by Alan Spence
I continued to instruct Eboku through the game of Go and in direct, individual teaching, challenging him, facing him down. Torei, as my assistant, was the only other person who knew about these sessions, and he kept the information to himself.
The two men were utter opposites, and they skirted round each other with a wariness that grew into a grudging respect. In Eboku’s presence, Torei would be even more formal and procedural, precise to the point of fastidiousness. Eboku for his part would exaggerate his own quirks. He would swear loudly, make a point of swigging sake from a flask, then belch as he recited a verse from one of the sutras.
The truth of it was more complicated. One evening I showed them some of each other’s brushwork, and neither could conceal their astonished surprise.
Eboku’s drawings were the model of classical restraint, traditional in composition, skilled in execution. Even when painting a subject like Kanzan and Jittoku, the crazy Zen hermits, they were rendered with precision, a delicacy and elegance that was quite unexpected.
Even more unexpected was the breathtaking vigour of Torei’s paintings. They manifested a freedom and boldness I had rarely encountered, a briskness and confidence, a sureness of touch. With broad strokes and a fluidity of line, he imbued the work with dynamic energy, pure chi.
Where Eboku’s calligraphy was neat, compositionally correct, Torei’s lettering spilled all over the page, flowed from the drawing itself, extended its meaning.
Now, I said. Who is the traditionalist? Who is the wild man? Who upholds the rules? Who is burning the temple to the ground?
They both laughed, and from then on they saw each other with fresh eyes.
When I had driven Eboku through the Zen barriers, when he had attained experience of kensho, he agreed it was time to assume an appropriate name. After much thought he decided on the name Suio because it contained the character sui, meaning drunk.
Why would you choose such a name? asked one of the older monks, one of the crew who had continually criticised him.
My love for sake is endless, he said. My thirst is unquenchable.
It is inappropriate, said the monk, not quite suppressing his irritation.
What does the master say? asked Eboku, turning to me, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
I thought for a moment, wrote another character, also pronounced sui, but which meant accomplished.
Eboku laughed.
Does this meet with your approval? I asked the older monk, and he nodded, growled.
Again Eboku laughed.
Suio it is, he said.
Suio had no time for formal teaching and had no intention of ever becoming a teacher himself.
I would rather descend into hell, he said.
For a true teacher, I said, that’s exactly what is required.
So I was surprised to hear that a monk had come to visit him in his retreat, seeking guidance. Not only that, but Suio had told him to meditate on the Mu koan and the monk had come to him for instruction a number of times over three years. Now it was almost time for the monk to return to his home in Ryukyu, in the far south.
And is he enlightened? I asked Suio.
It seems not. He regrets having to return across the water and show his face back home.
So what have you advised him?
I told him not to be discouraged but to continue his meditation for seven more days.
A week went by and I asked Suio for news.
No change, said Suio. He still makes no progress.
And what did you tell him?
To try for seven days more.
Another week went by and I asked the same question. Is he enlightened?
Not yet, said Suio. I told him many great masters had achieved satori by meditating for twenty-one days.
So he’s giving it another week?
Yes.
A third week passed.
Well? I asked Suio, but I could tell by his expression there was still no change.
He is ready to give up and go home, said Suio.
Give him one final instruction, I said. Tell him to meditate for three more days.
And then?
If he doesn’t attain enlightenment, he should just kill himself.
Suio laughed, then looked worried.
Three days later he returned.
So, I said. What about your monk from Ryukyu?
He meditated for three days, like a man who was going to die.
And?
He was awakened. He has gone home with a shining face.
I laughed.
See what a fine teacher you would make!
Once again Torei had to return to his home in Omi, this time because his mother was ill. By the time she had recovered and he had come back to Shoin-ji, his own health was once more in decline. Now his lungs were badly affected, and deep breathing was difficult.
The local doctor was my good friend Ishii Gentoku. He attended meditations at Shoin-ji as a lay brother, and he was generous with his time when it came to treating the monks. He examined Torei, prescribed a few herbs, treated him with moxibustion, but the diagnosis was not good.
It’s a very bad case of what you would call Zen sickness, he said. A physician might say he’d had tuberculosis, or pleurisy.
These are the forms of Zen sickness, I said. These are its outer names.
Torei shivered, coughed, spat up blood. I continued to teach him the techniques of naikan introspection, and he rallied a little. But the poverty at Shoin-ji, the lack of nourishing food, had weakened him considerably. Going home again was out of the question, so reluctantly he agreed to go to Kyoto, to the mother-temple Myoshin-ji. I gave him an old coat of mine that had once been warm but was now threadbare and moth-eaten. He wrapped it round his thin shoulders, set off on the journey we both thought might be his last.
Suio had not visited Shoin-ji for months. He had gone to a remote spot, to Kumano, to meditate alone, far from any distractions. When he finally showed up again, his face had the smug inwardness of do-nothing Zen. I railed at him.
So the noise and bustle around here were unbearable. You couldn’t take it and you ran off into the mountains to commune with rocks and streams. You went looking for peace. Well, where did that get you?
I wanted to jolt him out of it, but I don’t think I’d ever directed my anger at him so powerfully, and for the first time I saw him flinch.
Take yourself out through the gate, I said, and walk along the Tokaido. Look, really look, at the streams of people passing by, at the farmers and labourers, the merchants and pedlars. Look at the donkeys and packhorses, carrying their loads. Look at the samurai and the travelling players, the fishwives and courtesans. Go in and out of the inns and teahouses, the public baths. Walk along between the great rows of pine trees, look across the rice fields to Fuji. Walk to Numazu, or on to Shinagawa, or all the way to Edo itself. Watch the endless traffic, the great hordes of people crossing every bridge, going in and out of the great temples. It is endless, it never stops, the bustle and movement, the teeming life. And all of this, all of it, is the great body of the Buddha.
For once Suio had nothing to say for himself.
As it happened, the following week a Korean delegation came along the Tokaido on the way to Edo, passing through Hara and right past the temple gates. They would be here to promote trade, and at the head of the little procession was a troupe of performers, musicians and dancers, jugglers and acrobats, led by three horsemen showing off their skills. They wore bright tunics, and their routine was breathtaking. On horseback, and without saddles, they spun and leaped and balanced, did tricks that seemed impossible. One stood on his head. A second bent right over backwards, body, arms and legs forming an arch. The third stood upright, riding two horses at once, one foot on the back of each. Then they rode round in circles, jumped on and off, changed places. It was dizzying, and the crowd lining the road applauded and cheered, and the monks joined in.
You see? I said to Suio. Are they not magni
ficent?
He gave a half smile, grudging, reluctant.
Later I did a painting of the three horsemen, tried to capture their movement, their sheer life-energy.
Underneath I wrote a poem.
Korean acrobats horse-riding bareback,
as one, galloping round and round.
See them bend and twist, leap
on and off, on and off.
I handed the painting to Suio.
Buddha-body, I said. Buddha-mind.
He bowed, grateful.
I had heard rumours that Torei was preparing to die, and was writing a book he might leave behind for others following the Zen path, to pass on the little he thought he had learned. A visitor from Kyoto brought me a parcel, beautifully wrapped in handmade paper. It was Torei’s book, The Undying Lamp of Zen. He had written an inscription, dedicating the book to me and thanking me for communicating the teaching and enabling him to break through and face death with equanimity. On the title page he had written, Great Faith, Great Doubt, Great Determination.
I lit the lamp in my room and settled to read the book through the night.
At dawn I put the book aside with a deep sense of humility. This disciple of mine had written a work of great power and simplicity. It would open the gates of Zen for many generations to come. I remembered old Shoju’s words to me. The old winds of Zen will blow once more throughout the land.
I stepped outside in the early morning light and stretched my old limbs, heard my very bones creak and crack. Then I went back inside and wrote a letter expressing my gratitude and pride. I inscribed a poem and drew a carp, swimming through the words.
A golden carp swims through the weeds of Omi’s great waters.
He overcomes all obstacles and passes through the Dragon Gate.
Now he is free to play in the poison waves of Buddha-ocean.
Performing true charity, he gives not a drop to others.
I entrusted the scroll to a young monk who was leaving for Kyoto that very day and who would deliver it to Torei at Myoshin-ji.
In the next letter I received from Torei, he was elated. His writing of the book, and my response to it, had broken down further barriers. He had stepped into a profound satori.
With your help, he wrote, I have grasped the marvellous realisation you inhabit every day.
He intensified his meditation, and miraculously his health began to improve. Again he returned to Shoin-ji, again I welcomed him with great joy.
I had been discussing him with those senior monks who had been so eager to dismiss him. I had shown them Torei’s book, The Undying Lamp, so they might understand the depth of his understanding. Still they refused to recognise his worth, and I lost patience, shouted at them.
Fools! If you cannot recognise this man’s worth from his writings, how can you begin to understand the scriptures? How can you value what is written about the ancients and the great masters? Can you not grasp the power of the word?
Not one of them made a reply, and a few days later I presented Torei with the gold-brocade robe I had been given on my installation as abbot at Shoin-ji. I was hoping to appoint him as my successor, but he was reluctant.
I am grateful for this gift, he said. But I am not ready to teach, and I cannot succeed you at Shoin-ji.
That is your decision to make, I said, and only yours.
But some time later I approached him again with another scheme. There was a run-down temple, Muryo-ji, in the nearby village of Hina. I mentioned that the temple was in an advanced state of decay, worse even than Shoin-ji when I first arrived. Unless someone were to take over as head priest, temporarily at least, then Muryo-ji would simply cease to exist.
However small the temple, I said, however dilapidated, it is a centre for spreading the Dharma, and its disappearance would be a great loss.
I let the idea settle, hang in the air.
And you want me to go there, he said at last.
That is indeed a thought, I said, as if it had not occurred to me.
I left him to ponder the matter, and he grappled with it as if it were the fiercest most poisonous koan. After a night of intense zazen he came to me, haggard and wretched, dark lines under his eyes.
This was not what I had in mind, he said, when I left my home and followed the Zen path. My aim was to pursue enlightenment at all costs, and I still have much to learn in terms of my own training.
I left a silence.
On the other hand, I said.
On the other hand, he said. You are asking me to do this, and if I don’t, the temple will disappear into nothing.
This is true, I said. But the decision is still yours to make, and only yours.
There was another silence, longer. It began to rain, and we listened to the steady drip, drip, drip on the leaky roof.
Finally Torei spoke. I will do it, he said. But, with respect, I will insist on a number of conditions.
That is your privilege, I said.
First, he said, the position at Muryo-ji is self-existent and sufficient. It is not a stepping-stone to succeeding you here at Shoin-ji, and you will not try to persuade me otherwise.
Agreed, I said.
Second, at Muryo-ji all decisions concerning the running of the place will be made by me and me alone. Nobody else will interfere.
He looked at me pointedly and repeated, Nobody.
Of course, I said. That goes without saying.
He allowed himself the faintest smile at that, continued to his third point.
I have always vowed to be free, he said, and not to be tied down to any one place.
I understand, I said.
So, if I choose, I can move on at any time, and hand over the running of Muryo-ji to someone else.
I see no problem with any of these conditions, I said.
Good.
Then I am talking to the new head priest at Muryo-ji.
So it would appear, he said, as if he had been tricked and couldn’t quite believe it had happened.
Have a cup of tea, I said, and I poured it, whisked the bright green brew to a froth.
In time I was forced, as I knew I would be, to renege on the first of my promises to Torei. I asked him to consider becoming my successor at Shoin-ji.
It was as if I had challenged him with the most difficult, most vicious, most poisonous of koans. He became agitated, distraught. For a few days he would avert his gaze when he met me, rush off on some pretext so he didn’t have to talk. Eventually I collared him, asked if he had made his decision. He said he would give it one more night of intense zazen so he could proceed with a clear mind.
In the morning he stood before me, looking worse than ever, his shoulders clenched, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets.
Well? I said.
It is not a simple matter, he said.
I am growing older by the minute, I said, even as we stand here.
So, before I decide, he said, I would first like to make a short visit to the shrine at Mount Akiba, to pray for your continued health and long life.
I knew he was simply delaying, giving himself more time, but I agreed to his request.
If that is what you wish, I said. And your concern for my welfare is touching.
The shrine was in Totomi province, not a great distance away. He would be back in a few days and I could press him for a decision. But a week went by, then two weeks, and there was no sign of Torei and no word from him. I stood at the gate one day, looking into the far distance, perhaps hoping I would see him on the road. And there was a figure approaching, someone in monk’s robes, definitely heading this way. But as the figure drew closer, I realised it was Suio.
Showing up for your tuppenceworth of instruction? I said.
I’m sorry if you were expecting somebody else, he said. I’m just who I am. No more but no less.
Rascal! I said, and he bowed and walked past me, went in through the gate. But then he stopped and turned back, facing me.
If you are looking for Torei, he
said, there is something perhaps I should tell you.
Indeed?
He happened to speak to me before he left, and he was in great turmoil about your request.
Yes.
He felt there was nothing he could do but run away and go into hiding.
I see. So he’s not in Totomi?
I heard a rumour he had gone to Kyoto and was in retreat at the mother temple.
Myoshin-ji.
That’s the rumour, for what it’s worth.
We stood for a few moments in silence. The breeze blew. Fuji appeared from mist and haze, disappeared again, reappeared.
Oh well, I said. If Torei won’t take over the running of this place, I’ll have to ask you.
Suio threw back his head and laughed so hard he was in tears and had to wipe his face with his sleeve.
Abbot Suio! he said, and the very thought started him laughing again.
A few days later the nun Esho-ni came to visit me at Shoin-ji. She had on occasion taken instruction from Torei, and he had stopped to visit her on his way to Kyoto.
His heart was heavy, she said, but he exhorted me to continue my practice and fulfil the Four Great Vows. He also copied out a poem he had written.
She unrolled a small piece of paper, smoothed it out and placed it before me. I read the poem, in Torei’s unmistakable script.
Leaving myself behind,
In what world will I see again
The floating island of Hara?
I thanked Esho-ni for her thoughtfulness in coming to see me and letting me read the poem. When she’d gone, I wrote it out on another sheet of paper, added a drawing with a few strokes of the brush, Fuji in the distance, Hara like an island floating in the mist.
I sent it to Torei in Kyoto, adding the words he himself had inscribed in his copy of The Undying Lamp.
Great Faith. Great Doubt. Great Determination.