The great square has no outside,
the great circle has no inside.
from Enso: Zen circles of enlightenment by Audrey Yoshiko Seo
day this is!
Some of you may remember the 108Buddhas series of last year. 108 days before the anniversary of this blog, I committed to 108 brush paintings of “Buddha” in Kanji script. That turned out to be a fascinating practice in patience and the willingness to be with the eternal uncertainty of the creative process. This year I feel the need to practice with wholeness and what better teacher of wholeness than the Enso.
So let me introduce you to Enso1. For those of you with children, you may know that Red is Best; a delightful children’s story that my daughter and I now use to signal absolute perfection (regardless of the colour we’re perceiving). Red is like that. So is the enso. It becomes a signifier of all that is.
Enso paintings act as visual and poetic koans – apparently paradoxical statements, questions, or demonstrations that point to or suggest the nature of reality. They reflect the artist’s understanding that, at their best, words and images cannot express the truth completely.
from Foreword by John Daido Loori in Enso: Zen circles of enlightenment by Audrey Yoshiko Seo
Seo explains that how the enso is drawn exposes the character of the artist. In that case, this enso likely says a lot about my need for perfection and completeness. Some call it closure. Inevitably – and probably for the good – my brush-mind has other ideas. It leaves a space for coming and going and yet… and yet, it respects my anxieties by filling that space with little islands of tenderness. And there were other lessons. Frank proclaimed that this was not his favourite of the three I showed him. I protested. My favourite has to be his favourite, I proclaimed. That’s what husbands are for.
It’s not only the drawing of the enso that teaches me about my character. It is also all that went before and comes after.
Join me in these 108 days by taking a moment in your day to visit yourself. Hold up the mirror and look into the circle of enlightenment. Nothing fancy required. A pencil, a finger dipped in tea, a brush wet only with water. A circle drawn in the air.
After a disappointing flight delay that resulted in missing the symposium at the Japan Society in NYC, we made it to the Hakuin exhibit, The Sound of One Hand*. The Japan Society which hosted the showing is a lovely venue and was an easy walk from the hotel. Seventy-eight scrolls by Hakuin curated by Stephen Addiss & Audrey Seo were displayed in what seemed to be a never-ending series of rooms and set up so that each turn around a corner confronted you with another smack of Hakuin’s koan.
The first scroll is – predictably – The Sound of One Hand; Hotei sitting on his bag with hand raised. It’s a delicate sound and one is easily distracted from it by the waterfall in the lobby below. It’s a call to action despite Hotei’s insouciance. He knows you know. The problem is you don’t know that. So the mind ricocheted from one concept to another. It’s uncomfortable, confronted with the sound of one hand right there at the entrance yet so appropriate because how can you go further until you’ve actually heard it?
But I’m on a mission so the lack of revelation is not going to stop me. Besides I once worked that koan to its ultimate not-knowing and the answers are lost in mists of my ignorance. Occasionally, I feel the sound of the slap of one hand but walking through this exhibit I see that single hand sound on every scroll.
Hakuin was relentless in his devotion to spreading the dharma and the paintings chosen by Addiss & Seo demonstrate this. As Zen Master, he painted words and pictures for everyone: students who achieved satori, wayfarers who needed encouragement, devotees who required something physical to sustain their practice. His art stands as a paean to equanimity which I found fascinating given his rancorous tirades against the “do-nothing zennists!” Yet his actions are so very consistent with the Buddha’s advice that we must meet the other where they are. It didn’t matter to Hakuin if those who came to him were acolytes, guru worshipers, caught in the cult of personality, or simply seeking spiritual comfort; he met them all where they were.
Viewing the works themselves was a joy in terms of getting up close and personal. Each scroll hung encased in glass so that you could actually press right up to about two inches from the works. The size of the museum guards made me exercise a little more restraint but I did get as close as four inches to the art works. And since we had the exhibit all to ourselves, I was able to do that annoying backward walk from the paintings to see that point where I lost detail and got caught in the overall form. Having only ever seen Hakuin’s works in books, the close-ups gave me a deeper appreciation of the artistry. I was amazed by the nuanced tones in each brush stroke and the interplay of dark and light. For the first time, seeing the paintings in life-size, I noticed the interesting use of deep black ink as way of grounding the theme out of which the grey carries the actual story.
Knowing a bit about Hakuin himself helped to put the intensity of his work into perspective. At the age of 11 years, he heard one of those hell fire and brimstone sermons by a priest and vowed to practice so that he could avoid the terrors of the Buddhist hell realms. After some incidents showed him that the ritual of practice cannot save us from the pain of being human, he lost faith. In the throes of his disillusion, he shifted his focus to art and calligraphy. When he became discouraged with the quality of what he had produced, he shifted his focus yet again to the practice of Zen. As he moved from what wasn’t working to what did, perhaps he saw that the transitions in themselves are the practice. Adaptability and the willingness to let go fueled his devotion to cultivating right practice, the activity of living as meditation. Hakuin’s diligence was both the ink and the canvas of his life. Even – or maybe especially – after his satori experiences, he continued his art and teachings (sometimes the two are indistinguishable) to foster not only breakthrough via koan work but an integration of meditation into daily activities. We see this in the Hotei paintings which show the irrepressible monk engaged in everything ordinary from taking a trip to view the moon on the lake to playing kickball. And of course, that brings us back to the scroll that opens the exhibit: Hotei sitting on his bag with a raised hand. The koan and the Every Person getting on with life.
For me, this is the ultimate model of practice. Realization of the true nature of mind is only a moment in the unending bridges between life experiences. We call it coming back into the marketplace, returning home, coming down from the mountain. Transitions. It is moving from one scroll to the next, weaving through each room, knowing that, ultimately, only in living this life just as it is, returning to it time after time, satori after satori, sets us free of our delusions.
Thank you for practising,
*A heartfelt thank you to Shannon Jowlett, Director of Communications for the Japan Society, who so kindly tolerated my incessant emails as I tried to get to this once-in-a-lifetime exhibit.
Hakuin’s Song of Meditation
transl. by Stephen Addiss, from Zen Sourcebook
All living beings are originally Buddhas, just like water and ice:
Without water there is no ice, and outside living beings there is no Buddha.
Not knowing how near it is, people seek it outside themselves – what a pity!
Like someone in the middle of water crying out in thirst,
Or the child of a rich man wandering around like a beggar,
We are bound to the six worlds because we are lost in the darkness of ignorance;
Following dark path after dark path, when shall we escape birth and death?
Boundless as the sky, radiant as the moon is the four-fold wisdom,
At this moment, what do you lack? Nirvana is right in front of you,
This very place is the Lotus Land, this body is the body of Buddha.
And Hakuin’s final words on practice:
“Don’t just stand there watching; get going!”*
Thank you for practising,
*from Cleary, Secrets of the Blue Cliff Record, 27. Quoted in The Sound of One Hand by Addiss & Seo
Hotei, also known as the Laughing Buddha, carries his gifts in a cloth bag. Hakuin painted many scenes of Hotei fully engaged in the world. He shows Hotei laughing, playfully chewing down on his bag, floating on a kite, summoning up acrobats and other beings. On the left, Hotei watches mice in a sumo wrestling match, his cloth bag a window on the world. Hotei is the icon for equanimity as the belly-laughing Buddha but under that image is a subtle message about our life as it must be lived.
Hotei is you, me, every being, carrying around our treasures, our pain, our joy, our desires. It can be the vessel of engagement in our lives or it can become the obstacle to living fully. There are days when my cloth bag gets dragged around and unceremoniously tossed about. There are days when it’s a relief to snuggle up into it and be soothed.
What is in that bag? What is the Truth of that bag?
When asked about the Truth, Hotei simply put down his bag.
When asked why he was called Hotei, he also put down his bag.
When asked what, after the bag, was important, he picked up the bag and walked away.” ( The Sound of One Hand, pg. 205)
I think Hakuin wanted us to see that the bag is, for all its bulk, empty. And a final added bonus in Hakuin’s teachings: Hakuin’s own life is an exemplar of his teachings (well, one would hope it would). As much a Hotei embodies the need to return to the world after satori, Hakuin wrote extensively and taught diligently post-satori himself. In fact, his own cloth bag filled with toxic arrogance after his satori experience and it was only in confronting his “zen sickness” that he embodied the teachings of put down/pick up/walk away.
a Shinto god? A Buddha?
— just a cloth bag.
(The Sound of One Hand, pg. 221)
Keep your fingers crossed that we make it from the airport to the Hakuin Symposium tonight at the Japan Society in New York where “Katsuhiro Yoshizawa, Professor of Zen Studies, Hanazono University International Research Institute for Zen Buddhism, introduces a newly discovered Hakuin painting of Kannon. This painting displays several interesting and quite unusual features. It is, first of all, almost unique in depicting Kannon, the bodhisattva of compassion, sitting in a chair and occupying herself with desk work. The presence of the large landscape painting in the background is also significant. In his lecture Prof. Yoshizawa discusses the possible messages that Hakuin was attempting to convey by painting Kannon in this way, and Hakuin’s views on the meaning of landscape art.”
Kannon doing paperwork. This, truly, would require compassion!
Thank you for practising,
Perhaps the most recognized of Hakuin’s paintings is of the blind men crossing a log bridge. Symbolically, the shore to the right is the world we leave behind and the one to the left is the shore of enlightenment. All paintings of the blind men tentatively feeling their way across are metaphors of our journey: gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate, bohdi svaha! gone, gone, gone beyond, gone to the other shore, yippee! In most of the paintings, Hakuin is kind enough to give us hope by connecting the end of the bridge to the far shore. But in the classic Three Bind Men on a Bridge, he doesn’t. The end of the log hangs in mid-air, tantalizing and foreboding. Hakuin wrote a poem on two of his paintings: Both the health of our bodies and the fleeting world outside us are like the blind men’s round log bridge – a mind/heart that can cross over is the best guide. It made me wonder. Is our own mind/heart all we need? Why does Hakuin put two or three of us on the bridge? In my rendition above, I put the first blind man at the edge of the bridge where he has to consider his next option. His staff is just past the log, likely telling him the end is at his feet. His companion is coming along behind him – far enough away that if he makes it across and he has time to move on without having to know what happens to his companion. What bridge does his mind/heart need to cross? Thank you for practising, Genju Remember the Hakuin exhibition at the Japan Society in New York and other venues!
Hakuin painted pictures of Daruma (Bodhidharma) throughout his life as a teacher. His style developed over these years becoming more individual in expression and bolder in setting up the 28th Patriarch as a foil for our efforts at attaining enlightenment. Daruma appears in Hakuin’s paintings as formal, stern, piercing, and simply a brushstroke. Each in turn gives us a taste of our practice and challenges us to push the edge. Along with using Daruma to give us a visual map of our quest, Hakuin never missed the opportunity to pull that visual aide out from under our feet. He reminds us that even the contruction of constructing Daruma is material for practice.
I have painted several thousand Darumas, yet have never depicted his face. This is only natural, for the moment I spread the paper to draw it, the original form disappears.
All of you, what is this Daruma that cannot be drawn? (pg. 97)
Thank you for practising,
Remember the Hakuin exhibition at the Japan Society in New York and other venues!