Naked in the Zendo by Grace Shireson

Author:Grace Shireson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shambhala
Published: 2019-11-25T16:00:00+00:00

13

DEATH BY SEIZA

Early in my Japanese monastic practice, I had a wonderful trip to Eiheiji, the head temple for Soto Zen in Japan. Eiheiji has the stature and grandeur of the Vatican in Rome. Its scenery, dignity, deep practice, and beautiful furnishings inspire reverie and command presence. I was visiting Eiheiji for the shuso ceremony for Shungo Suzuki. Shungo, the son of Hoitsu Suzuki Roshi and the grandson of Suzuki Roshi, had earned the top honorary position among the monks that year resulting in his shuso ceremony. Several busloads of Rinso-in danka-san, members of Suzuki’s home temple, were traveling to Eiheiji for the ceremony. It was a full day’s ride, which included karaoke on the bus. I distinguished myself in karaoke with my rendition of the Beatles’ “Yesterday,” receiving several compliments on my excellent English.

The shuso ceremony took place over the course of several days. I shared a room with Hoitsu Suzuki Roshi’s wife and daughters. As they prepared for their formal appearance in kimono and traditionally styled long hair, I was astonished at their ability to breathe with hairspray so thick. Although I had to admire the architectural handiwork of their elaborate hair, as their roommate I became concerned that I would experience death by hairspray.

Another Eiheiji hazard concerned my fear of death by intestinal blockage. Every meal was rice, pickles, and unidentifiable fried rubbery stuff (most likely fried tofu). In texture, it closely resembled vulcanized rubber tire. I’m sure the meals were lavish by monastic standards, and delicious to Japanese people who seem to have evolved a genetic ability to digest vulcanized rubber tofu. I was not nearly as talented; in fact, I am intestinally challenged. I managed to survive the food challenge because of my American seatmate at the table. He was exceptionally sturdy, and he loved Japanese food. I would surreptitiously pass most of my food to him, and I could eat my dried fruit and nuts later in secret. Finally, even he had eaten enough, and he refused my offerings. At that point I had to sneak the leftovers out in my sleeve. Mottainai—one must never waste!—was a common expression in Zen temples.

While I was fairly certain I had avoided the first two death threats—death by intestinal blockage and death by massive hairspray inhalation—it became clear to me that I faced a bigger danger in the hours ahead. I might die—or at least be permanently paralyzed—by seiza posture—kneeling with hips on ankles, without a cushion, on a tatami mat. The ceremony included many uninterrupted hours of seiza. I was fifty-two years old at the time, and I had already used up most of my knee cartilage through many years of zazen seated in the lotus posture. The beauty of Eiheiji, the rituals, the early mornings, and the fears of perishing all served to amplify my awareness.

At the shuso ceremony, I was seated among the gonin, the honorable guests of the Suzukis. I learned a great deal from these honorable older priests. First, they had done their rigorous training as young men.

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