The World as Just So, Part 13: Entering the Temple

So, you must remember the aspect of a rōshi to this young monk: he's a formidable fellow; usually an older man who has about him something that is difficult to put your finger on. There's a certain fierceness coupled with a kind of tremendous directness, a sense of somebody who sees right through you. And so he really poses to this young fellow, What do you want? Why did you come here?

But he said, I came to be instructed in Zen.

And the teacher says, Well, we don't teach anything here. There isn't anything in Zen to study.

Well, the student knows—or thinks he knows—that this ‘not anything,’ which is studied in Zen, is the real thing; that's—of course, as a Buddhist, he knows—that what isn't anything is the universe, the great void, the śūnyatā. And so he isn't phased by that.

He says, Well, nevertheless, you do have people who are working here and meditating under your instruction, and I'd like to join them.

Well, maybe. But strictly on probation.

And then, of course, all the details are taken and he pays a ridiculously small fee—in modern Japan, at any rate—to be able to stay in the monastery. It's very, very inexpensive.

Now the teacher comes back and says, Now, you want to study Zen. Why?

Well, because I'm oppressed by the rounds of birth and death—in other words, by the vicious circles of life in which I find myself—by suffering, by pain, and so on, and I want to be emancipated.

The teacher says, Who is it that wants to be emancipated?

That's a stopper.

There was a good old story about one of these preliminary interviews. The master asks, first of all, very casual questions. Where is your hometown? What's your name? What did your father do?And where did you go to college? Why is my hand so much like the Buddha's hand? And suddenly, you know, in mid-stream of an ordinary conversation—clunk!—the student is blocked. And so there is devised the kōan—in Chinese: gōng'àn—and this means, literally, the word ‘kōan’ means a ‘case,’ in exactly the same sense as we talk about a case in law which functions as a precedent for future cases. ‘Kōan’ should be translated ‘case.’ The kōans are based on stories, mondō, of the conversations between the old masters and their students.

But you can make a kōan immediately by such a question, Why is my hand so much like the Buddha's hand? Or, Who are you that asked this question? If the student tries to verbalize on that and say, Well, I am so-and-so, he asks, Who knows that you are so-and-so? How do you know that you know? Who knows that you know? Find out! In other words, the basic kōan is always Who are you? Who is it that wants to escape from birth and death? And I won't take words for an answer. I want to see you! And all you're showing me at the moment is your mask.

So, then the student is sent back to the monk's quarters, the sōdō, and the chief of the sōdō is—called the jikijitsu—is then put in charge of him, and he teaches him how to behave, what the rules are, how to eat, and how to meditate. In the Zen sect they sit on [a] padded cushion about the thickness of the San Francisco telephone directory—which is an admirable substitute. And then, with crossed legs in the lotus posture—with the feet resting on the thighs, like you always see a Buddha—they sit for half-hour periods. That's supposed to be the length of time it takes for a stick of incense to burn.

And then, when wooden clappers are knocked together, they all get up and they walk round and round the room—quite fast, kind of a slam, slam, slam, slam, slam, slam, slam, slam, slam, slam pace—and this keeps you awake. Then, at a given signal, they go back and meditate again.

And, constantly, there is a monk, one on each side, carries a long, flat stick shaped almost like this fan—in the sense that it's thin at one end and rounded at the other—and if this guy sees a monk who's slouching, or sleeping, or goofing off in some way he very respectfully bows before him. And the monk rests his head on his knees, and this fellow takes the stick and hits him vigorously on the shoulders, here, like this. Now, most apologists for Zen say this is not punishment, it's simply to keep you awake. Don't you believe it. I've investigated this, and it's the same as the British boys' school—only it doesn't have the erotic qualities that the British floggings do. Zen people are cool about it. But it is a kind of a fierce thing.

Anyway, the point of the meditation, the zazen, is that—perhaps at the beginning—one does nothing more than count your breathing—so many breaths in, counting in tens—just to allow your thoughts to become still. Zen people do not close their eyes when they meditate, nor do they close their ears. They keep their eyes on the floor in front of them, and they don't try to force away any sounds that are going on, or any smell, or any sensation whatever. Only, they don't think about it. And this can become an extraordinarily pleasant occupation. All the little sounds of distant traffic, of birds, of somebody carpentering somewhere and the hammer going, dog barking, or—especially—rain on the roof; gorgeous. They don't block that out.

But as time goes on, instead of counting breathing they devote themselves to the kōan problem which the rōshi has assigned. What is the sound of one hand? Who were you before your father and mother conceived you? When Jōshū was asked, Does a dog have Buddha nature? he replied, No. What is the meaning of ‘no,’ or mu? All sorts of these problems.