Night Boat. Alan Spence

      The girl did as she was instructed. She caressed the monk and said to him, What now?

      The monk remained very serious and stern.

      In the depth of winter, he said, a withered tree grows on an old rock. Nowhere is there any warmth.

      The girl returned to the old woman and reported what he had said.

      That rascal, said the old woman. To think I’ve fed and supported him for twenty years.

      She went to the monk and railed at him.

      You showed no concern for this girl, she said. You gave no thought to her situation. By all means resist the temptation of the flesh, but show at least a little compassion.

      Then she threw him out of the hut and burned it to the ground.

      When the priest had finished reciting the story, he bowed.

      Now, he said, meditate on this.

      Had the priest chosen the koan particularly for me? The thought was arrogant. The truth of the story was universal. It applied to each and every monk meditating in the zendo. And yet.

      I imagined Hana coming to me in my room, embracing me, asking me suddenly, What now?

      Hana’s fragrance. The curve of her neck.

      A withered tree on an old rock.

      The monk’s reaction was wrong.

      Nowhere is there any warmth.

      But returning the girl’s embrace would also have been wrong.

      A koan.

      This is wrong, the opposite is wrong. What now?

      Act.

      And yet.

      I hadn’t noticed the priest moving slowly along the row, his footsteps silent on the wooden boards. Then in an instant I was aware of him standing behind me, and in the same moment the swish of the stick, the keisaku, the whack between my shoulderblades jarring me awake, shaken.

      Composing myself I bowed low then entered into a deep silence, and before I knew it the bell clanged again for the end of the hour, the beginning of kinhin, walking meditation.

      The more experienced monks, more practised and adept at all this, seemed to unfold and stand upright in one fluid movement, push aside their cushions, stand catlike on their feet. I did as I had been instructed, rocked from side to side then slowly got to my feet and stood in line. Then again I followed instructions to the letter. Right fist closed around the thumb, placed on my chest and covered with the left palm. Elbows at right angles, arms in a straight line, body erect, eyes resting on the ground, two yards in front. Following the monks ahead, step forward with the left foot.

      Breathe in, step forward, breathe out. Heel and toe, sinking into the floor with every step. Feel the stiffness in the legs begin to ease, but without being caught up in that ease. See it as incidental, by the way. Stay alert and poised. Breathe. Walk.

      Clang.

      It was time to return to the cushion, to another session of seated meditation. A fresh stick of incense was lit, this time a lighter scent, pine.

      There was another koan I had read.

       What was your original face, before you were born?

      Once, on a full moon night, I had entered deeply into the question. Looking up at the moon I had seen there the Buddha-face shining, and for a moment I had known that face as my own.

      Now I found myself revisiting the koan, asking the question. What was your original face? I sat on the cushion on the hard floor in the shadowy hall, in a row of monks facing another row of monks. What was your original face?

      I sought to identify with my own Buddha-nature. But the only face I could see, with the eye of my heart, was the face of Hana. I felt as if her features were on my own face.

      The head priest had encouraged me to go to the Yotsugi residence. But he had admonished me. Do not be distracted. Stay in the Buddha-mind. Had that been my test, my koan?

      Once more the priest walked along, silent, behind the row. This time he passed me by without stopping. Someone’s stomach rumbled, gurgled. Someone coughed. The silence deepened. Time passed.

      Clang.

      The next break was when we were allowed to eat, and after the excess of the night before I was grateful for the simplicity and formality, the frugality and restraint.

      The head priest recited the threefold vow.

      Sentient beings are numberless. I vow to save them.

      The deluding passions are inexhaustible. I vow to extinguish them.

      The Buddha Way is supreme. I vow to enter it.

      A little hand-bell was rung, and each of us removed the cloth from a bowl and set of chopsticks in front of us. Two monks moved around the room and ladled out a little rice into each bowl, topped it with a few vegetables, placed next to it a small dish of pickle.

      The priest chanted a verse, reminding us that all food comes to us from the labours of many, and that we should receive it with utmost gratitude and humility.

      Then a lacquered bowl was passed round from hand to hand, and each of us placed in it a few grains of rice from our portion. This was an offering for the wretched spirits, the hungry ghosts, condemned by their own greed to a miserable existence in this and every other world. I imagined them consigned to one of the deeper hells, endlessly consuming and being consumed.

      The hand-bell was rung once more, and then, and only then, we ate, savouring every grain of rice, every piece of vegetable, ending with the pickle – a little daikon radish – to cleanse the palate.

      It was permitted to eat three portions of the rice. Three times the servers came round with the pot to ladle it out and the monks would wait, hands folded. Those who had eaten enough rubbed their hands together, bowed as the servers came by. I still felt the aftertaste of last night’s meal, still felt its richness bloat my stomach, so I stopped after one serving, ate the last sliver of pickle. The servers poured a little water into each bowl and we swilled it round to clean it, sipping the water, not wasting a drop. Any water left in the bowl was dripped into the same lacquered bowl, a further offering to those tortured spirits forever ravaged by hunger and thirst.

      The head priest recited a prayer of gratitude for the food, and for the strength it gave, pledged to use that strength for the benefit of all sentient beings.

      We bowed.

      The bell clanged once more.

      We stood for another round of kinhin, walking, then sat once more, backs straight, eyes fixed on the floor.

      The head priest struck the bell seven times, and the sound grew and resonated, filled the room, filled our minds. Before it had completely faded, he shouted out Mu!

      Some of the monks had been meditating on the first great koan, the first barrier to be crossed, and they meditated on this syllable, this Mu and its meaningless meaning.

      Nothing. No-thing. Emptiness.

      The priest chanted it again, louder, longer.

      Join me, he shouted. Chant!

      And they did, tentatively at first, voices shaky and wavering, with much hawking and clearing