Without hesitation, I stepped through that gate

The sign reading “Visits Declined” remained unchanged. In my student days, seeing those words, or rather, that stark phrase, I always turned back. I had no connection to the place whatsoever.

During my university years, I decided I wanted to try tea ceremony and boldly asked a professor from my favorite class, “Philosophy of Art,” if he could introduce me to a good teacher. The professor, who was also a sumi-e painter, suggested, “Wouldn’t it be interesting to mingle with the monks?” He then mentioned this temple. Apparently, his own master’s paintings were displayed there. Coincidentally, this was the very temple I passed by on my way to and from track practice. I remember being drawn to its dignified presence each time, feeling it was somehow distinct from the many other temples around.

Yet, my connection ended there, and I was immediately met with a “Visits Declined” sign, along with the words “Zen Training Dojo.” It would be natural to hesitate before the temple gate. What finally convinced me to make up my mind was reading a certain poem, but that’s a story for another time.

Without hesitation, I stepped through that gate. It was midsummer.

“Have a cup of tea.” Indeed, a cup of tea is a tricky thing

The abbot, with his shaven head and dark robes, greeted my sudden appearance. His large face seemed almost translucent, revealing a skull beneath. The light from the garden reflected in his eyes. I was ushered into a room with sliding doors covered in bamboo blinds. The light, partially blocked, seeped into the room, and the tatami mats seemed to reflect its soft, green glow.

“Sit down, please,” he said, and immediately began preparing matcha. From a tin of pewter, he scooped a deep green powder with a bamboo scoop, and as he whisked it with the chasen, a fragrant tea arose. During this time, I must have introduced myself.

“The tea bowl is Karatsu ware,” he told me, and I understood. But it was as large as a ramen bowl. The abbot laughed, “A friend made it for me to match my face! Ha ha ha!” That was enough to break down my reserve. After finishing the bowl, I found myself pouring out all sorts of thoughts, things I had never told anyone. Perhaps, from the abbot’s perspective, someone rushing into a temple like that seemed desperate. That’s why he welcomed me so warmly, I think now.

After listening intently, the abbot, in the high-ceilinged, smoke-stained kitchen where meals are prepared, boiled some soba noodles. We sat facing each other and ate. The abbot’s chopsticks were enormous, which made me laugh. He explained they also served as clappers. Everything felt grand in scale. It was a size I'd never seen before. And yet, it was so peaceful.

The abbot, with his shaven head, was an easy target for the relentless mosquitoes. While slurping his soba, he kept swatting at his head. Even monks get itchy, and they swat at mosquitoes.

As I was leaving, he asked me to say goodbye, and I was also granted an audience with the elder monk who lived in a separate residence. There, too, I was offered tea.

“Have a cup of tea.” Indeed, a cup of tea is a tricky thing. Because it was like magic. Of course, that magic is likely activated by a complex balance of the server’s demeanor, gestures, the fluctuations in their voice, the gravity of the space and time, and the timing of our encounter. But it made me feel as though I could entrust anything to it. “If you’re going to have tea, you must sit properly,” he said, and so I began practicing Zen meditation.

That day, I ended up staying at the temple until evening, returning to my room with bags full of souvenirs. It was strange how I had revealed everything to someone I had just met. Is this what monks are like? “Come back anytime,” his words were more welcome than I can say.

There are many other episodes after that, but I never consistently kept up with tea lessons or Zen meditation. I’d occasionally drop by, much to their surprise… that was about it. Then I graduated and left Tokyo for a while.

A sort of lay novice with hair, neither here nor there

Less than a year after stepping into the world of flowers, I found myself back in Tokyo. This time, I boldly asked the abbot if I could stay at the temple. Looking back, I realize it was perhaps a convenient excuse, a way to find what I wanted to do. I believe the abbot, knowing this, allowed me to stay. With fewer young people wanting to become monks, they might have needed the help, but the criticism from parishioners and other monks must have been considerable. A sort of lay novice with hair, neither here nor there.

Morning services were mandatory. I had to be back at the temple by 7 PM. The conditions included early morning Zen meditation on weekends, followed by temple chores and assisting with memorial services. I went barefoot year-round. I spent an hour scrubbing floors, and the calluses from the cleaning rags remain to this day. I also struck the large wooden fish drum. At first, my fingers blistered. I can still recite the Heart Sutra from memory. …I’ve forgotten the rest.

There was a tea plantation, and I participated in tea picking. At the year's end, we also made mochi. I assisted with ringing the New Year's Eve bell. To signal the start of morning Zen meditation, we struck a wooden board. Its sound would ripple across the river, carried on the morning mist.

The abbot’s tea, his hearty laughter, his childlike tantrums, his silent, stern profile, his pained expression during a massage, his loud voice, his large skull, the gaze that shone in his eye sockets, his back as he chanted sutras, the abbot in his kesa and robes, the abbot in his work clothes….

I hope it remains a place I can always return to

When I visited after a long time, a flood of memories welled up and began to resonate. The garden was more meticulously arranged than before, carefully tended and gleaming. Even with fewer people, it had been purified and polished to this extent. It made me think of the disarray in my own life. I resolved to tidy things up.

The bittersweet, the poignant, the embarrassing, the bitter – all resurface when I return to that place. It’s a crucial node connecting me to the present, a grounding point.

Still, the various scenes that rise and burst like fireworks in my memory, then fade and collapse, are countless. I couldn't help but wish it would remain a place I could always return to.

That day, a series of coincidences led me through this temple gate. I chose to trust the memory in my cells. I leaped into a place where possibilities remained possibilities. Seen that way, this coincidence was life itself. There is a season for everything, whether we are going to meet something or be met by it.

Following the abbot, who was away for the Segaki ceremony, I paid my respects at the monument for all souls. “祭如在” (Offer sacrifices as if they were present). Pray as if all spirits were truly before you.

And then I stepped back out onto the shimmering, heat-radiating asphalt. The cicadas had returned.


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