Streets, Zen and bodybuilding 2
Continuing my experiences of the first ten years of my Zen practice: In 1998, I recalled the events of a morning sitting during a sesshin and recounted them. So far we have entered the zendo, before six in the morning; we have settled on our cushion and now we are waiting for zazen to begin...
Preview: 6:00 a.m.: Does Roshi know the answer? / 6:04 am: How did I end up here? / 6:05 am: I taste my hunger... / 6:09 am: ...hunger for the posture / 6:11 am: This is how the Buddha sits / 6:14 am: Breath counting and bodybuilding / 6:19 am: »Find my mind« / 6:21 am: Zen at the adult education center / 6:24 am: We become Zen students / 6:30 am: We imagine the world well / 6:32 am: The monk / 6:37 am: Why doesn't the barbarian have a beard? / 6:40 am: We get up.
6:00 a.m.
Now I don't know what to think as I sit on my pillow. How did I get in here - and how do I get out again? I have one suspicion: I won't get out again. I have slid through life, through the slaughterhouses and bistros, the streets and universities, beds and bread - only to end up here, on thirty square centimetres of pillow in a dark room at six in the morning. Wandered through breadland and only found crumbs? Incense sticks smoke in front and a lonely candle blazes next to the wooden Buddha figure that is supposed to cut through my illusions with a sword.
I was infected by my illusion while reading: life is more than the meaning of life, and there are still songs to be sung beyond people, I read. But what is a human being? Who am I? And what is the meaning of life?
Does the Roshi who has just entered the room know the answers? Can he, the living Buddha, cut through my illusions with his sword? I raise my head and follow him with my eyes. Very upright, very measured, the lion has crossed the threshold. Short ice-gray hair, a fleshy nose and wide ears I sense in the darkness. Even in his flowing black robe and purple monk's cloak, the Roshi has an athletic silhouette: a swimmer. Or a boxer. Maybe - but now he is the abbot of this temple; and temple is wherever he sits. The Roshi has folded his hands in front of his chest and stands in the middle of the room. Where has he left his sword? He glances once in a semicircle, scrutinizing, and his gaze meets my eyes. I look down quickly. He doesn't need a sword. His silent eyes are enough.
I have known the Roshi for ten years and have the illusion that he knows the answers. How will he use his sword?
»BONG - Tschak - BONG...« sounds the large singing bowl. The nun behind the bells and gongs has struck it, dampened it and struck it again. Her position is called Jikido and she keeps time and is responsible for keeping order in the meditation room.
Into the fading sound waves of the last beat, we fifty people begin to recite a verse in which we vow to take responsibility for our actions. I whisper the verse with my lips, I mean it. I fumble for my sword.
The abbot has bowed to the ground. He rests his forehead on the wood and raises his hands next to his temples. He bows three times, stands again, smoothes his robe and purple cloak and begins a walk, Kentan, along our rows. He strides past everyone and we greet him with clasped hands. The abbot has finished his tour. He sits down on his cushion, accompanied by three more chimes. He jerks back and forth, rustles the long sleeves of his robe, pulls up his nose, bobs his head a few times and falls into immobility, the living Buddha.
This article is part 2 of the series „Streets, Zen and bodybuilding“
- Streets, Zen and bodybuilding 1
- Streets, Zen and bodybuilding 2
- Streets, Zen and bodybuilding 3
- Streets, Zen and bodybuilding 4
- Streets, Zen and bodybuilding 5
