Author: dorakuan

In our Western culture, statues of Buddha and Hotei (the latter usually mixed up with Buddha) became popular decorative items. Posters, garden decoration, candles, bed-sheets, soaps, ash-trays … walking through the city, a look into the window of a cosmetic-, cloths- or book-store might offer a sight of Buddha or Hotei in a more or less creative alienation of it’s traditional setting.

I never really considered this blasphemy. The meaning of a symbol depends on the context, and in most cases the Buddha or Hotei kitsch symbolise in the West a kind of vague “Asian feel-good” … not my coup of tea, but no big problem either. I don’t believe many of us who replace their parents’ garden gnomes by Buddha or Hotei intended to insult Buddhist believers.

Said that, I can understand that someone grown up in a Buddhist culture might feel disturbed. If he happens to be artist and invited to design an object for display in a German city centre, why not comment on the flood of decorative Buddha items with a super-sized lying souvenir Buddha? Maybe the one or other tourist or citizen might realise how this originally religious symbol was transformed in our culture from something “Holy” into something “Made in Dresden“?

That is what happened in the framework of a Munich art project entitled “A space called public”. And following an old tradition, the messenger of the bad news gets punished: the Munich lying Buddha causes a storm of protest and uproar.

Not too much disturbed appear some locals with their typical distinction between “mia” (us) and “Preissn” (Prussian, a Bavarian pars pro toto for the rest of the world):  „Oa Preiß mehr is a scho wurscht“ (Another Prussian more does not matter) I read as the comment by a laid-back Munich aborigine.
–
P.S.: The Munich Culture Department is quoted with “a few middle-aged man with Asian spouses” submitted complaints. Well, it wasn’t me … but the comment inspired me for some contribution to the inter-religious dialogue which was triggered by this art installation. Without intending to insult anyone, I call it “a symbol is just a symbol”:

Every day I practice calligraphy, and often I take pictures. Occasionally, I take pictures of calligraphy. The picture below shows part of my face in a calligraphy I photographed at Tenryuji temple in Arashiyama (west of Kyoto) in October 2010. Originally I had the intention to filter away all reflections (including my face) to just show the dynamic brush-strokes … but during post-processing, this very shot ignited the idea in my mind to combine calligraphy and photography in a creative way.

Writing calligraphy and taking pictures feel all the same for me: full
concentration, completed in one breath and the final piece is finished
in my mind before the brush touches the paper or the shutter is pressed.
Yet, lots of uncontrollable parameters result in the uniqueness of each
effort, which at best contribute to it’s beauty and are welcome in any way.

So I thought about various possibilities of merging both. Most obvious would be writing on beautiful solemn photographies of landscape and nature (preferably in black and white), a modern version of Chinese ink paintings with some text. But somehow so far I did not find the idea interesting enough to realise …

Another way could be interweaving calligraphy and photography during post-processing in a most creative way, like this picture by Stefan Eichberg, displaying the calligrapher Kaoru Akagawa in one of her works. Though, simply mixing brush-strokes and pictures, which have not much in common besides both residing on my computers hard-drive, seems too much of an artificial concept.

How can I realise a dialogue between traces of ink and rays of light, beyond all theoretical concepts, on one sheet of paper?

“There is a crack in everything/That’s how the light gets in” (Leonard Cohen, Anthem).

I was so excited when beautifully rendered Japanese fonts in semi-cursive gyosho style became available for the PC. A perfect line of characters on a sheet of paper was no more the question of years of practice and maybe eventually never achievable, but just a few key-strokes away. Alas, it did not take me long until I found this perfect beauty and uniformity pretty boring.

Calligraphers like to point out in that context, that in the cherished “Preface to the Poems Collected from the Orchid Pavilion” (蘭亭集序, Chinese: Lántíngjí Xù) written by Wáng Xīzhī (王羲之) in the year 353, the character 之 appears 20 times, but no two look the same. This variety in style and expression, together with a few roughly corrected mistakes and imperfections, are considered to largely contribute to the beauty of this famous masterpiece.

In the old photography books I inherited from my grandfather I found in many of the prints a kind of softness and “magic glow” I failed to achieve even when employing the most advanced digital post-processing techniques and close-to-perfect modern lenses. This effect remained an unsolved miracle for me until very recently, when I discovered a related remark in a book written by the famous photographer Ansel Adams. The specific atmosphere I cherish so much is produced by the imperfect optical design of old lenses, which makes particularly the bright areas of an image appear soft and glowing, while the dark edges remain sharp and focussed.

As I prefer the brush to my computer when it comes to writing beautifully imperfect calligraphy, I now consider employing a more than hundred years old camera stored away in my father’s cellar for my further photographic work. The modern equipment is maybe too perfect …

–
Copyright notice: The picture “Kinder am Brunnen” presented here was scanned from the 1936 edition of “Das Deutsche Lichtbild” (p. 127). The appendix lists “Franz Ulrich” as the photographer. I reproduce it here under the assumption that any copyright expired. In case I am mistaken, please let me kindly know and I put it off the page!

Research projects can be fascinating. They provide funding for scientists all over the world to join forces (and make a living) by discovering something new. I spent a major part of my scientific career contributing to the one or other research project, and therefore carry a generally positive attitude towards such efforts.

Recently, the “Human Brain Project” was launched, with an estimated budget of 1190 million €. The promotion video proudly announces:

The brain project will create a realistic simulation of the brain.
This new tool will be used to understand how the mind works.

I first couldn’t quite trust my ears. The equation mind=brain was overcome already more than a century ago. Reducing “mind” to operations taking place inside the brain alone and aiming to simulate “mind” by a computer model of the brain is for sure a – very expensive – misunderstanding.

“Mind” is something I develop as a human being while interacting with other human beings and the world around me.  Developing “mind” requires a body and a social environment. That is one reason for practising Zazen or Zen-Arts …

Of course I might be wrong, in case they manage to simulate “Empty Mind” 無心 (MUSHIN), “Beginners Mind” 初心 (SHOSHIN) or “Zen Mind” 禅心 (ZENSHIN) towards the end of the Human Brain Project, I promise to become a devoted student of SuperComputer Roshi.

Another research project currently in the news is based on hunting whales, supported by the Japanese government. What is not immediately used for scientific purpose (I guess 99% or so) ends up on the tables of くじら restaurants all over Japan. The United Nations International Court of Justice (ICJ) in The Hague is dealing these days with a proposal to end Japan’s so-called “scientific whaling”.

Though I never tasted whale myself, I have particularly bad memories of the topic thanks to one of my past Japanese language teachers who was a whale meat enthusiast. When we discussed an article in our textbook promoting whale hunting as a Japanese cultural asset which should be respected by other nations, I dared to remark that scientific research and not tradition is the official pretence for whaling. Well, Sensei made me read a long and complicated recipe for “whale burgers” full of unknown Kanji the next lesson, as a reward for my contribution …

Lesson 3 – MUSHIN / 無心

This is part 3 of a series with instructions for self-study of Hitsuzendo (筆禅道), a Zen-exercise with brush and ink I teach and occasionally write about in my blog. Before continuing to exercise with the below sample, you might want to read what I suggest for practising Hitsuzendo here and here.

Today’s exercise consists of two characters, 無 (MU/nothingness, emptyness) and 心 (SHIN/heart, mind, soul …). The translation of 無心 (MUSHIN) is by no means “no heart” or “heartless”, but quite the opposite. It describes an “empty” or “clear” state of mind, which is not pre-occupied by ideas or concepts or prejudices and such able to perceive and accept something new.

Students of Zen sometimes wish to achieve MUSHIN through their practise, alas, a strong desire to reach a goal scares MUSHIN away. MUSHIN is like giving up, let it go, and just focus on the next step instead of occupying the heart with desires to reach the summit.

To prepare for today’s exercise, please follow my previously posted suggestions.

The two characters can be written in one breath, or two, one for each. The lines and numbers 1-2 indicate the direction and where to start.

Some points to consider:

• write slowly, with breath-power, not with muscle force
• exhale deeply and fully while writing
• don’t rush, from start to end you might need as much as 5 seconds
• don’t accelerate towards the end to produce and artistic effect –
  instead, put energy in your stroke and extend beyond the end
• compare your writing to the sample: thick and thin, rhythm, balance, over-all impression

Today’s example (especially the upper character MU) is written in gyosho or cursive style, which does not much resemble it’s (more complicated) standard form.

I will post more samples later … for hands-on instructions please consider my seminars in November at Benediktushof Holzkirchen (near Wuerzburg/Germany).

In our Western culture Chinese/Japanese characters are often appreciated as meaningless symbols. Most of us simply value or imitate their graphical expression as an abstract art. I remember seeing Robert Motherwell‘s “Fronier #3”, obviously inspired by Nantenbo‘s “Katsu”, hanging side by side in an exhibition about Zen an the western art many years ago.

Sometimes the characters appear upside down, mirror-inverse or in a nonsense or embarrassing context at awkward places (bed-sheets shouting “sit” and tattoos maybe amongst the most spooky I have seen).

While teaching Hitsuzendo (Zen calligraphy with brush and ink), I sometimes worry about what the Chinese/Japanese characters tell someone who knows nothing about the language. When I started studying calligraphy two decades ago, luckily I could already read some basic Japanese. Shape, expression and the underlying layers of meaning in the context of Zen, martial arts and Asian philosophy formed a much inspiring unit for me from the very beginning. Each new character, each new word or phrase was a discovery in meaning and writing.

Therefore I believe that a “vision only” approach is a pity. Japanese calligraphy can develop an impressive, inspiring, maybe shocking unit of graphical impact and meaning when both is perceived simultaneously as an entity.

After returning from a one week stay at a rural Zen temple outside Kameoka last spring, I was walking around a busy shopping area in Kyoto. The contrast between intense Zen-practise in the peaceful nature and the buzzing sound-scape and visual impressions of the city was inspiring and confusing at the same time. After a longer period of Zazen, eyes, ears and all senses are more perceptive and sensitive than usual.

Turning around a corner near Teramachi, suddenly I saw a huge calligraphy suspended above my head reading 心 (KOKORO/heart):

Seeing this dynamic “heart” while reading “heart” in that special situation and environment, I felt my own heart deeply moved. Intense periods of Zazen are called Sesshin 攝心, which can be translated as meeting or touching your heart (notice the second character in “Sesshin” is KOKORO). My heart was suddenly touched by this 心 in a busy shopping mall …

For more than half a year every now and then I thought back about that encounter, until yesterday accidentally I came across the artist’s webpage. I was pleased to see that artistic skill and beauty meet with social engagement … though, not surprised. It was already visible in that one character 心.

Zen-people are sometimes suspected that their strong focus on what they do “right know” makes them ignore the long-term effect of their actions. Always when I visit the Kyoto Kokusai Zendo, I see a poster hanging at the wall with words from the Temple’s head priest Hozumi Roshi:

The headline あすおもう (asu omou) can be translated as “let’s think of tomorrow”, with the five Japanese syllables a-su-o-mo-u standing for:

• ありがとう – I am grateful
• すみません – I apologise
• おかげさま – I am content with what I have
• もったいない – I won’t waste
• うれしいな – I am so glad

Acting in that way moment by moment, we can enjoy a happy life while acting responsible with the resources we just borrowed from our next generations.

I was shocked (but not surprised) to read yesterday that high levels of toxic strontium-90 have been found in groundwater at the devastated Fukushima nuclear power plant. The radioactive isotope strontium-90 has a half-life of 28.8 years (that means: after 28.8 years still 50% remain) and is mainly accumulated in the bones of the human body, where it can can cause bone cancer, cancer of nearby tissues, and leukemia. It is not mentioned as a health danger as frequently as the radioactive caesium-137, because luckily it is much less volatile after a nuclear accident. But Tepco recently planned to release huge amounts of that radioactive water into the sea …

What else do these experts plan?

Japan and France on Friday agreed to boost nuclear cooperation to secure a larger share of global atomic energy markets Tokyo’s pro-nuclear government looks to restart reactors despite public unease in the wake of the Fukushima disaster.”

(Reuters, June 7th, 2013)

Let us share forces to stop that! Let us conduct our life moment by moment considering あすおもう (asu omou)!

The title of this post refers to a book I read last week: a thrilling report about how a few monks successfully defended the Tessajara Zen Temple (a branch of the San Francisco Zen Center) in 2008 against a huge forest fire, in spite of the strict advise from the fire fighting professionals to evacuate. The Temple was founded in 1967 as the first Zen Monastery outside Asia by Shunryu Suzuki, a Japanese Zen-pioneer in the US who’s Zen-talks are collected in the highly recommended book  “Zen Mind Beginner’s Mind”.

Most things coming to my mind while reading “Fire Monks” were discussed in the book and blog which updated the community while the fire approached and passed through Tessajara:

Is it bold or stupid risking your life for preserving a few buildings? Is it a sign of attachment to one’s belongings, or non-attachment to your own life if you do such thing? Shouldn’t they not have better listened to the professional fire fighters? What a loss for the community if someone died, compared to loosing some buildings? Didn’t all this in the end prevented a fruitful re-build from scratch? Were they just lucky when surviving … and what, if not? And so on … everything is already said and written.

What really got me in the end and made me belief they were not just a bunch of suicidal Zen-freaks: eventually, those five who returned to the burning forest to defend their Temple relied on their own responsibility and authority.

Nowadays we are so quickly and willingly listening and following the advise of “experts”. Be it a health problem, financial issues or a technical question … always “out there” is someone who knows much better than me. If I ask “the expert”, he or she will let me know the verdict about my case … if I don’t follow the experts’ advise or don’t even ask for it, I am likely being called stupid and ignorant. And experts often like to tell us the way they see things is without any alternative  (“alternativlos” is my German Angst word of the year).

What can I do then, aside from finding experts and ask them how I should live my life?

What does it mean in a Zen context to defend your Temple against the firemen expert’s advise? First of all, that you do not transfer your responsibility for your life and your actions to somebody else. It is your decision, your acting and your responsibility. Ideally, you know yourself better than anyone else does, and only you can decide what is your next step, your way … no expert can tell you this! Of course you need some expertise, also the “fire-monks” acquired certain fire fighting skills through numerous drills and thorough preparations. Developing the required skills for mastering your life is part of the game, and likely a bit more work than just asking the experts … but most important is knowing yourself, and for this, years of Zen-practise provide a really good basis.

So I admire the “fire monks” not just for risking their lives and acting bravely, I respect them for taking their own decision and realising their own responsibility to act (which as well holds true for those who decided to evacuate last minute). Not handing over to the experts, but knowing yourself and being expert of your own life wherever you are, whatever your task or duty may be, is the meaning of Rinzai’s Zen-Word 随処作主 立處皆眞  (ずいしょにしゅとなれば  りっしょみなしん).

For testing my condition, especially ahead of a Sesshin, I occasionally write on expensive Japanese paper I brought all the way from Tokyo. Does it make a difference, writing on a nice pure white surface, compared to the cheap newspaper I usually employ for practising? Do I stumble in my attempt to write “nicely” and not to spoil the precious paper, resulting in weak characters full of hesitation?

I don’t think “good” or “bad” … what I see is just me, on this picture already a week ago …

Last week I shared 3 1/2 intense days with nice people practising Zazen, Hitsuzendo (Zen-exercise with brush and ink) and Aikiken (Aikido based exercise with a wooden sword) at Benediktushof Holzkirchen. I much enjoy these Sesshin, since they allow us to focus on our practise for some uninterrupted time. And particularly for me as a teacher, dealing with the various characters is always a good exercise …

Zazen and Hitsuzendo went surprisingly well without any problems. I much enjoy when I don’t have to talk too much for getting the writing periods running smoothly and there is a good concentrated working atmosphere in the room: not just when it’s my turn writing on a sheet of (news)paper, but also helping and observing the others.

Said that, eight beginners handling wooden swords can be thrilling … so I handed out a sheet of paper the day before with written safety instructions, and repeated the main points how to avoid accidents before we started exercising. Nevertheless, one person got injured, of all participants the most experienced one with the sword (I was already looking forward to having such a skilled swordsman available for demonstration): he twist his ankle when walking down the stairs on the way back from the Dojo. My warning “most accidents happen before or after the actual practise when concentration slows down!” didn’t help … I hope he gets well soon!

After Sesshin it is once more lots of packing and un-packing at home, finally washing the brushes one more time. Always when these brushes are hanging above the sink in my kitchen slowly dripping out, I know the Sesshin is really over … and I let my concentration slip for a few minutes over a cup of tee.
–
P.S.: Since I got a related question: no, I am not using the soap you can see in the background of the picture to wash my brushes, only cold water! Never use soap, and warm water only if the ink dried into the hair (which ideally does never occur).