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'Awaken to the true self'
Harada Tangen Roshi 1)
An interview with Harada Tangen Roshi
Like a chair
It was when I was seventeen years old. I had the good fortune to read a book called Inshitsu-roku, by Professor Enryohan, a noted scholar of the Ming Dynasty. This is a book of instruction which the professor compiled for his son, Tenkei.
The term 'inshitsu' means to be decided without one's being aware of it. That is to say that the fortunes - sunshine and shadow, ups and downs - wich befall a person are naturally determined, without his knowing it, by his own past actions, virtue and vice.
Upon carefully reading this book, it became clear to me that there is a path to be followed, and I resolved then to follow that path.
According to the book, Professor En first came to deeply believe in karmic retribution through a fortune-teller named Ko. He then met with Zen Master Unkoku who impressed upon him that karma is only one side of the picture, Thus he writes his son, Tenkei, that one can take responsibility for the construction of his own world. It is not a matter of living out one's life wedged into a predetermined mold, but rather, by virtue of one's own efforts, it is possible to move, if even just a step, closer toward one's aim.
From childhood on, as though in search of something, I was always a rather rebellious youth. In junior high school, I kept thinking that I had never really been given the opportunity to understand the reason for living.
I did not much care for Buddhist priests. I had the preconceived idea that they wore funny clothes, talked a lot of nonsense, and led lives of comfort and ease. But this book really addressed itself to that 'something' I had been searching for since childhood, and it surprised me to realize that the lesson came through a priest. Although Inshitsu-roku is at heart Confucian, not Buddhist, it is a Zen master who clearly points the way. And, incidentally, the man who translated the book, Harada Sogaku Roshi, was to become, five years later, my Zen teacher.
When I was eighteen or nineteen years old, I resolved to become like a chair. That was because a chair doesn't refuse its services to anybody; it just takes care of the sitter and lets him rest his legs. After it has served its purpose, no one gets up and thanks or offers words of kindness to the chair. It will more likely get kicked out of the way. What's more, the chair doesn't grumble or complain or bear a grudge, but just takes whatever is given. When there is a job to be done, it puts forth all its energy without picking and choosing according to its desires. I was thinking, "wouldn't it be great tohave such a heart."
I wrote on a big sheet of paper, "Be like a chair", and everyday took note of how-close I came. If even a little dissatisfaction arose, I would regard that as an embarrassing state of mind for a chair. I considered how thoroughly I was of use to others. A chair doesn't plop itself down on top of the sitter, right?
What was positive about all this was that, if I possibly could, I wanted to put others before myself. The endeavor was not at all forced or unnatural; it arose from life itself and was enjoyable, not painful.
During the time I was following this practice, I went to climb Mount Kinpoku, a rather small mountain of the Jukkoku Pass at Yugawara. As I climbed that day, I could think of nothing but my own selfishness. Shedding tears, I repeatedly reflected and repented, "I'm no. good, I'm no good," as I made the thirty minute ascent up the mountain trail.
There was a large stone statue on the flat crest of the mountain. If I saw it today, I might know what it is, but at that time I had no idea. Along the way there had been a number of figures of Kannon, so I think perhaps this statue was of Shakyamuni Buddha. But in those days I knew nothing of Buddhism or of paying homage to its founder. I had, however, committed to memory the rules of Professor Shoin Yoshida's preparatory school 2), and I began to chant those rules. Through chanting, I must have entered into a purer state of mind.
I crossed to the other side of the mountain, which formed a precipice. A valley had been gouged out below, and beyond the valley stretched the Pacific Ocean. To one side I could see the rolling hills of the Izu Peninsula. Transfixed by the mountain landscape, the wind blew into me from the valley floor, and I felt as if I were growing bigger and bigger.
In retrospect, we could say that I was experiencing the reality of being one with and cared for by all things of this world, experiencing the greatness of the life I have been given. But at the time, I just felt myself becoming bigger and the sensation of being protected by everyone. At that point I couldn't contain myself anymore, so in a giant voice I shouted my name seven or eight times into the far-off horizon.
But I still couldn't keep still, and suddenly I dashed off down the mountain path. Flying down a mountain trail is risky, but I made it back to Atami Station without tumbling into the valley below. It was as if I shot down in one breath. As nobody knew my state of mind at the time, if I had tripped and fallen down into the valley, everyone probably would have thought I had committed suicide. 3)
Although I felt at the time that I would often return to pay my respects to that dear, beloved mountain, I have not been back even once. 4)
Since that time, a bright and changed world unfolds before me. For one or two months after the experience, everything, down to the pebbles along the roadside, brilliantly glistened. It is an intimate, friendly life.
I remember well being filled with the knowledge of being together, part of the same life. At the time I still knew nothing of zazen and such, but the walls separating me from others had collapsed. My life had become a world somehow without discrimination, so I felt as if I could even chat with the chirping sparrows. Later, when I began to do zazen, I could receive the teachings of my master, which I had sought since childhood, with a ccmpletely open and receptive mind.
Without theoretical understanding and without being able to explain what happened, I had tapped into the very joy of life, and I determined from then on to dedicate my life to repaying my gratitude. As it was wartime, I felt that the one thing I could do immediately to help was to go first before the bullet. Propelled by the spirit of helping others, I joined the army. 5)
I was quite willing from the beginning to die. Like everyone else at the time, I felt itwas only natural to give my life in the war cause. But although I repeatedly found myself in perilous situations, including one year as a prisoner of war, I always, mysteriously and narrowly, escaped.
From that time on, whether or not my actions were recognized or appreciated by those around rne, the feeling that I had to put all of my efforts into what I knew I had to do became stronger and stronger. Then, in Showa 21 (1946), I began Zen training as a layman, and in Showa 24 (1949), I was ordained as a priest.
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