Doraku-An Zen-Dojo

UFFF-UFFF-UAGHHH … every now and then I can hear such weird noise outside my Dojo. What sounds like a mating deer or an asthmatic angry dog usually turns out to be the utterance of some post-adolescent male, to all appearances belonging to the species homo sapiens.

How comes a wooden signpost with Japanese characters next to the entrance and a calligraphy and a flower in the otherwise empty window can trigger this kind of acoustic degeneration?

During my stays in Japan I witnessed a variety of inept behaviour by guests being overwhelmed by the unfamiliar culture, not just a few of such stunts performed by myself. Though with a specific kind of people, a Japanese environment seems to provoke the production of a sound-scape and actions which might be inspired by a previous overconsumption of certain Asian martial art films.

I speculate that the mixture of feeling illiterate and helpless like a kid in the face of an unintelligible language and culture, together with the onset of megalomania fuelled by the host’s (never before in such way experienced) politeness motivates the uncontrolled release of accumulated prejudice.

It is more than just a bit disturbing to read the Polish President Bronisław Komorowski called his national-security adviser “Shogun” during a photo shooting in the Japanese parliament, just minutes before he mounted the chair of the speaker of Japan’s Diet.

Japan provides such an excellent environment for us to experience and learn new things – or to make a complete fool out of ourselves. This is one reason why I decided (beyond my private preference for Japanese aesthetics) to maintain a distinct “Japanese Style” at my Dojo. The place teaches by itself, a first lesson might well be to take off your shoes …

 

 

P.S.: In defence of Prince William who was seemingly not being prepared by the most competent advisers for his Japan trip, I want to add that he was very well received. Especially his visit to the tortured Tohoku region and (on his special request arranged) exchange with victims of the 3.11 disaster triggered some very positive resonance in the Japanese media.

The half-baked attempts of transplanting the outmoded Chinese/Japanese concept of a “Zen-Master” into our modern 21st century Western society can be a never ending source of entertainment. Occasionally I come across web-pages of the one or other “Zen-Master”, providing the most hilarious narration of how his or her “Dharma Transmission” occurred (*), and it might be beyond imagination what really had happened (or not) on such occasion.

Currently I am reading the highly recommended book “Critical Sermons of the Zen Tradition: Hisamatsu’s Talks on Linji“ by Shin’ichi Hisamatsu. Though a bit old fashioned in language here and there, the ideas of this Buddhist scholar, philosopher and tea ceremony master come to us fresh and revolutionary, like a whirlwind blowing out the dust from all corners of a sleepy Zen Dojo.

Let me quote what Hisamatsu wrote on “Dharma Transmission”:

Because the Dharma isn’t apart from the Self, it can’t be obtained from the outside.
[ …]
If our way of obtaining the Dharma leads us to value certification our paper, it will have less worth than toilet paper. True certification occurs only when we realize that the Dharma goes beyond attainment, that we are the True Self. But we tend to get caught up in things, forgetting that the Dharma isn’t something we receive from others. Ask yourself: who certifies whom? The Self does it to the Self. There is no other type of certification. Nevertheless, certification tends to get off the track and become something fixed apart from us. The transmission of the Dharma becomes a mere form, which prevents the Dharma from being transmitted in the true sense. Contemporary Zen people need to think seriously about this.

– Chapter 14, The Meaning of the Founder’s Coming from the West

The Dharma is independent of all sutras, of all words.
[ …]
To treasure these words after Buddha’s death and say that they are his central teaching is to exhibit ignorance of the basic fact that the Dharma is independent of words. The Dharma is living in the present. New expressions and teachings may – and indeed must – emerge from it one after another.
[ …]
One who truly lives in the Dharma does not become entangled in words from Sakyamuni’s “golden mouth”.

– Chapter 15, The Three Vehicles Twelve Divisions of Teachings

This text is more than 50 years old, slightly elder than I am. Yet reading these words makes me feel much younger! Let’s quickly forget them, so new expressions and teachings may emerge from it one after another.

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P.S. (7.3.): Many thanks to Rev. Taka Kawakami (the deputy head priest at Shunkoin Temple) for reminding me that Shin’ichi Hisamatsu lived at Shunkoin Temple in the 1930’s. The webpage of Shunkoin explains that “Shunkoin was one of the most important places in Japanese Buddhist philosophy in the early 20th century. D. T. Suzuki and Hōseki S. Hisamatsu, who are two of the most famous Japanese Zen Buddhist philosophers, discussed the future of Japanese Buddhism at this temple. Especially, Hōseki S. Hisamatsu lived in the guest house of Shunkoin and wrote several his books. There are azaleas planted by D.T. Suzuki in the front garden of Shunkoin.”

One more reason to be grateful that (now almost four years ago) our Dojo became Shunkoin Temple’s official association in Germany!

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(*) “Dharma Transmission” = “Zen Master” = “Teaching License” is a common misunderstanding in Western Zen. For example, within the Japanese Soto-system a dharma transmisson “[ …] provides access to only a relatively low grade. It is listed as a requirement for the very lowest ecclesiastical status, that of an instructor third class (santo kyoshi). Thus, in present day Soto Zen, dharma transmission constitutes a preliminary step, after which one’s real development begins. The relatively low status of dharma transmission means that in and of itself it does not qualify one to accept students or to train disciples.” quoted after: William M. Bodiford, Dharma Transmission in Theory and Practice, in: Steven Heine and Dale S. Wright (eds.), Zen Ritual Studies of Zen Buddhist Theory in Practice, Oxford University Press, p. 276 (2008).

About 15 Years ago, during the lunch-break of a Zen-Seminar at my old Aikido-Dojo in Bavaria, my former teacher brushed for me the character 夢 (YUME/dream) on a large paper. I believe it is one of the best pieces he ever wrote, reflecting so well the atmosphere of that beautiful sunny day. This YUME has been on display ever since, at my home, my office for years and now at my Dojo.

Last week a lady visited the Dojo in search of a calligraphy as a special birthday gift. After inspecting my own brushwork for some time she spotted that YUME and said: “Oh, THIS ONE is beautiful!”. I explained why it is not for sale, and offered to write a “similar one” instead.

When a few days later my phone rang and the lady agreed to my offer, I knew I was in trouble. Writing nice calligraphy is one thing, fulfilling the frivolous promise to produce an equivalent copy of my former teacher’s master-piece is another story.

It is impossible for me to brush a vibrant piece of Zen-calligraphy if I bear any doubt in my heart, any fear, any worries … even the slightest hesitation will leave its trace on the paper, clearly visible to the expert and lay-person alike. Like a happy child loudly singing on the street, an unburdened state of mind freely playing with the technical skills acquired over years of practice is the only way to express myself with brush and ink. It cannot be pushed, if “ME” wants to write a masterpiece, all you can see later in my brush-stroke is either my fear to fail, or MY BIG EGO.

Writing my former teacher’s YUME without even thinking of it, what an exercise!

Did I succeed? The friendly customer seemed delighted with the outcome of my efforts when she came to pick up her YUME the other day. I gave her the best out of seven versions, though I believe the quick warm-up I first brushed on a newspaper was maybe even slightly better …

It is raining outside and cold inside my Dojo. I came earlier today because someone was interested in buying a calligraphy. Though, what I had to offer seemed beyond the friendly ladies budget. How much for an original piece of art? Five times the price of an IKEA poster? 300.000 of my calligraphies for the money Andy Warhols “Six Self Portraits” changed owner at Sotherby’s last year?

I had to sell three large calligraphies to pay my Dojo’s monthly rent, though usually I sell one every three months. Never mind, there is some small income through regular and irregular students, and the landlord agreed to cut the rent to two thirds for the time being. But maybe I have to close down this year anyway … it doesn’t matter.

While waiting if someone would show up for the Zen Introduction Class I offer twice a month (every 1st and 3rd Friday) I have some time to practice Shakuhachi, the Japanese bamboo flute. My former Shakuhachi teacher passed away last October, never will I have another lesson with him. Yet I meet with him every time playing his hand-made flute while reading from the music scores he brushed for me over a decade ago. These dialogues with my late teacher, what a special, precious exercise!

I read a friend’s article about Zen-Moneymakers (1), and later a carelessly edited flyer with pictures of nice Japanese temples and tea houses advertising a planned Zen Temple and Seminar Centre in Bavaria (2). The flyer talks of a “Zen-Master-House” with an area of 150 square meters, which “is also an example for a small tea house”. A small tea house measures 4 1/2 tatami, a bit more than seven square meters. 20 small tea houses would fit into this Zen Master’s home … our European sense for space and modesty?

My Iaido teacher was so poor that in the end he sold the ancient swords and books he brought from Japan. My Zen and Zen-Calligraphy teacher lived for many years in a small room as a subtenant. The Zen-Temple in Japan I occasionally visit for practise ran out of food and later toilet paper (fortunately in that order) last time I was there, and my late Aikido teacher used to carry his dogi and hakama (cloths for practice) in old plastic bags. Poverty is no indicator for quality of course, but none of my excellent teachers had more than necessary to live.

Nobody came for the introduction class that rainy Friday evening. After I decided to charge a modest fee for the hour and a tea, visitors became quite rare. It seems “Zen-for-Free” and “Zen-Moneymakers” is a business model, a little donation to keep the Dojo running might be asking too much.

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(1) Christopher Hamacher: Die Zen-Geschäftemacher (PDF-download)
(2) Flyer Zen-Kloster mit Seminarzentrum Daishin Zen (PDF-download)

I was asked for a Zen-calligrapher’s comment on the Paris massacre.

In a brush-stroke you may see yourself. Bear with it, don’t kill!

Today I had a look how many people subscribed for this blog. After deducting some obvious spam, I counted 108 subscriptions … really?

Recently somebody (with whom I had just a brief virtual exchange) called me a “blogger”. I was baffled … isn’t a blogger a young, maybe nerdy late-teen being occupied with writing about, say, street-fashion or the latest technical gadgets? Or someone for whom independent online-publishing is an important part of every day life? Someone with a message …?

Calling me a “blogger” is a bit as if my university students would call me a “hand-outer”, because occasionally they receive a hand-out accompanying my lectures. Though, producing and handing out short snippets of text is not anyhow significant for my academic research or teaching, it’s nothing more than here or there providing some additional information, pointing to this or that. In a similar way I understand my blog in relation to my teaching activities in Zen and Zen-Arts.

I began this blog as a kind of travel diary when I went to Japan and the Tohoku region a few weeks after the disastrous earthquake and Tsunami (known as the 2011 Tohoku Earthquake). At the time I wasn’t sure what will become out of it, I also wasn’t quite sure if I will return in good health since the fatally destroyed reactors in Fukushima were still boiling, in addition to a typhoon warning issued for that very day I passed close by Fukushima on my way to Sendai.

I simply thought it might be a good idea to provide some bits of information about my journey, mixed with some views on my way of practising Zen. Some nice feed-back encouraged me to continue writing, in spite of serious doubts every now and then if this wasn’t a considerable waste of time.

Consequently, this blog is not (like some other blogs might well be) written for it’s own sake, or anyhow considered to be a consistent and self-sufficient source of information. It’s just a hand-out, snippets, or (as it is said in the title) “incidental remarks on Zen”. Nothing too serious … my 108 subscribers (and accidental passer-by), I hope you enjoyed reading!

Last week I visited the highly recommended exhibition “Vom Japonismus zum Zen. Paul Klee und der Ferne Osten” at the Cologne Museum dür Ostasiatische Kunst. In case you want to study which way Asian Zen Art influenced Western Art, this is an excellent opportunity to follow a less known trace!

Besides a group of four to five elderly ladies, to my surprise I was the only visitor on this Saturday afternoon. Maybe the lack of other people or maybe the communicative nature of the Rheinland folks made the semi-private guide of the ladies group speak out loud and without hesitation what she knew about the artwork on display. It was entertaining to listen and gave me some good hints where to start and when to end with an explanation, when next time guests at my Dojo and gallery produce a puzzled expression on their face while looking at my calligraphy.

The vociferous tour-guide was just about commenting on a Daruma ink painting, when one of the group members asked “And how does one become enlightened?”. Without a moment of hesitation the guide replied “You have to live a very strict life, follow many rules, diet, lots of meditation, no pleasure, no music, no sex … and worst of all, no alcohol! Then, after many years, you will become enlightened!”. Silence. Deep breaths from the impressed audience … and she continued “Though, after you achieved enlightenment, you may eat and drink and enjoy your life as before. When you are enlightened, you are allowed to live the same life as we do!”.

After a dramatic pause the wise guide concluded “Basically, we are all enlightened!”. The whole group seemed much satisfied with her answer and left, so I could enjoy some silent private time with the masterpieces of Zen Art and Paul Klee’s re-interpretation.

If you come to Cologne, make sure not to miss the exhibition, and the cheerful temper of the unquestionably enlightened locals!

I have never in my life heard anyone playing the shakuhachi like this. A tune the master produced on his bamboo flute came from far away and long ago. He never said a word too much, and the tea-time before our lessons often was a silent, speech-less distress during which I desperately tried to find the one or other topic for conversation.

“So, bitte spielen Sie!” (so, please play) and “Ja, noch einmal!” (yes, once more) were probably the two phrases I heard most from him. Some lessons passed without much more than “So, bitte spielen Sie!” followed by two or three “Ja, noch einmal!”. He played a tune, I copied to the best of my limited abilities.

For ten years month after month I visited him, either for a private lesson at his home in northern Germany or during his regular class near the Bavarian Alps, each a day-trip away from my home. Learning the shakuhachi required lots of commuting to these locations, one with its low sky, rough winds and the nearby salty sea in the air, one with the sight of majestic snow covered mountains. Playing a tune from his hand-written music scores on the flute he once made for me always evokes images in my mind of the surrounding nature where I once studied with him. And though it should imitate the sound of a bell ringing in the empty sky, I can hear the sea and the wind in the snowy mountains as well.

The way my former teacher expressed himself was mainly through his shakuhachi, which in ancient Japan was exclusively played by the Komuso Monks while begging for alms, and sometimes used as a weapon to defend themselves. For him, it never became a musical instrument amongst others, the way we nowadays usually listen to the shakuhachi. His Kyotaku is a tool for meditation, for practising Suizen (吹禅), or “blwoing Zen”.

Ikkei Handa passed away on 1. October 2014.

Writing with brush and ink is my passion. I was drawn into this art about three decades ago, and the fascination never ever ceased. The very moment my ink loaded brush touches the paper I feel beyond time and space. Something occurs, but it is not me. Not me drawing a line, not me trying to produce a pleasant calligraphy.

Sometimes I feel all those artists whose work I had studied standing behind me, guiding my brush. Their breath, their hand, their vision is leaving it’s trace on the paper. After the calligraphy is completed, usually in one breath, I feel happy and exhausted … and looking at it, I hardly ever think it is “my work”.

I have always been lacking an appropriate expression to describe in a word or two what it feels for me to write calligraphy. Until a few days ago, when I read in my favourite book (1) about the artist Atsuko Watanabe. She is quoted therein to motivate her students in a workshop saying “書いてもらう” (kaite morau) … which can only approximately be translated by “let’s receive the painting/writing”.

Yes, 書いてもらいます! I receive the writing I then transfer to the paper with brush and ink. Only when the results looks awkwardly clumsy, I am to be blamed. That regularly happens when I want to write nicely.

If it comes out really well, it wasn’t me!

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(1) A. Couturier, “A Different Kind of Luxury: Japanese Lessons in Simple Living and Inner Abundance”. If I had to name just one book illustrating how to live a happy and fulfilled life, it would be this one.

Autumn came with grey sky, and this early morning when I left for Zazen it was only seven degrees. I decided to switch on the Dojo’s central heating system for an hour, since some visitors recently complained about sitting in the cold.

Thinking of my winter Zazen experience in an unheated Temple in Japan, I remember it was a bit hard in the beginning to get adjusted. With some warm cloth and realising the ability of our human body to produce all warmth that is necessary I eventually really enjoyed it. Facing a beautiful Zen garden we even had the sliding doors open for sitting closer with nature, the gently falling snow almost touching our skin.

When I lead Sesshin at a huge luxurious seminar place in Bavaria we practise in a nicely heated room, the thick walls of the former medieval monastery perfectly insulate us from the surrounding nature. It is a real challenge not to fall asleep in the warm stuffy air, and the sound-scape produced by the heating and all the other technical systems operating the house evoke a spaceship-like atmosphere at times.

Switching on my Dojo’s heating this morning felt like switching off the opportunity to experience Zazen with nature: hot in summer, cold in winter.

Yet, this pampered way is often our Western Zen, custom-made for us saturated middle class consumers. If not the quest to further improve and optimise our performance, some vague feeling of dissatisfaction, some wish to change our life drives us to the door of a Zen Dojo. Though instead of searching and finding a place to truly experience ourselves, we end up in just another comfortably heated room wasting our time.

I get the impression some more industrious Zen entertainers are well aware of that problem and fill the comfortable boredom with many kinds of entertaining nonsense: a catwalk of fashionable Japanese style Zen-clothing, talks and performances functioning like some kind of emotional central heating, or an overshoot of ceremonies are on display.

More than ever I feel the humble Zen experience I have to offer does not meet the expectations of the people frequenting my Dojo. These autumn days I decided to relocate to a more secluded place, unheated, in the midst of nature.