Hokyoji Temple is nestled quaintly one kilometer deep in the mountains surrounding Ono City, in Fukui Prefecture. Fukui is well known for its lush forests, rural atmosphere and extremely high annual precipitation; over 250 cm annually. Four distinct seasons exist; however humidity is extremely high throughout the year. The region usually receives more than two meters of snow from the end of December to the end of February, the most snowfall in Japan, so winters can be quite harsh.
There are three primary sects of Zen Buddhism found in Japan: Soto, Rinzai and Obaku. The Soto sect has the greatest number of followers. Hokyoji Temple was founded over 700 years ago by Dogen Zenji, the disciple of a monk who went to China for formal studies. It is the second oldest Soto temple in Japan. Hokyoji is very quiet and has a friendly atmosphere. The recently rebuilt complex is located at the end of a narrow, winding, mountain road that passes waterfalls, rivers, and other striking, natural landmarks. The trees are a very lush green and the moss that blankets the boulders and knolls gives one the feeling of being in a green heaven. My first visit here will long remain a pleasant memory.
Zen is a philosophy that requires inner reflection to achieve enlightenment. Buddha sat under a tree looking for the answers to life's mysteries. When he discovered the answers to all of his questions were already within his own mind he decided to share his discovery with the rest of humanity in an attempt to alleviate the world's pain and suffering. The words of Buddha have been passed down through his disciples and "the way" has been preserved. The Rinzai sect uses koan or word problems to jog the mind into satori (enlightenment), while the Soto sect relies upon emptying the mind of all thoughts, pure and impure, in an attempt to open one's subconscious to the vast emptiness known as ku. Only when this state is attained can the mind begin to realize its full potential and the "true mind"be released. Years, even decades of physical and spiritual training occur before one reaches this enlightened state, if ever.
I spent some time at Hokyoji, hoping that I might be able to experience a different aspect of Japanese culture and learn a little bit about zen buddhism.
Friday evening began with a drive up to the temple parking lot. The weather was cooler than previous days due to a passing typhoon. The clouds blanketing the surrounding mountains, together with fog and a persistent drizzle created an atmosphere that was extremely conducive to internal contemplation. Either that or a good book by a warm fire. We were late; classes having ended later than usual on that particular day. This only increased our sense of uneasiness for on the previous night we called to reconfirm our arrangements, and discovered much to our embarrassment, that the monks retire at 9:00p.m. sharp. That was our first lesson.
After parking the car in the gravel lot, we walked silently along a path worn smooth by countless pairs of sandals over the centuries. Ahead, through the foliage, we could see the gate leading to the temple grounds. Ancient is the only way to describe it. The temple had at one time been destroyed by fire but the gate was spared and has been standing for 700 years as a testament to humanity's perseverance. Mother nature welcomed us; not an inappropriate sight or sound could be discerned.
The entrance to the main building appeared rather unremarkable. There was a little wicket, a few pairs of running shoes and a couple of umbrellas. The aroma of incense combined with that of old wood intoxicated us, making us feel giddy. Our "gomen kudasai" ("excuse me...") seemed to echo through silence of the hall. A middle aged monk, wearing a simple, thin, black silk robe, a pair of nondescript sandals and a kitchen apron came to the door. In his hand he carried a dishtowel. "We are in the process of preparing dinner," he said. "Please follow my brother to the waiting room and we will call you when it is time to eat." The monk who led us up the ancient oak staircase was the very one who had sped past us in a jeep on our way up to the temple, so we recognized him. "Please wait here," he said with a smile as we passed bookshelves containing a large amount of ancient tomes. The six tatami mat room was empty. We sat on the floor in the usual fashion (with our too-long legs splayed everywhere, backs to the walls for support) and talked about the evening, attempting to guess at what might occur. At that time, I remembered having read somewhere that zen monastery meals were ascetic so I prepared for the frugality in advance by eating some sushi before coming up. Lesson number two: monks in Japan eat huge meals.
We were led into the dining room and I was surprised to see the quantity of food on the table. There were several huge bowls of soba, rice, Japanese pickles, various boiled vegetables and a kind of seaweed known as kombu. We listened to a simple prayer before the meal. When a brother arrived late, all hashi were put down until he had seated himself down to eat. At the end of the meal we used a small amount of tea and a single pickle to clean our bowls, sliding the pickle around the bowl with our ohashi (chopsticks). Then we consumed the pickle drank the tea.
My wife once told me that, in Japan, if you leave any rice in your bowl, you will be visited by the ghost of your dead grandmother. As I did not particularly feel quite up to challenging this belief I made sure not to leave a single piece of rice. After dinner we were sent to the bath and then changed into something a little more comfortable. My friends brought training suits and I thought I would try wearing my kendo gi or kendo uniform (thinking that it would look more "traditional").
We were led into the dojo and asked to follow instructions to the letter, all the while refraining from speaking. This is what we saw: wood, concrete, tatami, iron bells, incense and black, round cushions. A giant wooden fish hung from the ceiling, waiting to be sounded. The lanterns were dimly lit. It felt like a holy place. A few people were settling themselves on their cushions. I say "people" and not monks, because there were another pair of lay persons also practicing zazen with us. There were two rooms, separated by a thin bamboo screen. We stepped over the threshold, left leg first, covered the left hand with the right, left thumb in fist, held our hands above the stomach and kept our eyes downcast. We passed beyond the screen. The next ritual was complicated and difficult to recall in detail. A statue of Shakyamuni Buddha was beyond the screen. One is supposed to hold one's hands such that palms touch and bow to Shakasama. Incense was offered by the monitor and then by us. We got down on our hands and knees and touched our foreheads to the floor, palms facing up at the side of the head. We repeated this genuflection three times in all. From there we walked counter-clockwise around the entire dojo in a bowed position to show respect for the others. It was difficult to keep a straight, serious face the whole time and I remember struggling with my "giggle demons".
When this was done we returned to a designated portion of the hall; a single tatami mat raised on a one meter platform and bordered by polished oak. There is a special way of getting on the mat. The zabuton cushion upon which one sits has a white tag that must face the sitter, who in turn must remove his or her sandals, turn away from the cushion and, without touching the wooden border, lean back and hop onto it. The left hand holds the zabuton while the right hand is used as a fulcrum to rotate the body counter-clockwise such that one faces the wall. Once in that position, the cushion needs to be placed four -fingers distance away from the border. The usual lotus sitting position has both feet upon opposite thighs, soles turned up. If you cannot do this then the half -lotus (right foot on left thigh with left foot under right thigh) can be used. It is not that much more comfortable. The two other acceptable positions are cross-legged and seiza-style with the zabuton between calves and buttocks. Zazen can even be done while supine if bed-ridden. Regardless of how it is done, the hands must rest in the lap with the left hand cradled in the right, the tips of the thumbs touching to create a half-moon shape. Keep a straight back, buttocks out, nose and chin in line with the chest. The tongue should lightly touch the top front teeth (this prevents involuntary drooling) and the eyes should look at a spot on the floor roughly one meter away. Do not think of anything. Do not think of nothing. Do not force your thoughts away. Do not dwell on them. Let the existing thoughts enter and exit at will. It is the sitting that is most important; the being. Repeat this process every 40 minutes, with 10 minute walking zazen breaks in between the sitting, for the entire day and you have the recipe for zazen. As we arrived before the final practice of the day, we only had to sit through one session. During this time the monitor silently walked around the dojo with a wide-bladed wooden paddle, known as a kyosaku, to correct the posture of those performing zazen. Should a student be drifting, slouching, falling asleep, concentrating too hard or not enough, the monitor will approach from behind and tap gently on the right shoulder. The student will then raise the hands in prayer and tilt the head slightly to the left. The instructor will then strike rapidly and firmly on the shoulder muscle, being careful not to hit bone or tendon. My thoughts wandered. I was expecting the strike of the kyosaku to be quite painful; however it is more of a shock than actual pain. It is not intense; rather it is like the rap on the knuckles that piano students receive when they need to he corrected. It really does wake you up if you begin to drowse, slouch or wander beyond the immediate task at hand.
At night we slept in the dojo. Lesson three: wear socks to bed in a Zen temple if you are longer than the futon. It is very cold, even in October, up in the mountains. I had trouble sleeping that night. The holidays in Zen temples fall on days that have a four or a nine in them and are called shi-ku nichi. However strange it may seem there is a logical reason behind this tradition. The number four, in Japanese, is pronounced Shi which can also mean "death" while the character for nine, or ku can have the added meaning of "suffering". As they suffer enough daily, the monks take these unlucky days off and perform only morning and evening zazen. They are allowed to bathe, shave, relax or go shopping for "real" food. The other days are devoted entirely to zazen. We arrived on the eve of a holiday and thus the next day's meditation consisted of only one session that began at 5:30 a.m. We had 20 minutes to perform our morning toiletries after being woken up. Morning zazen was, to me, torture, pure and simple. My body was so stiff after sleeping on the thin cotton futon, in a cold dojo. After sitting for 15 minutes I could only think about the pain; after 30 minutes I could no longer think, sit, stretch nor stand; I could not do anything. After 40 minutes I wanted to go home! After sitting for 15 minutes I was struck by the kyosaku which, for about 30 seconds, released all pain and thought from my body.
When the morning session of zazen was completed we departed from the dojo in the exact opposite manner of entering and then congregated in the main temple which houses a very large Buddhist altar, a large wooden drum and a few other items of prayer. The venerable head priest sat on an oversize zabuton or cushion in the center of the room and the monks surrounded him. Everyone then went on to perform several genuflections, drum beats, chants and sutra recitals which overwhelmed us entirely, having never seen or participated in such an event before. The aroma of incense combined with the smell of tatami mats and the damp morning air blended perfectly with the priests' monotone chants. Despite the one-tone, there was an otherworldly rhythm, melody and harmony to the recitals. Every monk had a different pitch of voice that, in unison, produced a soothing lethargy that lifted a weight from my shoulders and let me view the morning all the more clearly. The whole ritual was quite stunning in it's beauty.
After the prayers we spent time cleaning the training hall. Although we did a good job of it, we probably moved around more dust than had previously existed, solely by our being there. The temple was clean! No dust, no dirt, no garbage. Clean. And yet we wiped every section of the floor and mantle with damp rags, to clean it even further. Children in public and private schools in Japan clean their entire schools in this manner every day so why, I thought, should it be any different in a school of Zen teaching?
Next came breakfast which was eaten in the dojo while sitting on the zabuton in the same manner as if practicing zazen. Every activity from walking to bathing to sleeping is supposed to be performed as if one is practicing zazen. Training doesn't stop just because nature calls. It is a 24 hour, 365 day program. A monk wiped the wooden border which became our "table". The cloth used to wrap the bowls that were brought to us became a place mat with the four bowls and utensils placed on top, larger bowls to the left and eating utensils in front of them. The head priest sat in an extremely oversized padded chair that dwarfed him. He was served first, then the row to his right, and finally the row opposite him received breakfast. When the server approached, we raised our hands in prayer, bowed, held forth a bowl and bowed again after receiving the food. We did not eat until everyone had been served and prayers were said. The meal consisted of a bland rice porridge soup called okayu (I forget the zen name for it) which was seasoned with salt, pepper and sesame seeds. Japanese pickles, and kombu came as a side dish. It was quite tasty to me but by judging from the looks on my friends' faces as they ate, their opinions differed. We were given ordinary ohashi and were therefore required to save a pickle for cleaning our bowls, but the monks had a special sponge-tipped spatula for wiping everything clean. It was a very practical and efficient utensil. Boiled water was poured into the largest bowl for cleaning, transferred to successive bowls and then thrown out. We prayed, cleaned up, left quickly and silently.
We enjoyed a non-religious cup of coffee with everyone in the kitchen while doing the dishes, telling jokes, and talking about our home countries, Japanese tradition, etc. It was definitely the best part of the whole adventure for me as I got to see these "mysterious beings" as humans. Before we prepared to leave we spent some time cleaning rice, laughing and taking embarrassing pictures of monks shaving each others' heads.
The rain had passed during morning prayers and the sounds of the forest once again greeted us as we floated down the path to the parking lot, a huge weight lifted from our shoulders. On that day it felt as if I had emerged from a cocoon, transformed like a monarch butterfly, ready to meet the world and all it had to offer head-on, my mind open to all. This was an experience I will never forget. Even to this day when I see the familiar monks on their holidays, shopping in the supermarket or hard at work collecting alms in the streets I greet them as old friends and we share a secret smile.
This is a repring from my http://www.japanippon.com/ blog and was written many years ago.
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