Night Boat. Alan Spence
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Once he had told me I would achieve great things when I grew up. Remember the path is long and arduous, he told me. Shakyamuni was six years in the mountains. Bodhidharma was nine years at Shao-lin. You must persevere.
He was famous for chanting the Nembutsu and he played the shakuhachi with a wild spine-chilling energy. It was rumoured he could fly through the air and he was reputed to be over a hundred years old.
Now here he was, seated in front of me. I bowed and pressed my forehead to the floor, didn’t get up till he addressed me.
So, he said, young crane. You have embarked on your journey.
I didn’t know what to say. I nodded and stood silent.
One time alone, he said. One place alone. Remember this precept. Be one-pointed in your practice. One time, one place.
I bowed deep and he continued.
I have three pieces of advice, he said, and I stood, ready to receive his guidance.
First, do not waste food. When you have finished eating, clean your bowl by rinsing it with warm water, then drink the water from the bowl.
This made sense. It was wise, and frugal, though perhaps not the kind of instruction I was expecting.
Second, he said, never piss standing up. Always crouch down.
Yes, I said. I mean, no.
Third, he said, never piss or shit facing north.
Again I was at a loss, not knowing how to respond.
Follow these instructions rigorously, said the old man, and you will live a long healthy life.
Remember Shakyamuni, he said. Remember Bodhidharma. Persevere.
The interview was over. I bowed and backed out of the room.
Later Sokudo spoke to me.
An unexpected blessing, he said.
Yes, I said. I am sure his advice will be . . . useful.
He laughed.
Persevere.
More than anything I was eager to read the Lotus Sutra. The teaching of Nichiren had sustained my mother all her life. I could see her face, smiling at me. I remembered the feeling at that puppet show, the tale of Nisshin Shonin walking through fire, the power and intensity of the whole audience joining in the chant. Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. Now I could read the sutra for myself.
I was alone in the library, the book on the table in front of me, lifted down from its special place, unwrapped. I had lit an incense stick. I kneeled in reverence and gratitude. I chanted. Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. Outside, a bird sang, a hototogisu. I bowed and opened the book, began to read.
It was hard work.
It wasn’t just that the Chinese characters were difficult to read, it was the words themselves, the density and weight of the thing.
It began well enough, clearly and simply.
Thus have I heard.
Then it told of the Buddha dwelling on Mount Gridhrakuta, Vulture Peak, with a great gathering of Bhikshus, twelve thousand in all.
Their names were Ajnatakaundinya, Mahakashyapa, Uruvilvakashyapa . . .
I read with a sense of panic, fearing it would list all twelve thousand names. But it stopped after twenty or thirty, adding . . . and other great Arhats such as these.
I breathed easier, read on as it indicated the others in attendance – eighty thousand Bodhisattvas, thousands of Gods, Dragon Kings, Asura Kings, all with their hundreds of thousands of followers.
I read how they all walked round the Buddha, paying him homage, and he then spoke this sutra, The Great Vehicle of Limitless Principles. Then there fell from the heavens an endless rain of flowers – mandarava, mahamandarava, mahamanjushaka.
I intoned the names. I could picture the blossoms, imagine breathing in their fragrance.
Then Buddha emitted from between his brows a white light illuminating all the worlds. Manjushri stepped forward and spoke in verse.
The Buddha will speak the Dharma Flower Sutra.
All of you should now understand
And with one heart fold your hands and wait.
The Buddha will let fall the Dharma rain
To satisfy all those who seek the Way.
It had taken me a whole afternoon to read the introduction, just to get to the point where the teaching would begin. My head ached as if held tight in an iron clamp. I chanted once more, Namu Myoho Renge Kyo. I bowed and closed the book.
Perhaps it was because I was not as accomplished in Chinese as I had thought. Perhaps it was the endless lists of names and designations, the Bodhisattvas and Arhats, the Gods and Asuras. Whatever the reason, my progress through the text was slow.
The second chapter spoke of the Buddha’s Expedient Devices, the way he taught. Tricks of the trade, I thought, then stopped myself, inwardly asking the Buddha’s forgiveness for such irreverence.
Expedient Devices.
He spoke at length – at great length – about the Dharma, wonderful beyond conception, profound and hard to understand. He made this clear, over and over, the difficulty of grasping the truth, even for the greatest of them.
Thousands of beings present, listening to this, bowed and took their leave.
Buddha spoke of their overweening pride, said they claimed to know what they did not know. Then he said he had shaken the tree and cleared its branches and leaves so only the trunk remained.
Those who can hear the Dharma are rare, he said.
And yet . . .
A few pages further on he said that through these Expedient Devices the Dharma would spread.
Even children at play, he said, who draw with a stick, or their fingernails, an image of the Buddha, will gradually accumulate merit and virtue. And if people in temples make offerings with a happy heart, or with songs and chants praise the Buddha, they have realised the Buddha Way.
I thought of my mother. I saw her face clearly.
Have no further doubts, said the Buddha. Let your hearts be filled with joy. You know you will reach Buddhahood.
The third chapter began with a lengthy discourse on falling into the net of doubts, fearful that the very voice of Buddha might be a demon in disguise, come to cause confusion. But the Buddha himself spoke and made all clear, dispelled the doubts, calmed the heart.
I ploughed on, through endless lines of incantation, singing the Buddha’s praises, telling of a future age, after limitless aeons, a Pure Land, tranquil and prosperous and abounding with gods.
It shall have lapis lazuli for soil and trees made of seven jewels, constantly blooming and bearing fruit.
I shifted to ease the ache in my back. I sipped bitter tea from my rough clay bowl. My head was beginning to feel clamped again, tight. I read on, through more lists, more praising, more offerings, to a passage where Buddha spoke in a parable.
In a particular country there was a great elder, old and worn, who had limitless wealth and lived in a huge house. Hundreds of people lived there as well as all manner of other creatures. There were snakes and scorpions, lizards and rats and mice; there were owls and hawks and vultures, magpies and crows. The house was swarming, overrun with packs of scavenging dogs, and corpse-devouring