s as well as anyone would expect under the circumstances.
I nodded and she handed me the little bundle, wrapped in a blanket. The child began to cry.
This is your son, she said. You have to take care of him.
Again I said, Is that so?
The villagers who had faith in me continued to give what they could, and even some of the others found ways to help the child. There would be offerings left at the temple gate – fruit and vegetables, a cup of rice, a jug of milk. Someone left a blanket, someone else a tiny shawl. A few times I thought I saw the girl’s mother setting down a basket. Once or twice I was sure it was the girl herself, her head covered, as she hurried away.
I had no experience of looking after a child, never mind a baby, but I was determined. I had to see this through. Taku and the other monks offered to help, but the responsibility was mine.
He must be a great seeker, I told Taku. He wakes every night at the hour of the ox, screaming his devotions.
And every hour after that, said Taku, through till dawn.
So you hear him? I asked. Clearly he is a little Bodhisattva, sent to awaken us.
Taku grunted.
There are worse ways, I said. The Chinese sage Tzu-ming used to jab his own thigh with a gimlet to keep himself from falling asleep in his meditation through the long cold winter nights.
Taku looked as if the gimlet would be easier to bear. The baby wailed and thrashed around in the little basket-crib where he slept. I picked him up.
So, little Buddha, you sleep, you wake, you eat, you piss, you shit, you sleep. And one day you’ll be enlightened!
The baby gurgled, laughed.
Tell me, little Buddha, I asked him, What was your face before you were born?
The baby kicked his legs, reached out his arms.
Look! I said to Taku. See how his tiny fist grabs the empty air!
Taku laughed.
He is teaching us, I said. It has to be realised here in this world. Your everyday mind is the way.
One morning they came back – the young girl, her head bent, tears in her eyes, her mother distraught, turning this way and that, the father straight-backed, tight-lipped, trying to hold on to some measure of dignity.
We owe you the humblest apology, he said, bowing low. She has told us the truth. The child is not yours. The real father is a young man we don’t even know.
He was passing through the village, said the mother, just passing through, on his way somewhere else.
He told me he loved me, said the girl. Then he was gone.
We still don’t know why she blamed you, said the mother.
The girl looked towards me, not catching my eye.
I didn’t know what to do, she said. I spoke your name.
We have caused you untold suffering, said the father. We have come to take the child and beg for your forgiveness.
Once more I spoke the three words, a mantra.
Is. That. So.
?
SATSU
A
cousin of mine, Shoji-san, lived not far away, in Mishima. He was a merchant, made a good living trading in furniture and wood carvings. But when he could he came to the temple to meditate. One day he approached me looking anxious and fretful.
You are troubled, I said.
He nodded.
It’s my daughter Satsu, he said. She’s fifteen years old.
Ah, I said. Is that so?
The story of Kazuko, the young girl and her baby, had been told far and wide, had become a kind of koan.
Oh no, said Shoji. She’s not in that kind of trouble.
What then?
She’s been sitting with me in zazen, and I feel she may be making some progress.
But?
She lacks reverence or any kind of decorum and she shows absolutely no respect for tradition.
I remember her as a young child, I said. She was always fiery.
Last week, he said, she was sitting meditating on top of a bamboo chest. I remonstrated with her and told her there was a statue of Buddha in the chest, and she should sit somewhere else. She refused to move, and said, Can you tell me somewhere I can sit where Buddha is not?
I smiled, said, That sounds like true insight.
Reluctantly she moved, said Shoji, but it went from bad to worse. She sat on a copy of the Lotus Sutra.
Thus have I heard . . .
Again I told her to move, and she said, What’s the difference between the Lotus Sutra and my arse?
I choked back a laugh, turned it into a cough.
Perhaps I can help.
I would be most grateful.
I took a brush and a piece of paper, copied out a poem.
If you can hear the voice
Of a crow that doesn’t caw
In the dark of night,
You will know your face
Before you were born.
Give her this, I said, handing the poem to Shoji, and tell me what she says.
When he’d gone I chuckled to myself. Lotus Sutra my arse!
The next day Shoji returned.
Well? I said.
He was uncomfortable, looked at the floor.
She read the poem, he said.
And?
He hesitated, took a deep breath, spoke all-in-a-rush.
She said, Is this old man Hakuin’s work? Is this the best he can come up with?
Perhaps she would deign to come and speak to old man Hakuin, I said.
A few days later he brought the girl to the temple. She sat in front of me, bowed.
Well? I said.
Well what?
Her father opened his mouth to scold her, but I raised my hand, stopped him.
Tell me about yourself, I said.
What’s to tell, she said. I’m fifteen years old. What do I know?
I’m sure you know a great deal.
I know I’m not much of a looker, she said. When you’re fifteen there are thing
s that become apparent, things you see with great clarity. On the other hand, I’m not hideous.
No.
And perhaps with luck and a bit of help I might actually find a husband.
Is that what you want?
Again her father opened his mouth.
She . . .
Again I silenced him, let her continue.
Here’s what happened, she said. Luck and a bit of help. I thought I’d get both by praying to Kannon Bodhisattva.
You could do worse, I said.
I went in secret to the temple at Yanagizawa. Quietly I offered up prayers, recited the sutra to Kannon.
I nodded and folded my hands, recited. Enmei Jikku Kannon Gyo.
The girl bowed.
It is a mantra that can bring great consolation, I said, in times of adversity. It is also said to combat illness and prolong life. Do you know the story of Kao-huang?
She shook her head.
He lived in ancient China, I said. He was a pious man, but he fell foul of the authorities and was sentenced to death. The night before he was due to be executed, he was meditating on Kannon. The Bodhisattva appeared before him and said if he chanted the sutra a thousand times through the night, then he would be spared and would live a long life. Kao-huang thought this was impossible but nevertheless he chanted through the whole night and completed the thousand recitations. At dawn he was taken to the prison yard. He kneeled and the executioner raised his sword. Kao-huang invoked Kannon one last time and waited for the fatal blow. But it never came. The sword mysteriously broke in two and the blade fell to the ground. Another sword was fetched and the same thing happened. They tried a third time and again the sword broke. A priest was summoned and he declared this must be the will of Heaven, and Kao-huang was set free. And of course he lived to a great age.
It’s a good story, said the girl.
The sutra is very powerful, whether you’re praying for long life, or looking for a husband, or seeking enlightenment.
Yes, she said. I went to the temple whenever I could, and soon I found myself completely absorbed in the devotions. I didn’t want to do anything else. Thoughts of finding a husband, of praying for anything at all, just faded away. I found myself chanting the sutra constantly, when I was reading or writing, cooking or washing up, cleaning the house. I lost myself in it completely.
The girl paused, rubbed her forehead. I could sense she was not used to talking like this, so openly and seriously, about her experience.
I recalled the intensity of my own devotions as a child, getting up in the middle of the night to chant the Tenjin Sutra. My father’s outrage, my mother’s concern. The huge excitement and uncertainty of it all.
Go on, I said to the girl.
All of a sudden, she said, as I looked out at the temple garden I made a kind of breakthrough. I can‘t put it in words. But I saw things clear, as they really are. The old pine tree. The crack on the wall. A hototogisu singing. Myself just sitting there.
You experienced kensho, I said. An awakening.
Yes.
She said it quietly, without a trace of arrogance, but with simple wonderment. Again I remembered my own early experiences, swaggering, puffed up with pride at the great realisation I had achieved.
Child, I said. You have made a beginning. If you wish, you are more than welcome to come here with your father and meditate with me.
She bowed, then turned to her father who also bowed, and this time he didn’t speak.
Two or three times Satsu came with her father and sat in zazen from early evening right through the night till dawn. He had long since slumped over, fallen asleep, but she sat, back straight, eyes clear.
I told her to meditate on one of the simpler koans. A monk enters the monastery and asks Joshu to teach him. Have you eaten your rice-gruel? asks Joshu. Yes, said the monk. Well then, says Joshu. Now wash your bowl.
Satsu said Thank you, went off to grapple with the problem. The next time I saw her I asked if she had made any headway.
It is clear, she said, and at the same time it is hard to see.
Searching for fire with a lighted lantern, I said.
She laughed and clapped her hands.
Use the fire to cook the rice!
I set her meditating on Joshu’s Mu, sent her off with furrowed brow. But stage by stage she intensified her understanding of it. At one point I sat down to question her about the koan, and she asked if I would repeat what I had just said. I opened my mouth to speak and she bowed deep, said, Thank you for taking all this trouble. Then she stood up and left the room.
I laughed.
Later I saw her father.
I’ll have to wake up, I said. I’ve just been outdone by your precocious daughter!
One day a monk named Rimpen came to visit. He was a pious fellow whose name meant Completely-encompassed. As it happened, I had been talking to Satsu and I allowed her to stay in the room when Rimpen arrived. She sat quietly in the corner, but I noticed him dart a glance across at her, uncomfortable.
Well, Rimpen, I said, as an opening gambit. Have you completely encompassed the great void?
Rimpen kept silent, drew a circle in the air with his finger.
That’s still only about half, I said.
He looked puzzled, unable to respond.
Satsu spoke up, said, Just a moment ago it was completely encompassed.
You’re right, I said, and I stared at the monk. Is there anything else?
There was something I wanted to ask, he said, gathering himself.
I am here, I said. Ask.
I read an inscription on one of your paintings, he said. Breaking up white rock inside a poppy seed.
Yes, I said.
I’ve been struggling to understand, he said. What do the words mean?
Before I could reply, Satsu jumped to her feet, picked up a teacup and threw it to the floor, smashing it to pieces.
Useless! she said, and strode out of the room.
You should listen to her, I said. And I drew a complete circle in the air with my finger.
Satsu continued to stamp her way through the teachings, trampling ignorance underfoot, facing down the koans. When I was convinced she had fully broken through, I presented her with a scroll inscribed with her name and a drawing of a circle. She touched the scroll to her forehead and smiled. Her eyes were piercing and clear.
TEASHOP ZEN
T
here was a teashop in the village run by a ferocious old woman who had gained a reputation for her understanding of Zen. I remembered my broom-handle enlightenment near Shoju’s hermitage at the hands of that other old woman who had battered me senseless, stunned me awake.
Aren’t you listening? she had shouted at me. Go somewhere else!
Somewhere else.
I resolved to visit this teashop in Hara, sample the old woman’s tea and Zen.
It was mid-morning when I pushed in through the bamboo curtains that clacked and swished behind me. Outside it was a bright clear autumn day. In here it was dank and dimly lit, light filtering in through tattered grimy shoji screens. But the smells were good – the fresh green bitterness of sencha, the slight acridness of charcoal from the stove, a sharp clear pine incense. I breathed it all in.
There were no other customers and I sat myself down at a low table in the corner, legs tucked under me as if for zazen. A few minutes passed, and a few more. I cleared my throat by way of announcing my presence, in case it hadn’t been noticed. A screen separated the shop from the kitchen area at the back, and from behind the screen the old woman’s head suddenly appeared.
Well? she demanded, irritation in the sharpness of her voice.
She wore an old kimono, dark green with a plum blossom embroidered on the sleeve. Her head was huge, her iron-grey hair caught up in an old-fashioned topknot skewered with a chopstick.
I bowed.
Tea, I said. I would like some tea.
Right place, she said, and she disappeared again, only to pop
out a moment later.
Shows you have at least half a brain, she said. Tea . . . Teashop. You could have gone to the fishmonger, or the knocking shop, or the Zen temple. No fish here. None of the other. And definitely no Zen. Just tea.
She waved a ladle at me.
And nothing fancy. No chanoyu frippery and nonsense. Tea. Plain and simple.
That’s all I’m after, I said. Plain and simple suits me fine.
That’s all right then, she said. Some of you black-robed shavepates come in here expecting Buddha-knows-what.
Tea, I said. Nothing else.
Right, she said. Tea it is.
I must have passed some first test, some initiation ceremony, as she went back once more behind the screen and I heard the pouring of water, the clattering of utensils.
More time passed. I began reciting the Lotus Sutra in my head.
Thus have I heard . . .
I got through the lists of Arhats and Bodhisattvas, on to Manjushri’s prologue.
All of you should now understand
And with one heart fold your hands and wait.
The Buddha will let fall the Dharma rain
To satisfy all those who seek the Way . . .
The old woman poked her head round the screen again, shouted Tea!
She shuffled over and unceremoniously banged the lacquer-wood tray down on my table.
So!
She lifted the lid from a little clay teapot, roughglazed, and stuffed in a handful of crushed leaves, tamped them down with a bamboo spoon, poured in water from an iron kettle, spilling a little on the tray.
Wait, she said, holding up one hand, then counting on her fingers. Twenty seconds.
She counted to twenty, then one more, for luck, poured the tea into a bowl.
Now, she said. Drink!
I took the bowl in both hands, bowed, then sipped the tea. The taste was the deep green of the forest, fresh cut grass on a summer day. A rush of brightness to the brain, then something lingering, a mellowness, an aftertaste.
Well? said the old woman, wary.
Yes, I said. Yes.