Tag: Zen

Japan by Train 14b: Fukui

August 25, 2022 / John D. / 0 Comments

For the connections of Zen and Shinto, see the previous series of 22 postings starting here.

The extract below concerns a visit to the large Zen seminary outside Fukui City – Eihei-ji.

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Sweeping leaves in the surrounds is an exercise in mindfulness

Eihei-ji is more than a seminary; it is a memorial to ‘the saint of Zen’, Eihei Dogen (1200-1253). As founder of the temple, he established the lines along which it is still run today. He was someone who truly ‘walked the walk’, and you can’t help but be in awe of a man so committed to a life of hardship. Born into the noble class, he embraced a life of poverty, bitingly cold winters, low-level sustenance, and a ceaseless round of meditation, work and sutra chanting.

For each aspect of monastical life, Dogen laid down strict rules. Take bathing, for instance, only permitted on days of the month containing a 4 or 9 in the date (roughly every fifth day). Before entering the bath, each monk had to make three bows while reciting, ‘We bathe vowing to benefit all beings; may our bodies and minds be purified both inwardly and outwardly.’

Along with such strictures, Dogen had a knack for maxims and captured Zen’s distrust of words by stating, ’The more talking and thinking, the further from the truth.’ He had too a poetic side, and in Zen fashion cut to the heart of things in his verse…

In the spring, cherry blossom
In the summer, cuckoo
In autumn the moon, and
In winter the snow, clear and cold

For his seminary, Dogen chose the name Eihei-ji (Temple of Eternal Peace). His presence pervades the buildings, and when haiku master, Takahama Kyoshi, visited in November 1949, he communed with the spirit of the founder.

Still now
At his reliquary shrine
Maple tree viewing

The temple is dauntingly large. Dauntingly austere too. The whole site is set on a slope, and steps are everywhere. Perhaps after prolonged sitting, steps provide an antidote. There are moss-covered steps on the approach, steps to enter buildings, steps to the next room, and a long, long flight of steps all the way up to the main assembly room. Steps on the path to enlightenment too.

It quickly becomes clear that apart from religious training the seminary is a major tourist sight, for bustling confusion fills the reception area. Visitors are instructed to follow coloured markers on the floor; choose the wrong colour and you could find yourself becoming a sponsor. The majority head for a lecture room where, before a large map, a monk explains the layout. ’Seven buildings represent the core of the monastery,’ he says. ‘Auxiliary structures total seventy in all.’

Let loose on the buildings, visitors are steered by ribbons, ropes and directional signs around the public face of the institution. The pleasing simplicity of the woodwork is largely bereft of decoration, save for the 230 paintings of birds and flowers on the ceiling of the Reception Hall. The Monks’ Hall forms the heart of the complex, with its one-by-two meter tatami mats. For those in training, the narrow confines comprise the limits within which they must eat, sleep and meditate.

There is a tendency to romanticise monastic life as a utopia free of everyday concerns. For the reality you only need turn to the best-selling Eat Sleep Sit by Kaoru Nonomura, who left his job as a Tokyo designer for a year’s training at Eihei-ji. What follows is a shock. Trainees are routinely slapped, kicked and shoved down stairs. ‘When you passed a senior in the corridor,’ writes Nonomura, ‘failure to join the palms in respect was punished on the spot with a blow.’ Extreme stress and fear are compounded by exhaustion, hunger and loneliness.

The military-style training conjures up the hierarchical world of Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket, and in either case the aim is similar; ‘to break down the self-centred ego.’ The group takes priority over the individual, and obedience, discipline and subjugation of self are expected at all times. ‘Absolute submission was a must,’ writes Nonomura. Seen in this light, the connection of samurai and Zen makes perfect sense.

Zen rocks (Book review)

January 3, 2018 / John D. / 2 Comments

The famous garden at Ryoanji shows how Zen Buddhism absorbed the native tradition of reverence for rocks

Reading Zen in the Rocks by Francois Bertbier (translated with a philosophical essay by Graham Parkes) Uni of Chicago Press, 2000

Understanding the role of rocks in Japanese culture, and specifically in Shinto, has been something of a quest for Green Shinto. Here is a book which does much to throw light on matters that have long intrigued us. Though the focus is on the dry landscape gardens (karesansui) so beloved of Zen, the book has much to say about the wider subject and its background.

Whereas Green Shinto has previously asserted that the cult of rocks came over with Korean shamanism (the result of southern migration from Altaic shamanism), this book makes no mention of that but looks instead to the Chinese tradition of litholatry. And in the philosophical essay by Graham Parkes, there is the assertion of origins too in the ancient cosmology of China.

For early Chinese, humans lived in a giant cave of which the sky formed the ceiling. That the sky should be made of rock can be seen as a logical conclusion from the way meteorites fell to earth, for they were presumed to be bits of the celestial covering that had fallen off. In similar manner mountains were seen as huge blocks or stalactites that had descended to earth. Their heavenly provenance was not their only distinguishing feature, for in the precipitous fall they had accumulated huge amounts of energy (known as chi or qi). It helps explain why rocks that fell to earth are traditionally treated as divine in Japan.

Another vital point the book makes is that whereas the West has an established dichotomy between animate and inanimate, for the Chinese there was a continuum of existence with chi energy running throughout. The dichotomy such as there was rather between yin and yang. The earth was yin, mountains thrusting upwards were yang. The landscape was thus pulsing with energy, seen graphically in the Japanese word for landscape sansui (mountain – water).

Since rocks constitute the very material of a mountain, they came to be seen as a microcosm of it. They were thus held to possess the same properties and energy as the original mountain. Though the book does not go into this, as it is concerned with Zen, the notion sheds light on Shinto practice. Kami in ancient times descend from heaven into mountains, the nearest point on earth, and Amaterasu’s offspring famously descended on Mt Takachiho in Kyushu. If kami could descend into mountains, they could also descend into the representation of a mountain, i.e. rocks. And here we can understand the possible evolution of iwakura, or sacred rocks.

In this way we can see that in ancient Chinese thought the rock was of a mountain, and the mountain was of heaven. Small wonder that Daoists liked to retreat into caves to seek the ultimate reality. Small wonder too that Bodhidharma spent nine years meditating in front of a rock face. The result was that Buddhists came to incorporate the nature of sacred rock into their philosophy. Zhanran of the Tiantai School for example claimed that even non-sentient beings have Buddhist nature.’ And in Japan Saicho, founder of Tendai, spoke of ‘the Buddha-nature of trees and rocks’.

Garden development
In Shinto it is usual for the area to the south of the main shrine building to be flat and covered with white sand or gravel. It is a place of purity where the kami will be honoured and entertained. Much of Zen in the Rocks is concerned with decoding the famous garden of Ryoan-ji in Kyoto, and it is pointed out that the dry landscape there lies to the south of the main building in Shinto fashion and is on a piece of level land covered with gravel. The Shinto preference for purity, simplicity and naturalness was woven into the Zen tradition.

Sand cones at Kamigamo Jinja. The Zen temple of Daisen-in has a similar pair in its front dry landscape garden.

Buddhism incorporated other aspects of Shinto too. One example is the use of sand cones at Kyoto’s Daisen-in, which is located in the Zen monastery of Daitoku-ji. Its rock garden contains two sand cones which mirror those at Kamigamo Shrine. These may have originally served a purpose similar to the use of red carpets today, in other words prior to the visit of an important dignitary or to the holding of a ritual event the sand from the cones would be spread over the forecourt as a form of purification and renewal. In other words, the cones were a means of storing spare sand, and over time they came to be seen as agents of purification in themselves. Something similar happened at the Zen temple of Ginkaku-ji, where the famous tall cone of sand, said to represent Mt Fuji, was originally just a garden device to keep extra sand when needed.

Zen in the Rocks is relatively short and though it focusses on the rock garden, it offers a range of unexpected insights in the role of rock in Japanese culture. It shows for instance how the Heian garden of pond and vegetation transmuted into the bare rocks and pebbles of Muromachi times. This was part of the Zen concern with pointing to the root of things and stripping away the inessential. In this way the Buddhist emphasis on perpetual change and the transience of life, given emphasis in the Heian garden, was replaced in the Zen garden with symbols of permanence and the eternal.

‘Brother rock’ may seem an odd concept to Westerners, but if you think in terms of the Big Bang, we all share common origins. In considering the changing attitudes to nature in the Sino-Japanese tradition, this book helps us to look at rock anew. Not as something dead, sterile or alien. But as fundamental to our place in the universe. Fundamental to ourselves. As Alan Watts pointed out, the giant rock on which we travel through space is ultimately the source of our existence. The spirit in the rock is ourselves.

For more on rocks, please see the list of categories in the righthand column and browse through the relevant section. For Alan Watts on rock, see this entry here.

Zen and Shinto 9: Mirrors

March 9, 2016 / John D. / 0 Comments

Mirror

Both Shinto and Buddhism in Japan use mirrors as spiritual symbols, and Green Shinto has covered their use in several previous posts (here and here or here or here for instance).

The essential idea, common to both religions, is that mirrors have no ego – they reflect without bias whatever is before them. This is tied in both Zen and Shinto with the idea of original purity. In Shinto you try to recover the purity with which you were born (the purity of another world, one might say). In Zen this takes the form of trying to recover one’s ‘Buddha nature’. “What is the face of your original nature?”runs a well-known koan.

In both religions, then, inner purity is treasured. This can be seen in the words of Morihei Ueshiba, founder of aikido, who drew on different aspects of Japanese spirituality in putting together his thinking about the martial art. The quotations below are taken from The Art of Peace (tr John Stevens).

Watching you, watching me.... Altar mirrors often reflect the spirit of the kami within the person of the onlooker

The Shinto mirror reflects without ego whatever is before it

All things, material and spiritual, originate from one source and are related as if they were one family. The past, present, and future are all contained in the life force… Return to that source and leave behind all self-centred thoughts and petty desires.

You are here for no other reason than to realize your own inner divinity and manifest your inner enlightenment.

To purify yourself you must wash away all external defilement, remove all obstacles from our path, separate yourself from disorder, and abstain from negative thoughts. This will create a radiant state of being. Such purification allows you to return to the very beginning, where all is fresh, bright, and pristine, and you will see once again the world’s scintillating beauty.

Words such as these show why sincerity and purity are so treasured in Japanese culture. In a recent talk in Kyoto on Zen terrorism in the 1930s, author Brian Victoria illustrated how political assassins had been defended by a Zen master because of the ‘purity’ of their heart in wanting the best for the nation. And in the Japanese entertainment world of late there was a big scandal involving a woman called Becky. Why? Because she had a boyfriend and was therefore not as ‘pure’ as everyone thought. Mirror, mirror on the wall – who’s the purest of them all? runs the Japanese version of the old folk tale.

Buddhist altar with mirror

The use of mirrors in Buddhist temples, where they often feature on altars as in Shinto, derives apparently from a fifth-century Indian called Vasubandhu, who came up with the idea of eight levels of consciousness. The top level shines with the light of a wisdom like a great mirror… hence the expression in Buddhism of The Great Wisdom Mirror, or Great Perfect Mirror Wisdom, which reflects the universe as it really is, free of distortion from ego or ignorance.

The Buddhist mirror is thus intended to liberate the mind. Life is an illusion, and one should not be deluded by mere appearances. Look and reflect upon reality! In An Introduction to Zen, p. 48, D.T. Suzuki quotes a Chinese monk as writing:

This body is the Bodhi-tree
The soul is like the mirror bright;
Take heed to keep it always clean,
And let no dust collect upon it.

Later, on p.61, Suzuki comments, ‘Zen often compares the mind to a mirror free of stains. To be simple, therefore, according to Zen, will be to keep this mirror always bright and pure and ready to reflect simply and absolutely whatever comes to it.’

Significantly in both Shinto and Buddhism the mirror is round, and the circle has great symbolic value in its never ending completeness. In ancient China the soul was conceived of as circular, which is why in Japanese mythology Amaterasu chose a round mirror to represent herself.

Zen is also focussed on the circle, and in the Dharma Hall of Zen temples one finds a ceiling painting of a dragon within a circle signifying the universe. And in calligraphy the best-known image is the ensou or circle, interpreted variously as enlightenment, emptiness, strength or the unity of all things. In Buddhism the moon is a symbol of awakening; in Shinto the sun. Both religions find in the roundness of celestial objects a cause for worship, and in the depths of the mirror both find a cause for reflection.

The circular window at Genko-an gives a picture of reality but is suggestive of much more

The circular window at the Zen temple of Genko-an gives a picture of reality but is suggestive of much more

Zen and Shinto 7: The Dao of Rock

February 27, 2016 / John D. / 1 Comment

Shinto garden by Shigemori Mirei at Matsuo Taisha

In my investigations into Zen this morning, I had something of an epiphany – or perhaps I should say, an awakening. Both Zen and Shinto share roots in Daoism (Taoism). Zen it has been said is the result of Indian Buddhism colliding with Chinese thought. And Shinto was conceived linguistically as shendao – the Way of the Gods. In other words, the thinking behind the Way of the Tao is fundamental to both. As Alan Watts explained in his very last book (1975), Tao is the Watercourse Way, flowing through the universe like an animating force.

Rock worship at Kamigamo Jinja

So, you may ask, if Zen and Shinto both share this in common, why are they so very different in form and belief? Why is one kami-oriented and particularist, while the other is self-oriented and universal? Why does Shinto look to this life, while Zen dwells on another?

Well, the thought struck me that they may not be as different as they seem. Both are after all based on intuitive understanding and repudiate logic and words. Zen prides itself on a transmission outside the scriptures. Shinto has no scriptures. Both in short treasure non-verbal understanding. ‘He who knows does not speak; he who speaks does not know,’ said Lao-Tzu.

In the Tao Te Ching, it is said the Way can never be known or defined. It can, however, be sensed or experienced, and its principles are observable in Nature. In Zen this is internalised as people seek their true inner nature. In Shinto there is the concept of kannagara, which in effect means following the laws of nature. Both seek the Way, but whereas Zen looks inside, Shinto looks outside. The former goes to the mountains to get closer to self, the latter goes to the mountains for closeness to the kami. And here perhaps is the vital difference between them, for whereas the former is deeply personal, the latter is community oriented. Zen tells you to sit in silence. Shinto encourages communal celebration.

Living rocks at Togakushi Jinja

It may be no coincidence then that both religions treasure rocks. (Landscape architect Shigemori Mirei has done rock gardens for both.) Zen temples are full of rocks in their beloved dry landscape gardens. Shinto shrines are full of sacred rocks, bedecked with shimenawa straw rope or shide paper strips. Rocks in Zen may trigger enlightenment. Rocks in Shinto are sacred vessels into which kami descend. Both religions see them as something more than mere stone – they’re representational, mini-mountains, spirit-bodies. On another level, they’re symbols of silence, of the non-verbal, of the eternal.

Here again Daoism lies at the root. Daoist practitioners went into caves to meditate, and what are caves but hollowed out rock? Significantly, in the Zen garden rocks stand for Mt Horai, the Blessed Isles of the Immortals where Daoist sages live. They may also symbolise moments of time in a vast ocean of raked gravel. And beyond that they symbolise the biggest rock of all, the one on which we’re spinning round the solar system. In this way they’re symbolic of Mother Earth, which, to quote Alan Watts, produced humans in the same way that trees produce apples. We are then the children of rock, because the earth-rock has ‘peopled’ us into existence. When Shinto followers worship rocks, they’re worshipping their ancestors in a very real sense.

It turns out then that in both Zen and Shinto rock is a means to salvation. Don McLean was on the right lines all those years ago. Rock truly will save your mortal soul!

Zen garden by Shigemori Mirei at Zuiho-in, Daitoku-ji with Mt Horai at the far end, from which a peninsula stretches out towards an individual rock, marooned and all at sea.