Zen on the rocks - VI

Japanese goodbyes

My writing and my life will forever be sprinkled with what I lived in Japan. This is the last direct entry for Zen on the rocks, about my last week there.
Next time, back to movies and other topics.

The alarm sounds: 4:45am. Still dark outside. Last day, last hours in Japan.
My wife and I know it’s going to be a full Sunday, and no, we’re not prepared for it. Sleep-wise, at least.

Ryuki picks us up. No need to say hello, we had dinner together a few hours back.
It was a fitting place, the restaurant we ditched a reservation for last time we were here in Kanazawa, since we met him and he unexpectedly invited us for dinner, unleashing this relationship. A miracle, he’d say. I’m not sure I would call it that way, but there’s a constant air of serendipity around this whole situation.

We arrive at the temple for one last zazen meditation. It’s Ryuki’s direct teacher, and also his favorite temple. It's a little past 6am as we go into the dedicated room, covered in tatami as the whole temple is.

I sit, facing the paper wall, and as I'm getting into it, my mind reviews the unforgettable week we just had.

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Day 1

We start our reencounter with a zazen meditation at the temple we met a couple months back. It then turns into beer and skewers as Asari (who expertly cooked okonomiyaki last time) and her Italian boyfriend, Matteo, join us at a traditional after-work yakitori place, bustling with salarymen.

We skip the small talk and get right into deep topics as good conversations always start. Why travel so much? Why not commit to a place?, asks Matteo with his thick and ear-pleasing Italian accent.
I explain the kind of trips we make, staying 3 months in one place attempting to deepen our understanding of the culture, and then coming back to Mexico City for the rest of the year. The commit part is a topic that's been running through my mind, questioning myself if I'm running away from something.

We change topics as the skewers flow, confirming the Japanese don't waste any part of an animal: I try chicken's balls and ass. Tasty, though mixed feelings arise. I wash them down with a gulp of Sapporo, as we turn the tables on Matteo and his experience opening a high-end Italian restaurant in Kanazawa. He’s picky with ingredients and processes, and says finding committed people to work long-term is hard.

The spirits of the night are high when Matteo proposes we visit Taku-san at his bar.
He explains Taku is a Zen monk that owns a bar and is also a sculptor, and knowing my current exploration, he thinks we'll get along.

It's already past midnight as we arrive at Huni, right by the main river.
I see the water flowing, sparkling with the reflection of the moon while thinking I don't want this night to end.

We enter the dimly lit bar and Taku, the 3rd monk I will have a meaningful interaction with, greets us with a calm smile.
Some sake is poured into a common cup with a deep and mysterious blue, just like Taku's robe. I'm reminded of In the Praise of Shadows’ description of jade and lacquerware, and the Japanese appreciation of the very deep, dark pieces of tableware.

Food flows endlessly while we share anecdotes, laughs and ideas.
Taku starts interrogating me about where my interest in Zen comes from, I briefly explain, mention Ozu and can't read how it all lands on him. I give him a pulparindo just in case.

Sipping some sake, I notice we're surrounded by wooden sculptures. They have soul, and are trippy.

My answers (or the pulparindo) seem to have been satisfactory as Ryuki later tells us Taku has invited us to his home in a couple of days. Something uncommon and a place even he hasn't been to. If every detail and sensation at his bar is thought of, I can only imagine his house.

We keep on sharing moments until the night inevitably ends, fading out like the eternal sound of a gong.

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In every spare minute during that week in Kanazawa I walk, walk, walk by myself and wonder how, how can there be so much subdued beauty in one small city. In a walking loop you can visit the Suzuki museum that embodies contemplation through architecture. Stroll around the Kenrokuen, considered one of the three most beautiful Japanese gardens. Visit one of the three tea districts, wondering about the geishas behind the faceless and unaltered tea houses. Imagine yourself as a samurai in the Nagamachi district. You can also see the sky framed by a James Turrell room or wander into a 500-year-old castle.
All punctuated by crossing, or walking along, creeks and their sounds.

Yes, revisiting this beauty with more time played a part in us coming back here. But it wouldn't have been reason alone for this detour. The easiest, cheapest, fastest, most comfortable decision would've been staying in Onomichi another week and getting a flight to Hong Kong from Hiroshima or Fukuoka.

Instead, people won. Connection. We let the kindness, the warmness experienced by Ryuki, Martina and Asari be our compass and attempt to repeat the feeling. And it became one of the best decisions we've made.

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Day 4

Ryuki, my wife and I meet with Taku outside his home, and he drives us like Fitipaldi to the supermarket. Back in his home with everything bought for dinner, Taku starts cooking as we lay out snacks and pour some drinks. Each cup, each plate, each chopstick holder is something that could be found at a design exhibition.

We finish setting up as I sit and have time to absorb Taku's house. The kitchen is integrated with his art studio, and there's a small tatami section filled with sculptures for an upcoming exhibition. All his carving tools are laid out on the table, there's instruments for tea ceremonies on another one. The dinner table has the tiniest flower vase with a single small flower.

Every little thing seems to have its own glow when directing an intentional gaze at it, otherwise it all feels integrated into one man's place of mindful living.

As I glance back to where we are, my eyes lock with Ryuki's and, having seen my mesmerized look at the place, he whispers Everything has meaning. I understand.

Asari and Matteo arrive, and Taku starts serving dinner. Nabe, a clear broth with meat and vegetables. Taku tells us a story about fishing piranhas in the Amazon, and how the tail of each one he caught would serve as bait for fishing another one. It’s an infinite loop, he says, you never run out of food.

I ask him if he ever wrote about those trips. I had some diaries and many pictures, but one day I decided to burn them. A very buddhist act of letting go and not attaching to your past. I think of my writing, my general footprint and consider the thought of burning, or deleting everything.
I sometimes regret it, he adds.
Well, that fixes it.

The same broth is continuously served with different things in it, as drinks are poured according to the stage of the dinner. We’re now past beer and white wine, sipping some red one.

My wife, who's very physical, always hugging, touching, holding hands, can't get over the fact that public displays of affection are frowned upon in Japan, and asks where that comes from.

Taku thinks for a long time. He finally starts attempting to answer in English, of which he has a pretty good level of. But apparently not enough for this, as he soon starts referring to Asari and Ryuki in Japanese, sending them on a lively, inscrutable conversation.

Matteo looks at us with a deadpan face, saying This is my life. We laugh, as he takes the joke further, saying most discussions revolve around the direction of the stroke in a kanji, as he gestures with his hands in the air.

Asari and Taku stop talking and I press them to attempt to explain the answer.
She does.
I repeat back what I understood: life is divided into 2 main areas. One is everyday, mundane things, and the other is special, ceremonial occasions. Unfortunately, hugging and touching each other is reserved for the special side, hence not done in an everyday, public setting.

Right? I ask.

She shrugs, saying kind of, making me very aware that I'm only grasping this superficially, and quickly taking it into my western logical terrain. Also serving as an indirect answer to why a foreigner will never truly be accepted as a Japanese: this way of seeing the world can't be interiorized in half a lifetime, you have to be born with it, probably with the weight of a few native generations over you.

We’re onto sake and sweets now, as the dinner continues with a demonstration on how to put on an ancient robe, having a look at Taku's treasured set of black lacquerware and learning about Zen culture by example.
The night ends in perfect coordination when all drinks and food are finished.

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Day 7

Coming back to my last zazen meditation in Japan, the last third of this one ends differently than others.

We go out of the meditation room and onto the altar section of the temple, where the monk starts playing an engraved wooden drum with a repetitive beat. He integrates singing bowls of different sizes, with the scene resembling an ancient drum set.
Meanwhile, Ryuki and the other two persons attending make three deep bows and then start singing in monotone syllables.
My wife and I just stare in awe at the trance orchestra this became in an instant.

After this musical section, Ryuki, the monk, my wife and I, sit around a heater as they offer tea and sweets. The monk’s name is Ken¹, and is Ryuki’s direct teacher. He’s everything you would picture in a Zen monk: his smile, his presence is enough to calm you down.

We touch on the differences and commonalities of buddhism and catholicism, the Mexican brown virgin Mary and how strict Tibetan Buddhism is, at least compared to Zen Buddhism. My wife, never shy of getting into the weeds, asks Ken's take on the concept of mu.

He thinks for a while, grabs the tea cup and says This is a cup, but it's also not a cup.
He then explains, up to the best of his English ability, how we are both individuals but also part of a whole, thus inseparable from our surroundings. This hits harder coming from 3 months of watching how the Japanese are respectful towards the other.

Conversations are sometimes broken into subgroups to refine more nuanced ideas, Ryuki and the monk in Japanese, my wife and I in Spanish. My wife and I are saying the world would benefit if there were more calm and soul-affirming talks like this, as I overhear the word "ikigai" in the Japanese conversation.

This concept of finding a purpose in life, a reason to live. One that I'm very attuned to, since my friend Tai Quinn recently prompted me to write about it and the Japanese attitude towards it.

I turn and say Ikigai? Is it important to you?
The monk answers: It's important to have purpose, but also to not have purpose.

I'm loving these ambiguous answers, resembling the grayness of life, the bouncing between extremes. I sit on the implication of what he said, while looking into the distance. The diffuse light that comes in the temple filtered from the paper walls falls over the tatami floors making you almost touch it.

I interpret his answer as that tension that comes from wanting to make the most out of life and being content with what you already have, and that's where living happens.

I could continue with this word and thought dance endlessly, but we have a train to Tokyo to catch. We're saying our goodbyes outside the temple, as the monk turns to my wife and I, saying I wish you a very happy life.
He says it with such deep intention that my wife can’t hold back the tears.
One of the most heartfelt wishes we’ve received and a fitting closing to this interaction, as we wish it back to both.

Ryuki takes us to the station. The master puppeteer and backbone of these experiences, with one of the kindest, warmest personalities I’ve ever had the luck to encounter. We promise to see each other again, probably in Mexico.
He walks us to the last point he’s allowed, and we have an endless Japanese goodbye.

1. The names have been altered in order to not confuse the reader, since his real name is Ryoko