Kusamakura (17 page)

Nor do I exert myself in climbing the temple steps; indeed, if I found that the climb caused me any real effort, I would immediately give up. Pausing after I take the first step, I register a certain pleasure and so take a second. With the second step, the urge to compose a poem comes upon me. I stare in silent contemplation at my shadow, noting how strange it looks, blocked and cut short by the angle of the next stone riser, and this strangeness leads me to climb a further step. Here I look up at the sky. Tiny stars twinkle in its drowsy depths. There’s a poem here, I think, and so to the next step—and in this manner I eventually reach the top.

Once I arrive I recall how, years ago, I visited Kamakura and spent some time calling on the big Zen temples there. I think it was at a subtemple in the Engakuji temple complex that I was plodding, just as now, up the long stone staircase that led to the temple gate, when a priest in saffron robes with a flat, bald head appeared above me. I climbed, and the priest descended. As he passed me, he demanded sharply, “Where are you going?” My feet paused as I responded simply, “To see the grounds.” “There’s nothing to see,” he instantly shot back as he swept on. Somewhat disconcerted by his extreme curtness, I continued to stand there on the step, gazing at his receding figure, watching the flat head bob to and fro, to and fro, until he was lost among the cedar trees below. He never once turned to look back. Well, well, I thought, as I made my way through the temple gate, Zen monks are certainly intriguing. They have a fine brisk way about them. I looked around. There was no sign of life either in the main hall or in the spacious living quarters. Joy filled my heart at that moment. How deeply refreshing to know that someone so plainspoken existed, to be dealt with so wonderfully bluntly! My joy had nothing to do with any understanding of the truths of Zen Buddhist teaching; indeed, I had not the faintest idea of its meaning at that time. It sprang from the simple fact that this flat-headed priest delighted me.

The world is chock-full of unpleasant people—the pestering and spiteful, the pushy types, the fussers and nigglers. Some make you feel they’re simply a waste of precious space on this earth. And it’s always this sort who really throw their weight around. This fellow will consider the space he takes up to be a matter for tremendous pride. He feels his great purpose in life is to set a detective to work peering at your backside for years on end, counting your farts, and then he’ll step out and stand there in front of you and make a song and dance about how many times you farted in the last five or ten years. If he says all this to your face, you can at least take note of what he’s saying, but you’ll find him insinuating things behind your back. Complaining just makes him more insistent. If you tell him to drop it, he nags all the harder. “Okay, I understand!” you cry, but, no, he just goes on and on about the number of farts. And this he claims to be his highest ambition in life. Well, everyone has their ambitions, and all I can say is, this fellow would do far better to drop his harping on about farts and fix on some goal that will shut him up. It’s only common courtesy to put a hold on your ambition if it’s going to cause problems for others. And if you say that your goal can’t be fulfilled without bothering others, then I will say that mine requires me to fart—and there goes all hope for Japan.

To go strolling like this through a beautiful spring evening without the slightest goal in mind is the essence of cultured refinement. My sole aim is to let pleasure and amusement arise where they will—and if they don’t, so be it. If a poem occurs to me, that poem will become my aim. If it doesn’t, then that can be the aim. What’s more, I am bothering no one; this must surely be the nature of a truly legitimate goal. That of fart counting is one of personal attack, while that of farting is justifiable self-defense. My present goal in climbing this flight of stairs to Kankaiji temple is to open myself, in the best Zen tradition, to the karmic moment.

When I reach the top, having gained the beginnings of a poem along the way, the faintly shimmering spring sea lies spread below me like an unrolled sash. I enter the temple gate. I’ve lost interest in finishing off my poem, so my new aim promptly becomes to abandon it.

The stone path that leads to the abbot’s quarters is bordered on the right by an azalea hedge, and beyond this probably lies the graveyard. To the left stands the main worship hall. The top of its tiled roof glimmers faintly, and gazing up, I have a sense that a million moons have cast themselves over a million roof tiles there. From nearby there comes a pigeon’s insistent cooing—it seems they live somewhere under the roof. I may be wrong, but the ground beneath the eaves appears to be scattered with small white dots—pigeon droppings, perhaps.

Standing directly below the eaves’ drip-line is a row of weird, shadowy shapes. They’re certainly not small plants of any sort; nor do they look like trees. They make me think of those little demons depicted praying to the Buddha in the painting of Iwasa Matabei,
¹
who have now left off their
nembutsu
prayer and are waving their arms in the dance that accompanies it.
²
They dance ceremoniously, forming a line that stretches from one end of the worship hall to the other, while their shadows dance ceremoniously in a line beside them, in exact replica. The hazy moonlit spring night must have seduced them to abandon the accustomed bell and book with which the
nembutsu
worshippers traveled the land, gathering together on the moment’s impulse to come to this little mountain temple and dance.

When I approach, I realize they are in fact large cactuses, seven or eight feet high. They look like green cucumbers the size of gourds that have been crushed, molded into the shape of flat spatulate rice paddles, and strung together vertically, reaching skyward, their handles pointing down. How many paddles would it take before their full height is reached? They look as if they might this very night force their way up through the eaves and climb to the tiled roof. Each new paddle shape, it seems to me, must appear quite suddenly, leaping into place on the plant in the space of an instant; it seems inconceivable that an old one would bear a tiny new one, which would grow slowly larger with the passing years. Those strings of paddle shapes are utterly fantastical. How can such an extraordinary plant exist? And so nonchalantly, what’s more. When asked “What is the nature of the Bodhidharma’s coming from the West?” a monk is said to have replied, “The oak tree in the courtyard”; if asked this question myself, I would reply without a moment’s hesitation, “A cactus in the moonlight.”

In my youth, I read a travel journal by one Chao Buzhi,
³
and I can still recite some of it:

Here I pause in my mumbled recitation and suddenly laugh. With a small adjustment in time and place, these cactuses might have unnerved me in just such a way and sent me fleeing down the mountain at the sight of them. I touch a spine with my finger and feel its irritable stab.

I turn left at the end of the paved path and arrive at the priests’ quarters. Before it stands a large magnolia tree, whose trunk must be virtually an arm span in width. It stands taller than the roof of the building beside it. I look up into branches, and beyond them more branches, and there beyond this tangle is the moon. In another tree the sky would not be visible through such an interlacing, and the presence of flowers would obscure it still further; but between all these multilayered branches is empty space. The magnolia doesn’t try to confuse the eyes of the upward-gazing beholder with a jumble of twigs. Even its flowers are clearly visible; though I stare up from far below, each flower is a single, distinct form. I couldn’t count how many of these single flowers throng the whole tree, in what state of bloom, yet each remains a separate entity apart, and between them the faint blue of the night sky is clearly visible. The flowers are not a pure white—such stark whiteness would be too cold. In absolute whiteness we can discern a ploy to arrest and dazzle the eyes of the viewer, but magnolia flowers are not of this order; these blooms modestly and self-deprecatingly avoid any extremity of whiteness with their warm creamy tinge. I stand awhile on the stone paving, lost in wonder, gazing up at this towering proliferation of tender flowers that plumb the very depths of heaven. My eyes hold nothing but blossoms. Not a leaf is to be seen.

The following haiku occurs to me:

Somewhere the pigeons are cooing softly together.

I step into the priests’ quarters. The door has been left unlocked. This world seems to know no thieves; no dog has barked either.

“Anybody here?” I cry. Silence is the only reply.

“Excuse me?” I then try. The pigeons continue their soft
coo coo
.

I raise my voice and call again, and now from far away comes an answering cry: “Ye-e-e-e-s!” I have never before received this sort of response when I called at someone’s house! Finally, footsteps are heard along the corridor, and a taper casts its light beyond the wooden partition. A small monk pops suddenly into view. It’s Ryonen.

“Is the abbot in?”

“He is. What brings you here?”

“Could you let him know that the painter from the hot spring inn is here?”

“The painter? Come on in.”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t ask him first?”

“No, it’ll be fine.”

I slip off my shoes and enter.

“You’re not very well mannered, are you?” he says.

“Why?”

“You should put your shoes neatly together. Here, look at this.” He points with his taper. Pasted onto the middle of the black pillar, about five feet above the earth floor of the entrance area, is a quartered piece of calligraphy paper on which some words are written.

“There. Read that. ‘Look to your own feet,’ it says, doesn’t it?”

“I see,” I say, and I bend down and arrange my shoes neatly.

The abbot’s room is beyond a right-angle bend in the corridor, beside the main worship hall. At the entrance Ryonen reverently slides open one of the paper doors and makes a low obeisance on his knees.

“Excuse me, but the painter from Shioda’s is here,” he announces, in a tone of deep deference that strikes me as rather funny.

“Is that so? Let him come in.”

I replace Ryonen at the entrance. The room is tiny. There’s a sunken hearth in the middle, with an iron kettle singing quietly on the coals. The abbot is seated beyond it, a book in his hands.

“Come on in,” he says, removing his glasses and laying the book aside.

“Ryonen. Ryoooonen!”

“Ye-e-e-s!”

“A cushion for the guest, please.”

“Ye-e-e-e-s!” Ryonen’s drawn-out cry floats back from somewhere in the distance.

“I’m glad you’ve come. You must be quite bored here.”

“The moonlight was so lovely, I just wandered over.”

“It’s a fine moon,” he says, opening the paper screens at the window.

Nothing is visible outside except two stepping-stones and a single pine tree. The flat garden ends at what appears to be a precipice, with the hazy moonlit sea directly below. Looking out produces the sensation of a sudden expansion of the spirit. The lights of fishing boats twinkle here and there out at sea, seeming at the far horizon to lift into the sky and imitate the stars.

“What a lovely view! It’s a waste to keep the shutters closed, Your Reverence.”

“That’s true. But then, I see it every night.”

“This view would still be lovely however many nights you saw it. If it were me, I’d stay up all night just to gaze.”

The abbot laughs. “Of course you’re an artist, so we’re bound to be a bit different.”

“You too are an artist, Your Reverence, when you find such a view beautiful.”

“Yes, that’s true enough, I suppose. Even I can do the odd Bodhidharma painting. Look at this one hanging here. This scroll painting was done by a predecessor. It’s very good, isn’t it?”

I look at the Bodhidharma painting on the scroll in the little alcove. As a painting, it’s dreadful. All you can say for it is that it’s not vulgarly ambitious. The painter has made not the slightest attempt to conceal its clumsiness. It is a naïve work. This predecessor must have been a similar type, someone who cared nothing for pretension.

“It’s an unsophisticated painting, isn’t it?”

“That’s all our sort of painting requires. It only needs to reveal the painter’s nature.”

“It’s better than the sort that’s skillful but worldly.”

The abbot laughs. “Well, well, that’s a good enough compliment, I suppose. Now tell me, are there such things as doctors of painting these days?”

“No, there aren’t.”

“Ah, I see. Because I met a doctor the other day.”

“Really?”

“I suppose a doctor is a fine thing to be, eh?”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

“You’d think there’d be doctorates for painters too. I wonder why there aren’t.”

“In that case, there ought to be doctorates for abbots as well, oughtn’t there?”

He laughs again. “Yes, well, maybe so. . . . Now what was his name, the fellow I met the other day? I must have his name card here somewhere.”

“Where did you meet him? In Tokyo?”

“No, here. I haven’t been to Tokyo for twenty years or more. I hear those things they call ‘trains’ are running these days. I wouldn’t mind taking a ride on one to see what it’s like.”