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Reflections on the Trip
by Roko Osho Sherry Chayat
As far back as I can remember, I've wanted to go to Japan. When I was five
or six, I would look into the mirror and pull my eyes into a slant, the way
I thought they really should be. In an eighth-grade class on world cultures,
I discovered that there was something called Zen. What I read about matched
what I was already doing from time to time: sitting very still in the
vastness of an all-encompassing, non-discriminating awareness. From then
on, I thought it would be a matter of time before I was studying in Japan.
It was�a matter of half a century, during which Japan came to me, in the
remarkable personages of Hakuun Yasutani Roshi, Soen Nakagawa Roshi, and
my beloved teacher, Eido Tai Shimano Roshi.
But still, and increasingly, I longed to go to Japan, to walk in the
footsteps of our ancestral teachers, Hakuin Ekaku, Torei Enji, Soyen Shaku,
and Yamamoto Gempo. In 1967�the year I began formal Zen practice at the
Zen Studies Society in New York City�Soen Roshi wrote in his journal,
�Buddha-Dharma has perished in India; Zen has declined in China; it has
maintained its life vein in just a few scattered areas of East Asia. Now
it is crossing the Pacific Ocean, moving eastward to the United States and
going westward to Europe and Africa, and is about to blossom. This year is
the two hundredth anniversary of Zen Master Hakuin's death. . . .
Bodhidharma says one flower opens five petals. Thinking of how the true
Dharma prevails on the five continents, as well as in our five inner organs,
I am overcome with tears, and bow. �This year, as I celebrate the calendar's
return to the Year of the Sheep�my sixtieth birthday�I pray for an auspicious
future for all beings.�
His accompanying haiku:
Returning
and returning
ancestral teachers' spring
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Roko Osho, Kazuaki Tanahashi Sensei, and Peter Gamba
in the main courtyard at Ryataku-ji
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It is now 2003, and this year I too celebrate the calendar's return to
the Year of the Sheep, and on October 2, I too will be sixty, and I too
pray for an auspicious future for all beings�and at last my dream of going
to Japan has come true. For three weeks in May and June, my dear friend
and colleague Kazuaki Tanahashi and I traveled in Kyoto, Gifu, and Takayama,
and for two of those weeks, we were joined by twenty-one students from all
over the country on a pilgrimage we arranged to encounter Hakuin Ekaku
(1686-1768), the great Zen Master and revitalizer of Rinzai Zen, through
his temples, writings, and visual teachings in calligraphy and painting.
My sister asked me over the telephone shortly after I returned, �What was
it about Japan that you loved the most?�
Where could I begin? Of course, sitting in the zendo at the temple where
Hakuin taught for most of his life, Shoin-ji, came immediately to mind; but
so did viewing Hakuin's portrait of Bodhidharma, one single scroll of all
the vast number of his paintings kept in storage at Ryutaku-ji, vividly
conveying the profundity of his Zen in just a few brushstrokes. And so did
walking up the steep stone path to Ryutaku-ji, where Hakuin taught during
the last years of his life, and the very temple where Soen Roshi and Eido
Roshi had trained as young monks, and where the former had been abbot. And
so did walking outside at dawn in Mishima, to find Mt. Fuji rising up just
behind our ryokan, and reflecting in the rice paddies at our feet. How could
I choose from those and many more such moments? Soen Roshi's haiku describes
perfectly my heart:
I scoop up
the invisible footsteps of my teacher
under the lofty sky.
I found myself telling my sister about the every-day kindness and courtesy
that we all remarked upon during our time there. People don't appear to
view the tenets of religion as something to promote or defend, but to
practice in ordinary life. The principles of Buddhism and the underlying
teachings of Confucianism and Taoism are observed side-by-side with the
nature-revering rituals of Shintoism, and Christianity is welcomed
too�although I must say it was wonderfully surprising to open a drawer in
the Hotel Sanjo Karasuma and find as sacred text a volume titled �The
Teachings of Buddha.� There are more than 1500 Buddhist temples in Kyoto,
and I don't know how many Shinto shrines. One finds shrines right next to
temples, as if extending their beneficent guardianship, spirits of rock,
water, wind, and mountain reaching a naga-like protective arm around the
newer faith of Buddhism.
People bow. All the time. They bow to each other, with keen awareness of
social standing, yes�but it's not merely social convention. There's a
heart-felt respectfulness. People bow when talking on the telephone. These
may be unseen bows, but not unfelt. The voice conveys the gesture. You walk
into a store or restaurant or bank, and there are cheerful cries of �Ohayo
gozaimasu!� (Good morning!) or �Konichiwa!� (Good afternoon!), and bows
of greeting. I found that with extremely limited language I could,
nevertheless, get by with a few all-important phrases: �Domo arigato
gozaimasu� (Thank you so much), �Kudasai� (Please) and especially, �Sumi
masen� (I'm sorry, or Excuse me�useful when bumping into someone, doing
something typically and clumsily inappropriate, or just entering a store
and letting the proprietor know�because unlike in the USA, often a shop is
completely unguarded, merchandise beautifully displayed, the owner somewhere
out back, unconcerned about theft, which is considered so morally
reprehensible, such a guarantee of hideous personal karmic consequences,
that no one would engage in it).
Thoughtfulness underlies every interaction. Voices, especially those of most
women, are soft, soothing; one gets the feeling that there is a genuine
wish to make life pleasant for each other, based on an understanding that
since we all suffer in various ways, it is incumbent upon us to help
alleviate what we can. In all my time in Kyoto I never heard a car sound
its horn in impatience. Bicyclists jingle their bells to get past
pedestrians, but when at first we didn't understand, they simply stepped
down and walked around us clueless foreigners.
The courtesy with which one is treated in Japan seems natural, organic.
Perhaps it comes from a reverence for life steeped in an awareness of the
inevitability of death. This transience acknowledged brings with it a true
respect that has nothing to do with mere convention. And, of course, there
is the fact of a large population in a small country surrounded by water.
Over the centuries, people have learned how to be private in public, so that
personal space is never violated; and how to take the same care in private
as if one were being observed. Little kindnesses are writ into a tacit code:
when using toilet tissue, one folds the end into a point for the next
person. Before bathing together, each person cleans and rinses thoroughly
in the tiled area outside the bath. When one enters a building, one finds
slippers facing neatly in the direction of the interior, ready for the guest
or family member to put on. Shoes are removed and placed in the opposite
direction on the shelf or on the stone entryway, never contaminating the
wooden platform or step up into the interior space.
One manifestation of the daily engagement with religion and tradition
(usually indistinguishable) is the importance placed upon visits to
�important cultural properties��usually temples and shrines, particularly
for schoolchildren. Everywhere we went, we were engulfed by busloads of
uniformed youth being marshalled into tour formations by their teachers,
who were in full business attire, using bullhorns to inform their charges
about the significance of the site. The children would dutifully pour into
the Buddha hall or onto the garden deck or overlook, quickly snap some
pictures of each other with the requisite backdrop, and run off to the
next important cultural property, shouting in boisterous glee all the while.
Aside from these school trips, during which the youngsters are able to run
free as long as they stay together�and doing things together, in formation,
is very much a part of every Japanese person's training�the life of
schoolchildren is notoriously demanding, their work day exhaustingly
long, so one can't begrudge them their high spirits when they're allowed
out. Before the rigors of academic life begin, children seem to be
indulged and relatively free from regulations. I never saw an instance
of parental abuse, not even public scolding. All children, in this society
that upholds family planning as a civic responsibility, seem wanted and loved. Concommitantly, the abortion rate is high, and every temple has its Jizo graveyard, the little figures of this Bodhisattva who is known as the protector of women and children and travellers. The statues are often dressed in red sweaters and caps, indicative of mothers' loving and regretful tenderness toward those �water babies� who were not carried to term.
Many smaller groups of adults, families, and solitary people gather at
the sacred sites, some devotionally and others just to enjoy the gardens
and relax on the grounds. As we moved from temple to shrine�usually up
the hill, or into the adjoining woods�we'd hear the sound of clapping,
as visitors acknowledged the kami�the divine spirits�of the place. At the
shrines, rather than images of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, there would be a
round mirror, in which the kami could be observed in their manifestations
as wind through branches, the movement of water, the sun's bright heat, the
mystery of the dark cliffs.
Japan is a beautiful country. Water is everywhere, of course�not only the
Pacific Ocean and Japan Sea, and the various bays and inlets, but the
rushing rivers through the gorges of the Japanese alps, the sparkling
lakes, the little waterfalls, the ponds and water basins at every temple
and shrine, the canals and little streams running along the streets in
towns and cities. And mountains�even where there are none, they are suggested
by the rock gardens and little moss landscapes. But one doesn't have to
look far to find them. Kyoto is ringed with gentle hills. Takayama
(literally, �High Mountain,� the area in which Kaz and I stayed after our
first four days in Kyoto and our overnight visit with his stepmother), is
an incredibly beautiful town, with steeper villages surrounding it. Our
ryokan, an elegant yet simple inn, was located in one of them, Nyukawa,
named for the �Mercury River� that runs through the village.
Still thinking about my sister's question, not entirely in jest I added,
�The toilets and the baths.� How strange it seemed, after I returned, to
go into our bathroom at home and use the narrow, solitary shower/tub. When
I was in Gifu Prefecture visiting Kaz's stepmother we went to the community
bathhouse, which was at a mineral-rich, healing hot spring. As I lay in the
unimaginably hot water with several other women, one tried out her English
with me. �It is very nice to be naked together,� she said. �We can be just
the way we are. It is honest and friendly.� Then she suggested, �You have
a hot spring in the United States called Yellowstone, right? Why not make
a Japanese bath there! You will get rich!� What brought our group together
so quickly, I'm sure, was the combination of zazen each morning and
communal hot baths each evening. Those and the warm-spirited, family-run
ryokan we stayed at for the first five days of our pilgrimage, in Mishima.
The toilets are an example of the extreme juxtapositions of ancient and
modern, craft and technology, calm and cacaphony I enountered in Japan.
When Kaz and I were staying at our little minshuku near Ginkaku-ji, we
had traditional Japanese squat toilets, which were in the public washrooms
as well. But in many establishments�museums, hotel lobbies, restaurants,
even the bullet trains�there is a Western-style option as well, and often
these are far advanced in their technology: made by Toto, they feature
buttons to push for bidet, �posterior cleansing,� and warm-air drying; a
temperature control for the water jets; and a warm seat (which seemed a bit
much as the temperature outside continued to heat up).
Next door to Kaz's stepmother's house, which is in a rural suburb of Gifu
occupied mostly by vegetable gardens and rice paddies, is a prosperous
farmer's house built in the traditional way, with tile roofs; soaring up
a few feet behind it is one of the myriad ugly high-intensity electric
towers that march across Japan's mountains, valleys and cities ubiquitously.
In Kyoto and Tokyo, a wild tangle of electic wires hangs over every corner,
a jerryrigged mess above the most pristine architecture. Impeccably
cared-for taxis careen down alleys barely wider than they are. Cheek-by-jowl
with nondescript glass and brick apartment buildings are ancient tiny houses
made of dark, burnished wood covered by bamboo screens and blossoming vines.
Little vegetable gardens crammed with neat rows of onions, greens, flowers
and tomatoes occupy every available space, in between banks and noodle
shops, fish stores and laundromats. Kimono-clad women walk daintily among
schoolgirls clacking along in platform boots with hair dyed various shades
of orange. In a nine-story department store across from the Kyoto bus
station and train station, the most up-to-date Western fashions and home
furnishings share display space with traditional crafts. Along the narrow
streets of the Pontocho district, discreet unmarked doorways lead to
private entertainment of the most elegant sort; restaurants without menus
alternate with columns of neon signs advertising women's names in English.
Now and then a geisha in exquisite traditional garb glides down an alley.
Salarymen in impeccable suits disappear into dimly lit passageways or
emerge with boisterous conversation from bars playing cool jazz. Right
outside the gate of Myoshin-ji, where we stayed in a small subtemple,
Daishin-in, was a gas station, a radio with its volume turned up to old
soul favorites from the 1960s. Parked outside the entrance of a magnificent
Shinto shrine, a beat-up minivan blared hiphop.
Then there's the often hilarious melding of languages, in what purports
to be English, in signs seen on tee-shirts, bags, and notices. Outside an
art store is the exhortation, �Cordial present living in your heart for
good!� On a little package containing a razor in the hotel bathroom in
Kyoto: �Have a good shaving for your fresh life. Caution: A razor is
cutlery. Be fully of handling. The rhinoceros of scrapping is to make an
edge cover, and do incombustible treatment. Stop use when wound, the boil
are in the wrong point in the skin.� And on a schoolgirl's bag, while on a
busride in Kyoto: �East Boy Fresh and Young. Get to know the essence and
start from there. Honorable. High quality is the only reason for frogress
in the world. Fashion sense in a casual way. Good taste in clothes and a
feeling of existence. Clothes to which you feel an attachment.�
I had intended to write about what I experienced each day, but found that
I was either too excited by the adventures of the day, too busy planning
the group's next itinerary and working on financial records or just plain
too tired. But once or twice I managed to put a few words down. Reflections
of my first day, for example:
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On the long flight over, we're told to lower our shades so people can
watch the four successive movies. In the process of walking around the
plane I discover a window toward the rear that has no seats in front of
it, and make that my station. The sky stays light: we're flying north.
Soon we're over what someone tells me is Alaska. So beautiful! White,
white mountains of white, glaciers, occasional gashes of rivers
splitting the shining terrain.
Back at my seat, sleepy but unable to doze more than an hour of the
thirteen. Kaz Tanahashi naps alongside me. Another meal is served, with
a choice of Japanese, which I gladly take. We start descending; we
land! And in a daze, I follow Kaz through various airport lines, show
passport, turn the wrong way and am sternly shooed in the right
direction by the man who stapled my tourist card into my passport.
Kaz leads me toward the bullet train. It's late afternoon; sun is
setting much earlier than what I'm accustomed to. It's dark by the
time we reach Kyoto. We take a cab to the minshuku where we'll be
spending the first few nights, a place Kaz always stays when he's in
Japan. It's shabby but we each have a spacious room of tatami and a
closet where our futon and bedding is kept. I even have my own toilet�a
low, Japanese toilet over which one squats. It takes me some
experimenting to figure out how to keep my pants from getting in the
way. I try to lay out my bed, but get the order all wrong, putting the
cover down first and the futon over it. The woman who runs the place,
who also runs a small restaurant nearby, comes in and patiently
explains how to do it, in Japanese. She realizes I'm not understanding
a word, and sets it up for me. There's a thermos with hot water and a
tin of green teabags on the table; I drink some water, still thirsty
from our trip.
Kaz and I go out; I need to call Andy to let him know I've safely
arrived, and we are hungry. There's a phone booth at the corner but I
can't figure out how to use the international card I purchased in
Syracuse, and none of the access numbers seem to work. Kaz gives me his
ATT card and I get through, but no answer; I leave a message. It's
too late to eat at Kaz's favorite noodle shop, so we find a little
student dive and have something simple and walk back to the minshuku,
exhausted beyond coherence in any language. I fall asleep right away,
but awaken every two hours.
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Next day, at our agreed-upon time for breakfast, 8 a.m., we walk over to
Kaz's favorite coffee shop, where we have the �breakfast set�: coffee, eggs
(scrambled slimy wet), bacon and sausage (alarmingly undercooked),
delicious salad, white toast. I'm so happy. Everyone is speaking a language
I don't understand, yet I feel completely at home. We're staying in a
wonderful neighborhood in the northeast of Kyoto, near the intersection
of Imadegawa-dori and Shirakawa-dori and just down the path from Ginkakuji,
also known as the Temple of the Silver Pavilion. Outside our minshuku,
running along the narrow lane, is a little stream. Perpendicular to it is
a shady garden walkway along a canal that leads to Ginkakuji and then to
other temples along the path called the �Philosophers' Walk� in recognition
of the daily strolls taken there by many of Kyoto's famous twentieth-century
Buddhist philosophers.
Over breakfast, served by a waiter from Portugal, we discuss the itinerary
for this week and for the coming two weeks after that, when we'll be joined
by the twenty-one participants on our tour, �Hakuin's Zen and Art: A
Pilgrimage to Japan.� In the mornings while we're in Kyoto, Kaz will work
and I'll go to temples, gardens, and the National Museum, where a special
show of Kukai's life and work is on view; then we'll meet for lunch and
some sightseeing together to plan the group tour. Kaz gets us bus passes
and a bus map with names in English, and we part. I'm on my own! In Japan!
Walking along the little river toward Ginkaku-ji! Although he has explained
how to get there, and signs in Japanese and English point the way, I manage
to veer off from the main street, and explore some little shops before
finding my way again.
As I approach the temple, the street is jam-packed with souvenir shops and
masses of schoolchildren, all in uniforms�white with black or blue�led by
megaphone-using teachers. I pay the admission fee and walk up the long path
lined by bamboo fences and tall hedges to the beautiful temple structures
and gardens, surrounded by the noisy bands of children�the first of many
such temple-going experiences. I peer up at the soaring rooflines, the dark
wood, the graceful, ancient architecture; in the pond, koi swim peacefully,
oblivious to the shoving and shouting of the children liberated from their
constrictive schoolrooms. A stone and sand garden with beautiful raked
patterns has a round, flat-topped, white-sand mound representing Mt. Fuji.
Around it are waves signifying the sea. I follow the path up the mountain
behind the buildings, and look out over the temple rooftops and the distant
city, ringed by more mountains. There are moments of stillness in between
the galloping hordes.
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On my way back to meet Kaz for lunch, I find a wonderful quiet garden
named Hakusasonso (also known as Kansetsu). The woman at the admission
window speaks to me in English. She tells me the garden belonged to an
artist named Kansetsu Hashimoto, who designed and created it and had his
studio here; a museum of his work and collection can be seen inside. Since
it's time to meet Kaz, I tell her I'll come back another day, and she
writes down her name: Tae Hashimoto.
After lunch Kaz and I take a bus to the Imperial Palace and walk to the
Imperial Household Agency, the administrative office, so that I can
register for a tour; we both also sign up for a tour of Katsura Villa,
to which Japanese citizens can come only when escorting foreign visitors.
Then we head down Karasuma-dori toward Shokokuji Temple, stopping for tea
and okashi�Japanese sweets�at an intriguing little two-story restaurant
named Wabisuke, in a dark merchant's building that's several centuries old.
We decide to meet there the following day for lunch, after my palace tour,
and to bring the group there during our final week in Kyoto.
I'm very hot and tired as we make our way toward Shokoku-ji, one of the
�Five Mountain� principal temples of the Rinzai School. Kaz, who is 70 this
October, strides briskly along; I straggle a half-block behind. Once there,
we pass by all the intriguing and beautiful white buildings with their dark
wooden geometric beams, heading straight for the museum run by the temple.
The show is great, with works by Muso Soseki and his contemporaries; it
will be followed by an exhibition of calligraphy including a Hakuin, so we
make plans to take the group there. When we leave the exhibition I see a
Zen master and his attendant in the hallway near the washrooms, putting
their koromo (robes) back on. It's so exciting to be in a country where
Zen monks are encountered everywhere.
Tireless Kaz wants to show me Pontocho, so we get another bus over to this
legendary neighborhood of narrow alleys lined with long, dark corridors
that lead to private doorways behind which geishas entertain their guests;
restaurants without menu prices promise rare experiences for wealthy
patrons. It's all very mysterious, but I'm getting hungry, and we finally
make our way to a fish restaurant Kaz likes, in a working class area,
and then back to the minshuku, where I drag out my bedding and collapse.
My first full day in Japan has been very full indeed.
Here is my entry for May 27, two days before the group arrived:
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This amazing ryokan in Nyukawa! Last night a group of three businessmen
asked us to join them around the charcoal pit after dinner for some
osake. Kaz doesn't like that sort of small-talk socializing, but I sat
with them for a couple of rounds, and he joined us toward the end. They
were from Gifu, near where his stepmother lives. One was the alpha male,
extremely garrulous, holding forth on nothing in particular. We had fun
with various words in Japanese and English, of which they knew a very
few. Then I went to bed in my spacious tatami room with its gorgeous
view of the little koi-stocked pond and the stone lanterns and rocks
and trees in perfect harmony.
This morning, misty with rain. Rice paddies receiving and rippling
around each drop. Purple irises blooming along the paddies and the
pond. The mountains, a brightness in the mist, deep green. Terraced
gardens and rice fields, everything planted with geometric precision.
Small traditional houses like little temples, with their tiled roofs,
their dark horizontal and vertical beams on white walls. Our lovely
ryokan, Shitanda, is about 400 years old; it was once a feudal lord's
home. We heard that a widowed woman started the ryokan, which is now
run by her daughter-in-law. We're eating gourmet breakfasts and dinners
in the dining room after bathing in the hot tub, wearing the elegant
yukata and woolen jackets provided in our rooms�it's chilly outside.
The food, arrayed on a series of small trays and dishes, is served to
us with utmost grace and charm by a kimono-clad young woman. Sometimes
we are the only ones in the dining room. There is always more than I
can eat, and each little taste treat is just magnificent, although I
shy away from the raw shrimp or raw eggs (after trying the latter,
mixing it into some of the condiments and over my rice, probably an
improper thing to do!) and the slimy texture of natto�nevertheless,
it's all so exquisitely prepared and presented I often feel like
clapping along with bowing. Kaz knows of this place because of his
work on the seventeenth-century sculptor-monk Enku, who lived and
worked in the Takayama region.
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Today we met with Kaz's friend, Doitsu Harada Roshi, who runs a small Soto
temple just up the road. He brought us to visit a professor and sculptor who
has ideas about forming an international Buddhist retreat center. Ikeda Sensei
used to teach at a university in Germany, and speaks English as well. His home
and studios are high on a mountainside. We climb up a steep staircase to a
loft that combines living space with a gallery for his work, which is very
good�carved figures of bodhisattvas, many pigmented, in atypical poses and
filled with a rather dark energy. Ikeda Sensei leads us out onto the deck,
where one of his assistants serves us tea and sweets. The view is breathtaking.
He commands the conversation, which is mostly in Japanese; Kaz translates a
little. Ikeda Sensei talks about founding a center for true Buddhism free
from sectarian impulses, open to all who wish to come from every part of the
world. He reminds me of some of the passionate intellectuals I used to know
while living in France: didactic, argumentative, brilliant, exasperating and
endearing in turn. Every now and then Harada Roshi puts in a few mild-mannered
words, and then Ikeda Sensei is off again.
While the discussion is taking place�and every now and then I'm able to
contribute something, when Kaz gets a translated phrase or two in, or English
is being used�I feel suddenly the reality of being in Japan, not being a
tourist looking at marvelous temples but living among interesting people and
hearing their views and seeing their circumstances. How lucky I feel to be
allowed to be a part of this, beyond the subtle yet generally impermeable
border between the private home and the public, particularly tourist public,
exterior! Before we leave, Ikeda Sensei leads Kaz and me to another studio/tea
room he had built part-way down the hill. Here he has several more of his
sculptures. I admire them, and he asks me which I like best. I can see what's
coming, and I try to deflect it, but he insists that I take one. After I ponder
with great appreciation the series of stone Jizos, feeling quite on the spot
and not wanting to take such a precious creation from him, he brings out a
smaller wooden carving of Kanzeon's companion, Seishi, and insists I take
her�being lightweight, more appropriate for me to carry home, he says. We
return to the others on the deck and photographs are taken of us, with Seishi
on a purple cloth on the table among the teabowls with the steep terraces and
valleys and distant mountains, �blue heaped upon blue,� beyond.
Our plan was for me to go into Takayama that afternoon by bus from the ryokan,
while Kaz did some writing. Evidently in the meantime Harada Roshi asked one
of his congregants, Mrs. Kosugi, to come so she could take me into town. I
don't really understand what is now being planned. I have quickly learned
that the only way to live as a foreigner who understands very little Japanese
and speaks even less, relying on Kaz for the occasional translation but not
wanting to bother him constantly, is simply to trust. Mrs. Kosugi joined us
for tea, and now motions for me to get into her car. I look perplexedly at
Kaz, who says something cryptic about how Harada Roshi needs to go into
Takayama later and that I should be at her shop at 4:30.
Mrs. Kosugi speaks no more than a word or two of English. On our drive into
town she manages to convey to me that her daughter had studied in the United
States for a time, and she had visited her there�I think in Michigan. Kaz
had told me that Mrs. Kosugi's shop sold Buddhist items, so I am eager to
see it, and try to tell her that. First, she says, we eat. OK, I'm hungry,
and readily agree. She drives to a noodle shop I'd never have discovered in
the hilly outskirts of town, a lovely little place, with the gleaming dark
lacquered wood for which Takayama is famous. We walk in, and there is Ikeda
Sensei, who is waiting for his wife to join him! He asks us to sit with them.
We talk for awhile in English, and he asks many questions about Buddhist
practice in the West and about Hoenji. He seems relaxed and much quieter.
Perhaps he felt the need to impress Kaz earlier. His wife comes and we all
have a simple but delicious lunch. Then Mrs. Kosugi drives to her shop, which
is filled with gilded home altars that one of her employees builds (I meet him
later that day) and many sutra books, malas, and other devotional supplies.
Several things appeal to me, but my real quest is for summer-weight samugi
(jacket and pants). She gestures toward a store down several streets where
I can find some, and then asks her son, Dai, to take me. He leads me to a
store that seems to have specialized in samugi for many generations. The
proprietor, an elderly woman who speaks no English, helps me try one on, and
I buy a very nice summer-weight nubby-textured brown one. I find a camera
store to have my stuck film removed�no English, but hand gestures suffice�and
see several of the galleries filled with beautiful lacquer ware and one of
the folk art museums before going back to the shop just before 4:30, a gift
box of sweets in hand. Mrs. Kosugi and her staff ask me to join them for coffee
and cake in the back room, and then Harada Roshi arrives and we're all served
green tea, and then he takes me back to the ryokan. Another wonderful day.
The next day, Mrs. Harada arrives after breakfast, to drive us to several of
the ancient temples and villages in the area. First we go to Senkoji, a
Shingon temple run by a young priest whose father Kaz knew from his days
working on the Enku book. There's a comprehensive museum of Enku's sculptures
at the temple. I'm no less fascinated by the temple, with its esoteric practice
based on the teachings of Kukai. I had visited the exhibition of Kukai's own
art and his collection of mystical mandala paintings and scrolls at the
National Museum of Art in Kyoto a few days before.
We offer incense at the altar and chant the Heart Sutra with the engaging
young priest, Ohshita Daien Roshi. One of his students serves us tea, and
then we go into the Enku Museum, which is filled with great examples, some
toweringly high, of the sculptor's rough and powerful creations, typically
carved with a hatchet. All around this temple are amazing views�the distant
mountains appearing peak after peak through the mist, the tall pines and many
outdoor altars and sculptures. I would love to come back some time and just
walk the trails.
From there Mrs. Harada drives us into a fascinating village called Furukawa
(�Old River�), where each street has its accompanying narrow canal in which
koi swim along; coin-operated feeding stations are like little automats for
the fish, whenever the humans pay to open the doors and dispense what looks
like pieces of bread.
We stop for lunch at a place run by congregants of the Haradas. One of the
owners is dressed in kimono, and has just returned from giving a lesson in
cha-no-yu (tea ceremony). After lunch we go to a Rinzai temple, Ankokuji, high
on a mountain overlooking Kokufu, the ancient capital of the province. We meet
with the young priest there and offer incense. He takes us up behind the temple
and opens the door of what appears to be a many-sided shed to a most amazing
sight: a revolving sutra repository. The walls of the building are slatted to
let air in and protect the sutras from humidity, but I imagine rain and snow
can get in as well. The priest tells us the temple and rotating storehouse were
built in 1400, right after the Kamakura period at the beginning of the
Muramachi. The repository is a National Treasure. He says that turning the
sutra repository is equivalent in merit to reading all 5397 sutras. But the
giant prayer wheel has come off its track; it must be repaired, and the paper
pages of the sutras are disintegrating. Further up the mountain he shows us
a nature walk with thirty-three Kannons along a path of 1,000 steps. Not many
worshippers take the trail, he tells us.
The next day Kaz and I leave on the little country train that goes along the
mountain gorges and rushing rivers back to Gifu, where we catch the bullet
train to Mishima. I love the Japanese trains almost as much as the baths,
especially the bullet trains, with their extraordinarily comfortable seats,
footrests, double arm rests, huge windows, great speed, and servers wheeling
carts with beer, soft drinks, and snacks. After a few hours' travel we arrive
in Mishima, where we take a taxi to the ryokan. Kaz has arranged for the group
to stay at this place sight unseen, based on a pleasant telephone conversation
he had with the woman who runs it. In the Mishima tourist information office,
when they hear where we're headed, the women behind the desk look dubious. No
westerners go to that place, they exclaim. We wonder what's in store for us,
and whether we'll have to move everyone after the first night. The taxi pulls
up alongside a small temple, and then stops in front of an unprepossessing-
looking low-slung building next door, whose back yard is an expanse of
ricefields, mostly still unplanted. I ask the driver if we'll be able to see
Mount Fuji. Oh, no, he tells us. It's the wrong season. Too hazy. Come back
in spring or fall. Oh well. We're here now. We go into the ryokan and
immediately Mrs. Minakuchi comes to the door, talking at bullet-train speed in
a very loud voice. The lobby features some black plastic chairs on green
indoor-outdoor carpeting quite a step down from the understated elegance of
our Takayama digs.
Five of our group have arrived already. Mrs. Minakuchi shows Kaz and me to
our rooms. I've arranged to stay in the meeting room, since the ryokan is
small, and doesn't have enough space for me to have my own room. I have a
bed all set up! It's a nice room with many windows and tables arranged in a
long line for our morning meetings; swirling over the entire length of the
tables are origami cranes and hats of every color. Evidently she has put our
five to work, eager to give them something to do with their jetlagged selves;
she and her two young grandchildren, who are staring up at us with intense
watchfulness, have given them origami lessons. Her husband has been dispatched
to take them into town for a few hours this afternoon, and they aren't back
yet. We begin to relax. Obviously this is going to be an enjoyable family
experience. Soon they and the rest of our 23-member group arrive, and
everyone settles in. We're given an enormous feast for dinner in the big
dining room, served by Mrs. Minakuchi and her very quiet daughter. People
are somewhat repelled by the huge cuttlefish and raw shrimp, but there are
so many courses we can't possibly eat them all. And some have quickly
discovered the beer in the hallway vending machines. Everyone is accounted
for�Kushu and Naoko have met all the flights in Tokyo�and after a hot tub
in the red-hued, mineral-rich onsen waters the ryokan is famous for, we're
ready for bed.
The next morning, early, I step outside in my yukata, and walk around back
to the rice paddies (most of them still newly cultivated, rich brown soil,
not yet flooded) along a narrow road. And there is Fuji-san! Rising up, up
over the houses of Mishima, as clear as the first light of this beautiful day.
It's incredible how beautiful this mountain is. No pictures do it justice.
Nevertheless, one feels obliged to pay homage with one's camera as well as
with deep bows. Several members of our group are out taking pictures, and
one is already doing a watercolor. This is the way we begin.
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The view of Mt. Fuji from our ryokan in the outskirts of Mishima
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The Minakuchis are indefatigable in their efforts to make this visit perfect
for us, their first foreigners. They lend us their Buddhist altar supplies�a
nice little gong, incense and burner�and we turn the dining room into a zendo
for pre-breakfast zazen. They unfurl a scroll with calligraphy of �Mu Shin�
done by a roshi who spent a month there taking the waters. They bring out their
best bottles of sake in the later hours of the evening, including some that is
unfiltered, white and gloppy but delicious. And every day, Mr. Minakuchi takes
us to various wondrous spots in what I dub �the magic bus,� at the behest of
his wife, who is eager to have us experience the best this region has to offer.
We are already slated to go to Ryutaku-ji and Shoin-ji and the Tanaka gallery,
the purpose of our trip being Hakuin's temples and art; she adds a royal villa
near Numazu and one of the most beautiful landscapes of our entire time in
Japan, Hakone�a lake and mountain and the famous checkpoint on the ancient
Edo-Tokaido Highway with Fuji-san looming at close range everywhere we turn.
We visit the Narukawa Art Museum in Hakone, famous for its paintings by
Japanese artists working in a delicately decorative realist style. Then about
half our group is intrepid enough to take a rope-drawn cable car up to the top
of the mountain, seeing Mt. Fuji disappear in the same clouds that are
enveloping us, looking out from the path at the mountain's peak and seeing
the lake sparkling below us, going back down and seeing Fuji-san reappear inch
by inch as we descend.
My first visit to Ryutaku-ji is with Kaz, in a preliminary meeting to pay our
respects to Nakagawa Kyudo Roshi. Mr. Minakuchi drives us in the bus and drops
us off at the bottom of the mountain; we go up quickly, since we haven't
allowed enough time. In my robes, I'm soon drenched by the heat of the morning.
I'm also overcome by the significance of each step of the way, which has been
trodden by Hakuin, by Torei, by Gempo and Soen and Eido. The path is made of
stones carefully laid in geometric patterns; at intervals are altars, to
Kannon, to Jizo. I recognize a large carving of one of the painted Jizos by
the woman who was inspired to take on that practice by Soen Roshi, very much
like the carving now at Dai Bosatsu Zendo. When we reach the monastery I'm
astonished by its beauty. There are just a few buildings, each one a treasure
to behold, and the gardens are lovely�a sinuous stretch of grass in the
pebbles echoing the amazing dragon sculpture above the doorway of the Buddha
Hall; a pond surrounded by blooming azaleas and other plantings; the mountain
continuing up and up behind.
We're ushered into the abbot's meeting room, where I request a tray and offer
our gifts � money for the monks, for incense, for the roshi, as Eido Roshi
instructed me � and three bottles of maple syrup. We sit for a time, and then
Kyudo Roshi appears. He's quite severe. He talks about the difference between
the familial lineage (priests' sons who come to train just to inherit their
fathers' temples) and true Dharma lineage, such as his and Eido Roshi's through
Soen Roshi and Gempo Roshi and back through to Hakuin. Having spent many years
in Israel, running Mount of Olives Zendo, he notes how interesting it is that
so many Jews are attracted to Buddhism. Without Jewish people, he says, there
would be no Zen practice in the West! With regard to our pilgrimage, Kyudo
Roshi tells us that although the monastery has many Hakuin paintings, he will
choose just one to show us. We receive his permission to bring our entire group
the next morning, and after tea, we part.
That day is an unscheduled one for the others, so we meet in town; I take care
of banking, find a shop in which I can get a new calligraphy chop made, and one
of Kaz's artist friends on the tour, Steve, appears in the same restauranat Kaz
and I have entered�he, too, has just arranged to have a chop made in that
store. In the afternoon Mr. Minakuchi drives us to Numazu, to see the Hakuins
at Mr. Tanaka's gallery. It's close and hot inside, but the works are top-
quality, and Tanaka-san's tales and explanations are marvelous�even though
much can't be translated, his body language is so demonstrative that we enjoy
and laugh at his stories, prompted by the sometimes bawdy double-entendres of
Hakuin's paintings meant to convey the teachings of Buddhism to illiterate but
sincere villagers in visually accessible ways. We get back to the ryokan and
gratefully bathe, eat, and relax together. The two groups�Kaz's calligraphy
friends and my Zen students�are quickly getting to be one family, with the
Minakuchis as our guardian angels and Hakuin as our great teacher.
The next day we all go in the bus to Ryutakuji, this time with plenty of time
to spare, and Kaz and I lead the way up the path. It's cooler, and we're not
rushed; it feels wonderful to be able to stop with everyone, chant Kanzeon,
chant the Jizo dharani. Then we're there, and everyone is bowled over. It is
really impressive�although small, so beautiful and clearly the place of strong
practice, and for those of us from Hoenji, filled with such powerful
connections to our roots, back through the lineage to Hakuin. Everyone is
deeply moved. We are led into the hall, where cushions are arranged in rows
and tea is set up on trays.
The cushions face one Hakuin painting. Just one, but what a One! It's a great
painting, a Bodhidharma; he appears to be staring right into our eyes. We sit,
and Kyudo Roshi enters and gives a warm, engaging talk, telling us he has
nothing to teach, that nothing can teach us but our own true experience. Then
he shows us the main altar, and says we're free to look around, and we can take
photographs. I ask if we can go pay homage to Hakuin, Torei, Gempo, and Soen
Roshi at their stupas, and he points in the general direction, up behind the
temple. We request a group photograph. He's much jollier today with the group,
and assents; then several members present him with little gifts. It's a
wonderful meeting and when we find the tombs at last, we light incense which
I've brought and chant. At the entrance of the zendo, I stand for a long time,
inhaling the breaths of my ancestors; I light incense at the altar. People are
entranced by the beauty of the place, all the gardens and mountain vistas and
gorgeous traditional architecture, and there is much picture-taking. Then we
go for lunch, and it's that afternoon that Mr. M. drives us to Hakone. What a
day!
The following morning, May 31, after zazen and chanting of Heart Sutra and
Hakuin's Song of Zazen, followed by our daily morning meeting to discuss what
we've experienced and what we're about to see, we leave for the temple at
which Hakuin spent most of his life, Shoinji, in Numazu City (not far from Mr.
Tanaka's gallery). It's raining�there's a typhoon making its way across the
country�and we're particularly grateful to have the magic bus taking us right
to the entryway, which, after several wrong turns, turns out to be just off the
historic Tokaido Highway. Miyamoto Emmyo Roshi, the young abbot, meets us at
the door. What a delightful, unassuming, warm-hearted man! He seems excited
to have us there, and apologizes for the fact that he's only able to show us
four Hakuins, since the storeroom is under repair. He leads us into the Buddha
Hall, and there they are, suspended on either side of the altar, marvelous
works! A wonderful Kannon and a Bodhidharma whose faces have a certain
resemblance. Emmyo Roshi says that Hakuin, who lost his mother at an early
age, is said to have painted her face in many of his Kannons. A scroll
reminding us, �Every day, never be separated from Kanzeon.� Another
calligraphic work, �Hell Great Bodhisattva.� Emmyo Roshi tells us about each
piece, with Kaz translating. We've arranged for the temple to serve us a simple
noodle lunch. Roshi says, �Before lunch, would you like to join me for zazen?�
We are quick to assent, and after a bathroom break, we assemble in the zendo.
He points for me to sit opposite him (I take one seat down from the tanto's)
and it's only after our marvelous period of zazen, with the sound of rain and
wind, that I realize Hakuin's presence has been more than intuited: Emmyo Roshi
invites us into the Kaisando (Founder's Hall), which is right at the head of
the zendo, and there is the famous statue of Hakuin, his eyes glaring right
into ours. We all offer incense. �For some reason,� Emmyo Roshi says, �men
find Hakuin's face scary, while women find him cute!�
He leads us into the dining room, where we help put out the bowls of noodles�
just two women, one of whom is a nun and seems to be his attendant, are
preparing everything. It's a summer noodle feast, the udon on ice in our
bowls and the sauce and condiments set out for each of us. Afterward I present
him with three jugs of maple syrup (I'd already given him a monetary gift),
and we help clear the dishes. He asks me if people at Hoenji do work at the
temple, and when I tell him of the many volunteers who take care of all the
gardens, sanding and painting projects, and cleaning, he nods happily, saying
that one of the most important aspects of practice is working together. After
some more photo opportunities and individual little gifts, he presents each
of us with a special edition of a journal devoted to Hakuin. Such
thoughtfulness, to have arranged to acquire enough copies for our group!
There's an extra one, that I'll bring to Eido Roshi. He also gives Kushu a
sutra book and one for me. As we prepare to go out into the deluge, he tells
us, &ldqou;Whenever you sit, we will be doing zazen together.� Despite the
rain, he insists on going outside as we pile into the bus and waving us off.
And despite the rain, we head to the Imperial Villa in Numazu, Mrs. M's next
destination for us, and from there, to the beach! and surprisingly enough, the
rain stops while we're at the villa, which is indeed quite lovely, right on
the sea; and the beach Mr. M. takes us to is enchanting�not at all built up,
no tourist attractions, just some nice private homes and an empty expanse of
sand and distant mountains. I have a cut finger from the sharp catch on the
folding umbrella I've been using, so I edge closer to the waves, trying to
wash the blood off and sterilize it in the salty water. I'm dying to be one
with Japan's Pacific. But I'm wearing my hiking shoes and samugi, so I'm being
careful...but not careful enough. A sudden surge and the wave hits, soaking my
shoes and pants. Several of us are quite contentedly soggy on the busride home.
Next day is Sunday, June 1, and we're off to Tokyo, where our intention is to
see the Hakuins and Sengais at the Idemitsu Museum. But when we get there it
turns out they're all in storage, and instead there's an exhibition of Kyoyaki
(Kyoto kiln ceramics) of the Edo period, including tea ceremony utensils and
rectangular plates by Ogata Kenzan and historical tea bowls. The one scroll by
Sengai in on view in the tearoom. The whiff of disappointment is in the air,
but we are all generally so happy with everything that it just evaporates, and
we enjoy the show and then disperse for an afternoon of adventure in Tokyo alone
or in small groups. Several of us go to Asakusa district, stopping for lunch
and then at a percussion museum where drums to play as well as view are
available. I sit down at a djembe and am joined in an impromptu duet by a
young Japanese fellow enthusiast. Amazingly enough, all 23 of us manage to
find each other at the appointed time on the Tokyo Station platform to take
the Kodama bullet train back to Mishima. Everyone is feeling pretty pleased
and proud having navigated the big city (albeit on a Sunday), and ready for
the big move to Kamakura and then to Kyoto. That night we have a last dinner
and a farewell party with the Minakuchis that leaves everyone tearful as gifts
and loving statements are exchanged.
We ship luggage ahead to Kyoto the next morning and then take a series of
trains to Kamakura. Kaz goes back to Gifu, where he has a speaking engagement
at his brother's church on the Costa Rican peace initiative, �a world without
armies.� We find our hotel, a large and extravagant one. It's our intention to
give the group a variety of experiences, but this turns out to be a bit more
high-end than we'd imagined, with its gaudy glittering lobby. Its sign in
English is �Wedding Hotel,� and we're one of the few groups not there for such
an occasion. We have a quick lunch at a nearby Chinese restaurant and head out
to explore Kamakura, joined there by Conor Keenan and his friend, Yuki. We go
first to the Great Buddha. We pay our admission fee and too quickly, there it
is�the amazing 121-ton, 13th-century bronze statue that survived a tidal wave
in 1498. It's so imposing, several of us sit on the sidelines in a shady rock
outcropping for awhile. Soon, however, I join the other pilgrims (and assorted
tourists and school groups) and stand in front near the huge incense burner.
Suddenly, despite all the coming and going around me, the sounds of children
shouting and people talking, everything seems to stop still. I experience the
sensation I used to have when, as a child, I would sit very quietly and my
hands would become the hands of a stone monument, my body growing heavy and
motionless and encompassing the entire universe.
Later we go to Hasedera to see the huge eleven-faced Kannon, with its Jizo-
associated staff and vase with a lotus flower. On our way up to the Kannon
Hall we see beautiful gardens with waterfalls and irises and bridges; a grove
of thousands of Jizo statues outside a Jizo Hall; and a twelfth-century Amida
Buddha in a building next to that of the Kannon. The gold-leafed Kannon is
magnificent; one naturally chants �kanzeon� to this Bodhisattva who hears
and responds to the cries of all suffering beings. We continue to climb higher
on the hill, and find a revolving sutra repository similar to the one Kaz and
I had seen at Ankokuji, but in working condition; we turn the wheel, and bow.
Then we walk out onto a deck that looks over the sea�a wonderful surprise. It's
a lovely way to end our afternoon.
The following morning at 4:30 a smaller group of us walks to the train station
to go one stop to Engakuji, where we have arranged to join a morning zazenkai.
The temple grounds are beautiful, and at this hour, no one is around. We
finally see several laypeople lining up at one of the buildings and with
Naoko's help, we figure out that we can join them. We're shown into the large,
cool stone building, where we pick up zabutons and arrange our seats in lines.
The sitting begins just the way we've been doing in our dining room zendo at
Mishima: Heart Sutra and Hakuin's Song of Zazen. It's over so quickly. Then we
are told that Nanrei Roshi, with whom we are scheduled to meet later that
morning with the entire group, is welcoming us now. We are led to the abbot's
meeting room and have a quiet but engaging visit, translated by Naoko, in which
he speaks of the monastery's founders and ancestral teachers and practitioners,
including Soyen Shaku, Nyogen Senzaki, and D.T. Suzuki. He knew Sochu Roshi,
late abbot of Ryutakuji, and trained for awhile at Tenryuji in Kyoto.
He cordially invites us to return with the others for a tour of Engakuji. After
breakfast at the hotel, we all take the train back to Engakuji and have another
great visit with Nanrei Roshi, presenting him with gifts and following him as
he leads us from incredibly momentous site to site, including the cave-tomb
of Soyen Shaku, a dark, mysterious, powerful place. Tourists peer in at the
gate that divides the monastery from the public buildings. We're so fortunate
to be allowed to spend this time with the roshi and see these sacred spaces
that are kept from the public eye! At the entrance to the monks' zendo Nanrei
Roshi says, �Watch this.� He slides a pocket screen door closed, and tells us
that during the occupation, American GIs installed the screens while using the
temple (how, we didn't want to ask). He shows us the rough stone marker of the
founding abbot, and the Kaisando. Another incredible encounter.
Afterward we walk on to Kencho-ji, another important Rinzai temple in Kamakura,
vast and beautiful. A special exhibition in one of the halls has just opened to
celebrate the newly installed dragon mural by an elderly contemporary artist
who used only water from Mount Fuji to mix with his ink. A poem by Kencho-ji's
roshi is printed in the hall:
Buddha's words are like the gentle rain
sustaining us with merciful compassion
but sometimes the dragon, like thunder,
comes to wake us up.
We arrange to send our luggage on from the hotel, and to meet at Kamakura
station for the trains to Kyoto, our final group destination, where we'll
spend the next four days at Daishin-in, a subtemple of the Rinzai Zen
headquarters, Myoshin-ji. On the bullet train from Shin-Yokohama: beneath
the mountain ranges, the rice paddies reflecting the afternoon sun, the
electric towers marching in formations like the orderly columns of tea bushes
and the geometries of rice plants.
It's dark when we arrive at Daishin-in, and the Osho is there to show us to
our rooms. We are given an incredible meal that never seems to end of shojin
ryori, exquisite little tastes and happily all vegetarian. We can't finish it
all and feel terrible about wasting food at a monastery; later we request
smaller suppers at a lower rate, but the food is constantly magnificent and no
less munificent, breakfast and dinner both, throughout our stay. Our
accommodations are on two floors, and on the first floor at least, we're
basically staying in one big room divided by shoji; everyone's coughs,
rustlings, and snores merge into one symphony.
It's a lovely temple, with long dark wooden walkways, enclosed gardens, and a
tree planted at Hakuin's death. Each morning of our stay we can join Osho for
morning service; each evening the hot tubs receive us. One morning he invites
us to attend a memorial service for a group of laywomen in one of Myoshinji's
main halls. Several of us follow him and wait to take our places behind the
women. He disappears, later reappearing to lead in Giho Roshi, the 85-year-old
kancho, chief abbot, of Myoshinji. First a very kindly priest explains the
ritual to the women, showing the sutra book to them and demonstrating sitting
prostrations; although it's in Japanese, we understand too. Then another priest
gives a talk to the women and even though we don't comprehend the words, the
meaning is so clear: his compassion exudes palpably from his being. When he
finishes, our Osho brings Giho Roshi to the altar, and chanting begins: Heart
Sutra, Namukaratano, Namusamanda. Giho Roshi is stooped and slight, and looks
ancient; but when he takes his seat facing us, he is as youthful and dynamic
as a young monk. His words are stirring�the women nod, and smile�and at one
point he makes reference to those of us here from the United States. I think
he actually says Hoenji, so our Osho has explained our presence. Something
happens to me when I look into his face. It's an overwhelming feeling of
meeting my ancient teacher from long, long ago. The scene from �Little Buddha,�
in which the teacher says to each child in turn, �Oh my teacher, at last I
have found you again,� comes to my mind. It's strange and wonderful. Then the
service is over; Osho leads the kancho out, and then returns to bring us back
to Daishin-in. Later Naoko tells us that Giho Roshi told everyone about growing
up in a mountain village with a rushing stream; recently he returned, and
the stream has dried up. Every drop of water is precious, he reminded us.
The whole universe in a drop of water. Every drop is none other than the Buddha.
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Roko Osho and Hakuin pilgrims on one of the bridges at Tofuku-ji
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Our days are packed with visits to the Kyoto Imperial Palace and Katsura Villa,
Shokoku-ji's Jotenkaku Museum, a stroll along Pontocho Alley, a tour of
Ginkaku-ji and the neighboring Kansetsu Hashimoto Memorial Garden and the
temples along the Philosophers' Walk to Nanzen-ji; the many impressive Hakuin
scrolls at Hanazono University's Zen Culture Institute and Mr. Inogouchi's
Gallery across from Myoshin-ji; and the culmination of our stay in Kyoto, a
meeting with Fukushima Keido Roshi at Tofuku-ji.
I had met Keido Roshi in the States, several years ago�first at a Columbia
University Medieval Japanese Studies Conference on the Rinzai nun Mugai Nyodai,
and at the exhibition of calligraphy he had organized at Japan House; later,
at Cornell University, where he had been invited to give a talk, a calligraphy
demonstration, and lead zazen. I had written several letters to him earlier
this year requesting to visit Tofukuji and meet with him, but had received no
response. I knew he was very busy with a renovation project and that he had
been at Columbia again in the spring, so had given up hearing from him when
I left Syracuse. Now, one afternoon when I just happen to have gone back a
little earlier than the others to rest at Daishin-in, the Osho knocks on my
door, excitedly saying, �It's Tofuku-ji!� I'm amazed to find that the person
at the other end is none other than Keido Roshi himself. �Didn't you get my
email? I'm so sorry it was late,� he says. I explain that I had gone to Japan
a week ahead of the group. �Well, please come to lunch, and see Tofuku-ji,�
he says. We settle on a time for that Friday. I can barely contain myself for
the remainder of the evening, and sleep hardly at all that night.
I had known Keido Roshi was an important abbot, but I didn't realize how
important�that he is the kancho and the head of the Tofuku-ji sect of Rinzai
Zen. And I knew Tofuku-ji was a major monastery, but I had no idea of its
breadth, historical significance, or beauty.
When we arrive, a monk named Kei-San is there to greet us at the bridge. He
leads us on a tour of the vast grounds, showing us each important building and,
at the 650-year-old National Treasure Zendo, he brings us into the cavernous
interior, where up to 500 monks could sit at once. Because of its cultural
importance, they no longer use it. �But would you like to sit now?� Would we.
We clamber up onto the high tan and he strikes the inkin, and shortly after,
walks with the keisaku, a real surprise to some of our group. Afterward, as
we head for the abbot's hall and gardens, Kei-San reminds me we have met before,
at Cornell, when he was serving as Keido Roshi's interpreter.
The gardens are among the most beautiful I've seen so far. The four directions
are represented: one with rocks and moss on a sand expanse; one with a
checkered pattern of moss and azaleas in full bloom; a third with square
stones and moss in small checks, facing the bridge and gorge where we first
came in; and the last, composed of seven cylindrical stones on a moss-covered
field: Orion. Then we're led into the Abbot's Hall, where seats have been set
up in two rows with little tables. Kaz and I are ushered into the small
adjoining meeting room, and it's there that Keido Roshi greets us. I do a
prostration, present a gift, and he asks us to be seated on the couch for a
brief conversation; then we join the others in the main hall, where a
microphone has been set up for Kaz to translate Roshi's talk. He speaks as we
are served the most incredible shojin ryori meal yet (which the all-talented
Kaz manages to consume even while translating). Keido Roshi tells us that he
has four attachments: zazen, Godiva chocolate, coffee, and bridges; he uses
bridges as a metaphor for his teaching at many universities in the United
States. At the conclusion of our time together, monks bring out gifts for each
of us: biscuits imprinted with Keido Roshi's calligraphy. His thoughtfulness
and generosity know no limit�he has even arranged for taxis to be there at the
bridge to take us back to Myoshin-ji.
Our next two days are spent at Sanjo Karasuma Hotel, which we love�it is
elegant without being showy, the rooms are small but very comfortable, the
hot tub spacious, the garden off the lobby an ancient one that the hotel has
been built around. The group has free time, and uses it to do some shopping
and see various sites. A few of us stay on after the others leave, including
Kaz, Vaughn the Elder and Vaughn the Younger as we call these dear mother-
daughter friends, Kushu, and Naoko; that Monday, while Kaz stays in the hotel
to work, the rest of us go to Nara, a little over an hour's train ride to the
south of Kyoto. We begin at the Great Buddha�even larger than the one at
Kamakura, this one at Todaiji�and even older. Then we make our way up the
mountain. It's very hot, and the steps are innumerable to the 1200-year-old
Hokke-do, also known as the Sangatsu-do, of Todai-ji. The main statue is a
huge golden Kannon that has three eyes and eight arms; it has attributes of
Amida Buddha, and indeed there is an Amida image in the middle of the crown.
Fifteen smaller (but still bigger than life-size) statues surround the Kannon,
created from the tenth through fourteenth centuries. This ancient room is
charged with their beneficent and guardian spirits.
We sit for awhile on the tatami mats facing the Kannon, and then I whisper to Kushu that I'm going to climb up to the lookout pavilion next to the Shinto shrine further up the mountain. I know he and Naoko have to take a train back to Kyoto by three or so, and the Vaughns and I have planned to go to Uji, to buy some new spring tea, on our way back, so I figure they'll all soon join me. It's a long, hot climb, but what a view of Todai-ji and all Nara. I walk around the building, finding fascinating mosaics of Chinese astrological animals on the rear, and then search for the others. They aren't in sight, but what I do see are hundreds of buses disgorging thousands of schoolchildren in their white and blue or black uniforms, and they're heading straight for us. Soon I'm engulfed, and there's no way I can find anyone, and I decide the only hope is to wait at the main entrance. It's almost impossible to walk as the children swarm up, rambunctiously occupying all available sidewalk space. On either side, nearly as thick, are the herds of absolutely tame deer, seeking eagerly, demandingly, for handouts. I finally make my way to the entrance and sit for quite a while on a bench where I can look out and see the others when they come back down. They never come. I figure I must have missed them, and feeling rather bereft and very tired, I decide to go to Uji alone, and I take the bus back to the station and from there, the local train to Uji, where I manage to buy several bags of good tea to bring back for Eido Roshi. When I return to the hotel I leave a note for the Vaughns, who soon call me. �We searched the entire mountain for you,� they tell me. �Kushu said, �We can't leave without our teacher!� So we waited up there for an hour and a half, and finally we left.� They must have arrived at the main entrance, where I had been waiting, soon after I left. Kushu had to go directly to Tokyo; Naoko, to Osaka. After soaking in the hot tub, the Vaughns and I find a little bar-caf� for a late supper, and the next morning, they're off to visit other parts of Japan before returning to the States.
I spend my last day on the outskirts of the city at Ryoan-ji, justly renowned
for its stone garden; when many tourists are congregating on the deck, I walk
around the side to the quiet moss garden, with its famous stone basin. Around
noon, most visitors depart, and I have the stone garden almost to myself. Later
I stroll down the path circling the lake, strikingly beautiful with its irises
and lotuses in bloom. I get a bus that takes me, slowly, all the way into mid-
town, where I get off thinking I'm quite near the outdoor food market. I
probably am, but none of the tiny winding streets take me there. After an hour
or so of little adventures and discoveries, I find the market, and manage to
enter the miles-long series of shops and stalls exactly at my destination: the
sushi restaurant several of us had eaten in a few days earlier. The women who
run the shop remember me, and bring me the same delicious array I'd had before.
By the time I walk back to the hotel, I'm more than ready for the bath. That
night, Kaz and I eat in a spare yet elegant restaurant he'd discovered while
walking back from shopping that afternoon, just around the corner from the hotel.
The next morning we're off by limousine with people from other hotels, to Kansai
Airport; in thirteen hours we will arrive at the same clock time at which we
took off. Although I'm eager to see Andy and Jesse back in the States, it's
almost unbearable to leave what feels like my true home. For the next two weeks
or so, every night my dreams take place in Japan. I can still hear the morning
doves, or are they cuckoos? in a cadence much more musically complex than our
own, singing.
Even in Kyoto �
Hearing the cuckoo's cry �
I long for Kyoto
� Basho
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Viewing the Hakuin scrolls in the collection of Hanazono University, Myoshin-ji, Kyoto
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