Night Boat. Alan Spence

by lightness.

      Yes, I said, aware that I sounded idiotic, but savouring the word as much as the tea. Lightness.

      I sipped.

      The tea, I said, is exquisite.

      Silence.

      Perhaps, said Yotsugi-san eventually, your mind is still in sesshin.

      The effects last for some time, I said.

      And throughout the sesshin itself, is everyone silent, day and night?

      There are long periods of silence, I said. But there is chanting from the sutras, and concentration on a koan, directed by the priest.

      Ah, he said, grabbing onto the word. Koans!

      Are they not very . . . difficult? said Hana, furrowing her brow.

      Poison fangs and talons, said her father. A quagmire to drag you under.

      He was puffed up, full of his own erudition.

      I read about koans, he said, when I was a young man like you. Does a dog have the Buddha-nature?

      We meditated on that, I said, and one other.

      Which one?

      The words were out before I could stop them.

      Old-woman-burns-down-the-hut.

      He frowned, as if I had contradicted him.

      I’m not familiar with that one, he said. It must be more obscure.

      Reluctantly I told him the story. I blushed ferociously when I spoke the line at the heart of it.

       The young girl caressed him, then asked, What now?

      I stared at the tatami as I said it, avoided looking at Hana. My face burned. When I reached the last line, the old woman’s rant at the monk, Yotsugi-san barked out a laugh.

      She told him, he said. No uncertain terms! Nowhere is there any warmth. Just what we were talking about earlier. Intensity without lightness.

      My bones felt dense, my flesh heavy. I felt trapped in my body, desperate to flee but unable to move. And once again the thought came to me that this was my koan. This here and now.

      I had no idea how long we had sat. We had eaten, though I had little stomach for it. When I glanced at Hana I could see she was uncomfortable on my behalf. She nodded in sympathy when she caught my eye, kept a smile on her face when her father spoke. And he saw nothing, understood nothing, just talked and laughed, drank sake, told endless anecdotes, his face a kabuki mask, his words washing over me.

      When the evening was over, he gave an exaggerated bow, laughed again.

      Burned down his hut!

      He bade me goodnight and asked Hana to see me out. In the doorway she said she hoped I would not be put off coming to visit again. I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out. I folded my hands in gassho and she held them a moment in her own small hands. Lightness. Softness and warmth. She raised her right hand, touched her fingers to my lips. I couldn’t breathe.

      What now?

      This was more intense than any koan. The world around me was dust and ash. I dreaded hearing from Yotsugi-san, I yearned to hear from him. When I thought of Hana I felt my heart being torn from my chest. I felt moments of wild exhilaration, but deep in my core I knew it was illusion, all of it, a kind of madness.

      Shakyamuni’s advice to monks in the Lotus Sutra was clear.

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

      And yet.

      The sheer intensity of the feeling. The sweetness.

      A month went by and the madness persisted. I would think I had conquered the emotion and it would overwhelm me again. I felt adrift, between two worlds.

      The priest summoned me, kept me waiting outside his room for a time, then shouted to me to come in. I knew he could see through me, and this time I was sure he would confront me and tell me I was worthless.

      I opened my mouth to speak but he raised his hand, said, No words!

      He sat, straight-backed, breathed in and out slowly. I listened to the breath come and go. A thin-legged spider made its zigzag way across the tatami. I waited.

      Eventually the priest spoke, a weariness in his voice.

      There is a verse, he said, ascribed to the monk Shoshu Shonin who resided on Mount Shosha in Harima.

      When worldly thoughts are intense, then thoughts of the Way are shallow.

      When thoughts of the Way are intense, then worldly thoughts are shallow.

      He wrote those words more than five centuries ago.

      The priest looked at me, his gaze direct, but not unkind.

      It is no small matter to attain human birth. And to arrive at a point where you are shaking off the world, and following the Buddha-path is the result of many lifetimes of seeking and striving.

      He breathed deep again, recited the Four Noble Truths.

      Existence is suffering. Its cause is desire. Desire can be conquered. There is a Way.

      The Way is not easy, he said. But nothing else has any meaning.

      He folded his hands, bowed.

      Nothing.

      Another month, and the priest summoned me again. He had received a letter from Yotsugi-san, dealing mainly with financial matters, his donations to the temple. But he had made a point of thanking me once again and wishing me well. He was most grateful for my actions in saving his daughter from injury. He would not be offering hospitality in the near future as he and his daughter were moving to Kyoto where his wife was already in residence.

      It is my understanding, said the priest, that the daughter is to be married to a young nobleman from a Kyoto family.

      He paused, then handed me a small scroll, rolled up and sealed.

      This was enclosed with the letter, he said. It is addressed to you.

      I bowed and took the scroll outside. The seal showed a flower. I opened it and read, a poem from the Kokinshu, copied out in delicate script.

       Over and over

      Like endless waves,

       My heart is carried away

       By memories of the one

      Who has stolen it.

      It was stamped with the same seal, the flower, Hana. The paper smelled of jasmine.

       MU

      I threw myself into the work with even more intensity.

      Beyond zazen and the reading and chanting of the sutras, the heart