Pfft!
Pfft!
It was a slight sound, like the scrape of a sandal on the concrete floor. It came from several feet behind me, a little to my right, from the area near the floor. If someone had been walking behind me, I would've understood what caused the sounds, but as it was, there was no one standing or walking behind me; the priest with the 'kyosaku' stick was too far away, on the other side of the room. He was the only one on his feet; the rest of us were sitting in meditation...
To those of you unfamiliar with the practice of Zen meditation, let me explain just a little of how it works... or, worked in this case, as this is a story from twenty years ago. But before I begin that, let me tell you how I ended up going to a temple to meditate in the first place.
First of all, I studied Japanese Language and Literature at the University of Minnesota back in the early 80's. I had my first encounter with Zen Buddhism in my college days; as a student of Japanese culture, Buddhist themes tended to appear quite often in the works of famous Japanese writers. And, to my surprise, one of my classmates was the son of a Japanese priest who ran the Zen Meditation Center just off Lake Calhoun in Minneapolis, but I digress. I had been to the ZMC as a part of my coursework, and even participated in a short meditation session then, but nothing really 'clicked' at that time. It may have been due to my upbringing as a Methodist, and my desire to steer away from the 'cults' that I'd heard about growing up. At any rate, I didn't develop a real interest in Buddhism until my last year in college, when I read a story written by a priest over 800 years ago as part of my "Classical Japanese" studies, and was quite moved by the beauty and philosophy of the work, but by then I had become more focused on graduating and finding something to do in my future, which included a trip to the Land of the Rising Sun.
I received a job offer during my second week in my first trip to Japan; the contract required that I live there a minimum of three years; I actually ended up staying longer (over seven years total). While living in Japan, Buddhism became an inescapable presence; the landscape there is peppered with temples, almost to the level that churches appear on practically every street corner in Indiana. And, because of my loneliness and search for an answer to the 'meaning of life', I decided to give Zen Buddhism a try. Interestingly enough, I quickly found out, not all temples, not even the Zen Buddhist temples, offer meditation sessions. In fact, it was difficult to find one where I could even try on my own until I talked to a Japanese friend who introduced me to someone he knew, who then offered to take me to the temple where he meditated...
Pfft!
There it was again!! The sound was disturbing my focus! I had become quite adept at meditating, and emptying my brain of excess thoughts that tended to stray in every direction like shooting stars. I actually enjoyed it, even if I couldn't quite wrap my legs the way I was supposed to for optimum results. But now, with this sound appearing out of nowhere every so often, I was unable to quiet my mind. What is that? became the domineering thought...
A group of us interested in Zen Buddhism meditation met every Friday
evening in a small temple not too far from downtown Nagoya, a major
manufacturing center in the central area of Japan, situated between Tokyo, the current capitol, and Kyoto, the old cultural center of Japan. The leader was an old Japanese priest who appeared to be in his seventies, or maybe older, but he was very, very lithe. I was amazed to see him put his head on the floor between his knees as his legs were stretched out before him. During the mediation session, the priest would have us pick our places around the perimeter of the room; we would sit on a cushion facing the wall, with our legs crossed in the 'Full Lotus" or "Half Lotus" position, and our backs erect, pointing toward the ceiling. I would remove my glasses so that I could not see anything distinctly, then look at a point on the wall a few inches above the floor. The priest would light a stick of incense and the room would be quiet as we meditated. The incense was a stopwatch of sorts; when it burned completely away, which took about twenty minutes, the first round of meditating was done. The priest would ring a bell, and we would quietly stretch our legs, get up and slowly move around the room in a small circle for about five minutes to restore the circulation in our legs. Then, we would return to our selected spots, sit down, and the priest would light another stick of incense and we would begin our second round. After the second round, we would pick up our cushions, place them in the storage rack, bring out some 'tables' and lay them out in rows, and sit to listen to the priest give us a lesson on some Buddhist text. Afterwards, we would have a cup of tea and a small snack while we talked about various things. It was this priest and his demeanor, his heart and soul, that turned me on to the idea of becoming a Buddhist priest myself. He also turned me to to Dvorak's Cello Concerto in B Minor, Op 104 as performed by Pablo Casals, but that, perhaps, is for another day...
Pfft!
OK, I had had enough!! All these years of meditating were proving fruitless with my intense focus being interrupted by someone or something making that noise!! I couldn't figure out why the priest didn't make any comment to the person disturbing my concentration-- after all, he sat facing outward toward the center of the room and not toward the wall, so he had to have seen what caused the noise! Something that loud should have been reprimanded! And the guy with the kyosaku (the stick used to snap those falling asleep back to focus on their meditation) should have done something!
I could not let it slide any longer! I waited until I heard it one more time, and then I turned my head... to see the ash had fallen off the tip of the stick of incense onto the bowl several inches below it. That was the 'loud noise' that had disturbed me! It was simply the sound of ash falling... but the quietness of everything else had made it sound loud and clear to me!
The knowledge that my ears had become so sensitive to the slightest of sounds made me surprised and thrilled at the same time. It was the equivalent of a loud "KATSU!" shout used by priests in the past to bring that moment of clarity, the 'enlightenment' that disciples of Zen have striven to achieve for thousands of years... Now this is not to say that I am 'enlightened' and have dealt with everything under the sun so I'm better than all others; no, indeed, the pursuit still continues, but in other ways. I just wanted to share with you an experience, a moment in time... and encourage you to try to silence your wayward thoughts. You never know what you might 'see' or 'hear'. Maybe... just maybe you will hear that special something hidden behind the din of your internal busy-ness.
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