HAVING NO DESTINATION, WE ARE NEVER LOST

Having no destination,
I am never lost.

    --Ikkyū.

I am an iconoclast and a heretic. I reject all claims and assertions of supernatural religion and authority. In the words of Thomas Paine, my own mind is my own church. So, it is no surprise that I have a soft spot—no, not that one—for other iconoclasts, heretics and freethinkers. Ikkyū [pictured left] was one such man. He was a 15th century Japanese Zen Buddhist monk. He not only revitalized Zen but also had a profound influence upon the Japanese tea ceremony. 

Now, Zen has always sought to cut through the crap so as to arrive at a direct, immediate and largely intuitive experience of life, but Ikkyū’s radical approach was really something to behold. He was an iconoclast extraordinaire. In any field of any endeavour we need the man or woman who says, ‘But the Emperor has no clothes!’ That is why I’ve always loved the American comedian Groucho Marx, who spent his entire life deflating the pompous, the pretentious and the phony. We need more people like that.

Here’s the second most profound piece of metaphysical wisdom---there is nowhere to go. I’ve told you this story before, but I’ll tell it again. A young man is on his way home. He comes to the banks of a wide, and very deep, river. He finds he is on the ‘wrong’ side of the river. The river is fast flowing, with numerous rapids. There is no bridge or other means available for crossing the river. The young man sees an elderly Buddhist monk standing on the other side of the river, so he yells over to the monk, ‘Oh, wise one, can you tell me how to get to the other side of this river?’ The monk ponders for a moment, looks up and down the river, and yells back, ‘My son, you are on the other side.’ Yes, wherever we want to 'go', we are already there. The young man wants to get to the other side of the river, only to be told that he is already on the other side of the river. To reach the other side of the river is to see that this very side here is the other side. When there is no separation in our mind between one side and the other, then in that very moment we are one with the very livingness of life flowing through us and all things. 

The author at a Japanese tea ceremony.

And the first most profound piece of metaphysical wisdom is this. Well, it follows directly from the first. It is this---truth is right where you are. People strive for worldly success and for the approval and admiration of others but those things will not take you away from yourself—not for long, anyway. Truth—also known as reality and life—is right where you are. All we need to do is to see things as they really are in all their directness and immediacy. That’s where mindfulness comes in.

Listen to these words from Ikkyū:

Like vanishing dew,
a passing apparition
or the sudden flash
of lightning -- already gone --
thus should one regard one's self.

The folly and blind hope of supernatural religion is that we are going to live forever in one place or another, with one such place supposedly being more attractive than the other. I do not believe that. We come from dust and to dust we return. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In one sense, we remain part of life’s self-expression—for life cannot other than be. That, as I see it, is the true meaning of those words, ‘The spirit returns to God who gave it’ (Ec 12:7), but I am in absolutely no doubt that at the point of death our consciousness as a separate, thinking, feeling individual together with what we call our personality, comes to an abrupt and very final end. If you want to believe otherwise, that is your prerogative. As I see it, we are, in the words of Ikkyū, like ‘vanishing dew’, a ‘passing apparition’, a ‘sudden flash’. In the words of Shakespeare, taken from what is my favourite play of his, The Tempest:

…       …       …       …     We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

Ikkyū is, however, saying more than that. He is making a comment about how we should regard ourselves. Most of us take ourselves far too seriously, thinking that we will be remembered long after we are gone. A few of us will live on longer in the memories of others. As George Eliot expressed it in her poem 'The Choir Invisible':

Oh, may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
For miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge men's search
To vaster issues.

That is very sweet sentiment but the plain and simple truth of the matter is this---most of us will be completely forgotten in two or three generations. How's that for a reality check?

Lake Ashi, Kanagawa Prefecture, Honshū, Japan.

Photo taken by the author.

Ikkyū had much to say about so-called sacred texts. Now, don’t get me wrong. Most sacred texts contain some helpful advice on the art of living—along with a lot of unhelpful and divisive nonsense. The task is to separate the wheat from the staff. Listen to what Ikkyū has to say about sacred texts:

Studying texts and stiff meditation can make you lose your Original Mind.
A solitary tune by a fisherman, though, can be an invaluable treasure.
Dusk rain on the river, the moon peeking in and out of the clouds;
Elegant beyond words, he chants his songs night after night.

…       …       …       …

I've burnt all the holy pages I used to carry 
but poems flare in my heart.

The concept of ‘original mind’ in Zen is a most important one. Imagine for a moment that you had not been brought up in the faith or belief system of your parents or particular culture. Indeed, imagine that you had not been inculcated in any way to believe this or that about life. You would then have a mind which was entirely culturally free and unconditioned. Such is the nature of your ‘original mind’. Is it possible to have such a mind today? Well, people such as J. Krishnamurti say that it is indeed possible for the mind to decondition itself entirely. For my part, I am still working on the task.

I love what Ikkyū has to say about poetry. My late father used to say that there was more wisdom in the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám than in The Bible. Maybe. Maybe not. I think Dad was telling me more about what he didn’t or couldn’t believe as opposed to which work contained more wisdom. After all, The Bible contains some great poetry as well, and the Book of Ecclesiastes has a similar tone to much of its writing as the Rubáiyát, although the latter does seem to be promoting a more earthy approach to life and its fleeting pleasures.

Take a good look at the religious fanatic. It does not matter which religion he or she is fanatical about. The fanatic has completely lost their original mind. He or she can no longer see and appreciate things as they really are. Everything gets filtered through, and distorted by, their belief system. Yes, the same thing can happen to the atheist and nonbeliever. However, Ikkyū is making the point that any study of sacred or spiritual books, as well as meditative practices, can result in your losing your original mind. One good way of deconditioning your mind, and returning bit by bit to your original mind, is to spend more time communing with nature. That is very good advice.

Well, I haven’t burnt all the ‘holy pages’ in my home library. There are still hundreds and hundreds of books on religion and spirituality, as well as on many other subjects, on my bookshelves. However, I have burnt something, and that something is this---the mindset that says, ‘This, you must believe’, ‘The Bible says …’, ‘God has spoken His final word in …’, and ‘There is only one way … .’

You are never lost when you know the way home. And where is ‘home’? Well, it is right here, where you are now. Look around you. Look within you. What do you see? What do you feel? It is life. You are an expression of the spirit of life. That life did not begin with your birth. It will not end with your death. Recover your original mind, and start seeing and experiencing things as they really are.

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TEA AND MINDFULNESS

TEA AND MINDFULNESS

Whilst in Japan recently I was fortunate enough to be present at a Japanese tea ceremony (chanoyu, sado or simply ocha in Japanese).

Tea was originally brought to Japan in the 9th century by the Buddhist monk Eichū (743-816) who had returned to Japan from China.

The Japanese Tea Ceremony (also known as ‘the Way of Tea’) has its spiritual roots, at least in part, in Zen Buddhism as well as in Daoism, and especially in the Daoist influences upon Zen. The ceremony is a traditional and very beautiful Japanese choreographic ritual – one which is cultural, artistic (for the whole ceremony is viewed as a work of art) and spiritual – in which tea is prepared and served with careful attention to all details. It is a good example of what has been called ‘mindfulness through ritual’.

A lot of preparation goes into a Japanese tea ceremony. The host of the tea ceremony must give due consideration to all aspects of the ceremony including such matters as flower arranging, the kind of clothing (namely, kimono) to wear, appropriate art, special calligraphy [see below], and food. Traditionally, one to three (but sometimes more) guests are invited. The guests arrive and enter a special place for the tea ceremony.

Here are some photos of the tea house in which the ceremony which I attended was held.

The tea house is situated in a beautiful Japanese-style public garden, which, in its highly ordered and formal fashion, itself has its roots in Zen.

The sole purpose of a tea house, which is specially designed and designated ('consecrated', in a Western sense), is to serve as a retreat for the making and drinking of the tea and the associated food. The tea house is and becomes a sanctuary from the worries, hassles and vexations of the outer world. It is a special place where one can consecrate oneself to what has been called the 'undisturbed adoration of the beautiful'.

Both the exterior and interior of the tea house, as well as the path leading to the tea house, are important in helping to set the desired mood – one of order, balance (most notably between the yin of the water and the yang of the fire used to warm it [cf Daoism]), harmony, simplicity, freedom from vulgarity, tranquility and equanimity.

I mentioned above that the Japanese tea ceremony has spiritual roots in Daoism and Zen. (Ikkyu, who revitalized Zen in the 15th century, apparently had a profound influence on the ceremony.) Now, according to Zen the whole universe cen be experienced in the drinking of a single bowl of tea. The experience of making and drinking tea - like everything else for that matter - comes from giving oneself over totally to the here and now and fully participating in the activity with a heart free from selfish thoughts and desires.

As regards the actual conduct of the tea ceremony, the guests are ordinarily welcomed only with a bow. No words are spoken. After the guests are seated, the host makes the beverage. Powdered green tea (matcha), which was introduced into Japan by Eisai, another Buddhist monk returning from China, in the 12th century, and which sprouts from the same plant as black tea but is unfermented and ground, is placed in a tea bowl, hot water is added, and a bamboo whisk is used to stir the mixture into a frothy brew.

Thin tea is served to each guest in an individual ceramic bowl, while one bowl of thick tea is shared among several guests. A sweet dessert is served as well and is consumed more-or-less contemporaneously with the drinking of the tea (which, itself, can be a bit bitter).

The bowl is passed to the most important guest, who bows to the host upon receiving the tea, takes the bowl with their right hand, places the bowl in the palm of their left hand, looks at the bowl, holds and turns the bowl in the 'prescribed' manner (ordinarily thrice clockwise [cf the triple gem?, the three marks of existence?], but not uncommonly just once [i.e. 180 degrees] clockwise), and raises it up, being careful to observe the foot as well as the interior shape. This act is performed to pay homage to both the object and its maker. The guest drinks some tea and then wipes the rim of the bowl, turns the bowl counter-clockwise, and passes the bowl to the next guest (or, if there be no next guest, returns it to the host).

When all the guests have tasted the tea, the bowl is returned to the host who rinses it, and cleans the tea scoop and tea container. The host offers the cleaned tea scoop and tea container to the guests for examination. Afterwards, the group engages in conversation about the objects used in the tea ceremony and the presentation that took place.

The Japanese tea ceremony is a 'transformative practice' characterised by such qualities as humility, simplicity, restraint, purity, harmony ... and naturalism. (As regards the latter, the host tries to keep to the natural state of things as much as possible.) Every action is performed carefully, deliberately and consciously ... with alertness and awareness (that is, mindfully, for a wandering mind leads to mistakes in 'form' (kata)) ... and with that additional element of curiosity, even anticipation, as regards what is happening from one moment to the next.

What was especially beautiful about the ceremony I attended was the fact that, although there was careful attention to detail and form, every action appeared to be done with typically Buddhist lovingkindness and compassion. You see, the whole 'process' involved in the tea ceremony is not about drinking tea per se but aesthetics and spirituality ... and preparing a bowl of tea from one's heart. In that regard, the host of the ceremony always considers the guests ... with every gesture and movement.

I mentioned above the word 'harmony'. Yes, every element of the ceremony, and every movement in it, points to and elucidates the serenity of the whole. The ceremony is an object lesson and a living symbol, that is, it not only ‘symbolises’, ‘represents’ or ‘stands for’ something else (the ‘inner reality’), it actually is instrumental in bringing about that reality. It is what has been referred to as ‘concretized truth’. Powerful stuff.

The tea ceremony affords numerous opportunities for reflection and quiet contemplation, and is a virtual microcosm of the order that Japanese see in their world.

The Japanese are mindfully aware of the fact - so often overlooked by Westerners - that every human encounter is a singular occasion which will never recur in exactly the same way. Accordingly, every aspect of the tea ceremony - the spiritual world of tea - is savoured ... and mindfully experienced.

Ritual, if done the 'right' way and with the 'right' intent, can be very empowering, indeed transformative. Ritual can take us to a 'sacred' realm beyond time and space.

I was pleased to see some young Japanese women participating in the actual tea ceremony itself - a ceremony which has an ancient and almost otherworldly character about it. It is essential that rituals of this kind be preserved for future generations.

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