Night Boat. Alan Spence

It was haunted by hungry ghosts and malevolent spirits, and the whole place was rotting and falling into ruin and decay.

      One day, the owner of the house, the old man, went out through the open door, and he had hardly gone any distance when a fire broke out at the back of the house and quickly spread till all four sides were in flame. The beasts and birds and ghosts and demons all fought among themselves, devouring one another.

      The old man suddenly realised that all his children had gone into the house, aeons ago, to play, and he rushed back inside to save them from the fire. But they were so intent on their play, their endless amusements, that they didn’t hear his warnings. He told them of the fire, and the hundreds of vicious creatures surrounding them, but they carried on playing and paid him no heed. So he called out to them that he had all kinds of precious things waiting for them outside. And they gave up their games and rushed out through the door, and they gathered round him where he sat, in a clearing some distance away. And he rejoiced to see them safe, and he showered them with gifts as he had promised. He used his wealth to provide fabulous jewelled carriages, pulled by pure white oxen, and the children rode off in the four directions, unobstructed, to enjoy his gifts.

      When he had told the story, the Buddha spoke.

      All living beings are my children. Deeply attached to worldly pleasures, they have no wisdom at all. The Three Realms are like a burning house, terrifying and filled with suffering. Ever present are the endless woes of birth, old age, sickness and death – these are the fires that burn without end. And although I instruct my children, they do not believe or accept, because of their deep attachment to greed and desire.

      He then went on to repeat the Four Noble Truths. Existence is suffering. Its cause is desire. Suffering can be conquered. There is a Way. And he held up the sutra itself as the purest vehicle for transcending desire, for going beyond suffering.

      The Buddhas rejoice in it, and all living beings should praise it.

      This very world we were living in, a burning house, collapsing all about us. I could feel the flames licking at me, hear the howls and screams of all my fellow creatures.

      I chanted once more. Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. I stood up and went outside, felt the cool evening breeze.

      For weeks I read the sutra every day, pored over it hour after hour. The Bodhisattvas and Arhats and countless other beings listened without end to the Buddha’s sermons, his descriptions of the various worlds and the beings who inhabited them, the future Buddhas and the worlds they would create, the blessings they would bestow.

      Turn the Dharma wheel.

      Beat the Dharma drum.

      Blow the Dharma conch.

      Let fall the Dharma rain.

      The parables at least were easier to read, simple tales, each with a simple point to make. Expedient Devices. To spread the teaching. The Dharma falls on all alike, nourishing the smallest herbs and the largest trees. Each one receives what it needs.

      The tale of the young man who falls into a drunken sleep while visiting a friend’s house, and the friend has to leave early in the morning to go to another country, and before he goes he secretly sews a pearl into the man’s clothing. And he wakes and goes out into the world, seeking wealth, trying to earn a living, not realising he carries this priceless pearl with him all along, till he meets his friend again, and his friend tells him it is there.

      So with the wealth the Buddha has bestowed on us . . .

      The tale of the young man who leaves his father’s palace and wanders in the world, and falls into poverty, and ends up shovelling dung for twenty years till his father finds him and brings him back.

      I wondered if shovelling dung for twenty years might be an easier path to enlightenment than ploughing through these scriptures.

      Then I found another of those passages that made me stop, read it again. It spoke of spreading the Dharma through the sutra.

      If there is one who reads and recites, receives and upholds the Sutra, or copies out even a single verse with reverence, know that this person in the past has already made offerings to tens of millions of Buddhas.

      Further down the page, it took it even further.

      If a good man or woman, after my extinction, can secretly explain one sentence of the Sutra to one single person, know that this person is my messenger, come to do my work.

      It also made it clear that this work would not be easy.

      Entering the fire at the end of the Kalpa and not being burned, that would not be difficult. But after my extinction, upholding the Sutra and preaching it to one single person, that would be difficult.

      Entering the fire.

      There were passages about right conduct, injunctions to monks as to how they should behave, particularly in relation to women.

      Do not take delight in looking at young women. Do not speak with young girls, maidens or widows.

      And another parable – another parable! – began: The body of a woman is filthy and impure and not a fit vessel for Dharma. Thus spake the Venerable Shariputra.

      Once more I thought of my mother, the pure simplicity of her devotion.

      And yet . . .

      The parable continued with the story of the Dragon Girl, daughter of the Dragon King and Queen, who was clearly an exception to this general rule. She possessed a rare and precious pearl which she was able to offer to the Buddha, who accepted it.

      Was that not quick? she asked, and was thus transformed into a living Buddha herself.

      So, however grudging and reluctant the admission, it was there. The possibility existed.

      I ground on through more lists, more expositions, more injunctions. My brain ached. Sometimes after hours of it I felt a sense of virtue, a kind of dutiful piety at forcing myself to sit there. At rare moments I went beyond that into a fleeting glimpse of something beyond, which was yet, at the same time, here and now.

       In a quiet place

       he collects his thoughts

       dwelling peacefully

       unmoved and unmoving

       like Mount Sumeru

       contemplating all dharmas

       as having no existence

      like empty space . . .

      Then more numbing lists, more simplistic parables, and the moment would be lost.

      Buddha spoke of the Bodhisattvas. If you were to count them for as many aeons as there are sands in the River Ganges, you could not count them all, your counting would have no end. There are as many Bodhisattvas as there are dust-motes in the great world, and each and every one of these Bodhisattvas was taught by the Buddha and transformed.

      Propagate the Dharma. Cause it to spread and grow.

      Endless, limitless, infinite numbers, to fill the mind with awe.

      I began to make notes for myself, copy out short passages, exhortations that spoke to me directly.

      Be vigorous and single-minded.

      Hold no doubts or regrets.

      Abide in patience and goodness.

      One particular Bodhisattva, Guanyin, could be invoked in times of suffering and distress.

      In times of suffering, agony, danger and death, he is our refuge and protection.

      If