I thought this column up while I was supposed to be meditating.
I couldn’t feel my toes. If I had crossed my legs any more, I would have broken my bones. My shoulders ached. Most importantly, I was trying to “empty my mind” by concentrating only on breathing.
Obviously, because you’re now reading this column, I did more thinking than meditating.
It all started two weeks ago, when I embarked on a journey to seek Zen.
By “journey to seek Zen,” I actually mean that I participated in a university-organized field trip for Zen training at a temple in Nagoya. On the agenda for the day: meditating, lecture, tea ceremony and, most importantly, free dinner. Give me a break—not only am I a broke college student, I am in a country where the value of the dollar seems to be lower everyday. Regardless, before getting to dinner, I had to learn about Buddhism (and maybe achieve some sort of Zen).
Although it is questionable whether I was actually able to attain any sort of meditative success, the day was definitely not a waste of time. Somewhere in between trying to empty my mind and then trying to fill it with the words of the Roshi (the head monk), I began to find some sort of sense in the quiet subtlety of Buddhism.
My journey for Zen that day, however, did not end on a good note. One of Buddhism’s main ideals is the emphasis on not wasting anything. In particular: food. Everyone was expected to finish their dinner of rice, boiled vegetables, soup, cole slaw (yes, Japanese monks eat cole slaw) and persimmons. That, however, was not enough. We were not supposed to let anything go to waste. And thus I listened in horror as the Roshi explained how we should use the cup of tea we were given to wash out our bowls, and then drink it. We were then expected to use a tiny sponge to wipe off the bowls, and suck on it so as to not leave any residue.
So with a stomach of oily mayonnaise dishwater, I walked away not sure how anyone could quite find Zen.
It was only a couple of days later, sitting on the same bus I take every day to school, that it hit me: being in Japan is in some strange way my Zen.
According to the Roshi, in Buddhism, one must learn to cherish and live in the present. Otherwise, one becomes akin to a Japanese ghost—usually a young girl with long flowing hair, no legs and arms reaching forward. This imagery indicates attachment to the past, no stance in the present and distress over the future.
Instead, Buddhism looks at life as a circle. Although a circle has no beginning and end, if it is drawn, the starting point and ending point are the same. The existence of an endpoint emphasizes the fact that one should live every day as if it is their last, and approach the beginning of the next day as a new start.
At Duke, I was very much like a “Japanese ghost.” I dwelled constantly on the past and worried endlessly about the future. In the flurry of class, work, papers, midterms, drinking and trying to keep life in order, there was no slowing down to enjoy the present. Yet in Japan, I steadied myself. Maybe it’s the difference in lifestyle, amount of schoolwork or the people with whom I interact. I can’t place an exact finger on it, but it is nice realizing that the present isn’t such a bad place to live in.
So try it. Slow down a little. Don’t run to class. Wake up early, walk slowly and enjoy the smell of the wind and play of the leaves as it rolls across West Campus grounds. Let it be one of those days where even though you’ve ridden the same bus multiple times and walked the same path to class always without fail, everything in the world seems new and glistening. It is any other day, but it is hard not to breathe the fresh air and notice the sheen over everything that makes you want to smile and shout at the world, “thank you thank you thank you.”
Lisa Du is a Trinity junior studying abroad in Japan. Her column runs every other Friday.
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