Zen on the rocks - IV

A tale of two monks

I met two Zen monks.
One at a zazen meditation, one at a bar.
I'll leave the bar for later since…

The zazen meditation is about to start. It somehow feels more ceremonious than the others we've been to. We were led through narrow wooden corridors into a big room of the temple that is almost completely dark, smelling of incense and already filled with about 30 people sitting on zafus facing the wall.

A kind stranger, the only other person that looks younger than 60, quietly translates for us not to touch the wooden framing when we mount on the platform, which is around hip height. This proves tricky as my wife and I do some gymnastics to accomplish it. The gong sounds a couple of times, and thus begins 25 minutes of gaze lowered and no movement.

I'm still awe-struck from walking around the temple complex for the previous hour, seeing the patches of snow sprinkled around, hearing the wooden doors clack as relentless air forcibly moves them. These images bleed into the meditation and quickly get me into a peaceful state of mind, up until my wife starts falling asleep beside me. I laugh to myself, and wait for the slow walking to begin. 25 minutes pass and we get back on the floor, without touching the wooden frame and with legs numb from not moving.

As we begin to slowly walk, I can't help but think how peculiar it is that we're here, gathered in a room, taking only about 20 steps in 10 minutes.

We repeat that sitting-walking cycle another 2 times, with a kind of sermon at the end that we understand exactly zero words and one kanji: mu.

Afterwards, we give a pulparindo to the kind guy who translated for us at the beginning and strike a conversation as we walk out. He’s Ryuki, and his Italian girlfriend, Martina, is waiting for him outside, not that fond of this whole Zen meditation but equally kind. Minutes go by and the four of us are still there, getting to know each other. Suddenly, Ryuki invites us to have dinner at his house. We don't hesitate to accept and a minute later we're riding his car around Kanazawa.

A mid-sized city facing the opposite sea of Tokyo, Kanazawa is one of the few places that wasn't bombed during WWII, keeping its traditional tea districts intact. They call it Little Kyoto. We've been loving the vibe of the city for the last few days, and this only makes it better.

On our way, we find out Ryuki is a firefighter. Who drives a sports car, is the son of a famous local businesswoman, and is on his way to become a Zen monk. And now, my friends, I have just met the person that fits the least into any known stereotype.

The conversation flows effortlessly, everyone getting equal air-time. We're joking, laughing, exchanging stories and random thoughts. At one point, Ryuki mentions that it feels like we've known each other for years. I couldn't agree more.

We get to his house, the elusive Japanese home that is usually off-limits, especially for foreigners. Not if we know each other from past lives, apparently.

With a tour around the house we learn about their various art and business projects, while admiring the sober and elegant modern Japanese architecture.

Their friend Asari joins us and starts cooking okonomiyaki as one of the most memorable dinners of my life begins: the unexpectedness of it, to how natural it developed, is something I will never forget.

We avoid small talk and focus only on profound conversation and joyous laughs. Beers and takoyaki flow while touching on funny situations that mixed-culture relationships cause, like the fiery latin emotions that my wife and I understand so well, versus the Japanese restrained, almost repressed, emotional side.

The okonomiyaki is ready as we delve on how a perfect society would look: take Italian and Mexican appreciation for family gatherings around good food, add Japan’s safety, cleanliness, deep love of craftsmanship… we quickly realize how focusing on optimizing one aspect, brings repercussions on the other side. The Japanese groupthink that produces this safe and clean society also clouds individual thinking and highlights shame with dangerous repercussions. We’re not the first to realize how complicated creating an utopia is and we’re not solving it tonight.

Tea and seasonal mochis make us change topics to preserving Japanese culture, something both Ryuki and Asari are big on, and recommend I read In Praise of Shadows. They’re concerned the younger generation (as in, 10 years younger than us), is numb and detached. Someone mentions how it’s more common to find an open minded 60-year-old Japanese than a 20-year-old. That seems unthinkable in the highly conservative older generation in Mexico, and had always just assumed that each generation becomes a bit more open minded, as a straight line of “progress”. It’s clearly more like a pendulum, and Mexico and Japan are currently on the opposite side of the swing.

We run out of time and energy before we run out of topics, and we decide to call it a night. We're sad to say goodbye, but happy since we're certain we'll meet again.

A few days later in Kyoto, a new monk enters my life. Surprisingly, he’s a fellow Mexican. His name is Pancho and we randomly meet him at the underground Viva La Musica, a quirky latin bar recommended by our friend at Baobab. It’s brazilian forró night, with a band playing live.

Big Heartland beer in hand, he tells us his story: studied in renowned universities in Mexico, first politics, then a PhD on Japanese history and culture. Came to Japan, lived in a monastery and became a Zen monk. He now teaches and studies at the University of Kyoto.

Besides our fondness for Zen culture, we immediately bond over our shared nationality, give him a pulparindo to cure homesickness, and agree to meet again.

A couple of days later in a quieter place, we bombard him with questions and he patiently gives us a masterclass in Japanese history, mixed with his Zen learnings.
He mentions what is often missed in the West regarding mindfulness: the importance that Zen monks give to not only thoughts and mind being orderly, but also one’s personal space. A lot of attention is placed on one’s desk, bed and drawers to be clean and decluttered.

This matches what I’ve been reading in In Praise of Shadows, which is turning out to be the most delicious, meandering musings on Japanese culture. The author gives insights into how Japanese value a clean view of spaces, taking the utmost care in hiding cables, boilers or avoiding introducing a fan so a room’s physical ambience is not spoiled, even if that means melting in the hot summer.

The book also touches on toilets, lacquerware, Noh theater and yellow skin, encapsulating a whole idiosyncrasy in less than 100 pages¹. But mostly, as the title suggests, it dives into Japanese love for dark and dimly-lit spaces. Their appreciation for something we can’t escape: the night, the shadows, the mysterious.

The book was written 90 years ago, and I realize that appreciation is still alive, since all the places we’ve stayed here in Japan, old and very new, have had only one thing in common: a dimmer for the lights.

1. It acts as a lighter, more accessible version of Mexico’s equivalent Labyrinth of Solitude.