the great thing about cleaning at Eiheiji
That’s the great thing about cleaning at Eiheiji: it isn’t done on special days or in special places, but takes place energetically every single day, whether or not there’s any dirt to speak of.
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That’s the great thing about cleaning at Eiheiji: it isn’t done on special days or in special places, but takes place energetically every single day, whether or not there’s any dirt to speak of.
Zen discipline is not a staircase or a means of getting somewhere; it is rather about the successive moments of life—of existence itself. It means being fully aware in body and spirit of the fact of your life, and continuing to cultivate and practice the best way to live as a human being. This is the meaning of Dogen’s words, “Dignity is itself the Dharma. Propriety is itself the essence of the house.”
In fact, society is full of people who spend so much energy pursuing the means of doing something that they lose all sight of purpose. Rather than thinking about purpose, people are more attracted by, and more proficient at, having various methods at their disposal. But methods that are devoid of purpose or detached from ultimate meaning will often—like war, and like development in the name of progress—lead only to disaster.
In other words, whoever prepares food in a monastery kitchen should do so in a spirit of seeking the way of Buddha; he should use ingredients appropriate to the season and cooking techniques appropriate to the ingredients, in order to give variety to the daily menu and ensure that everyone who partakes can do so with enjoyment.
I learned that when one’s self-respect and modesty are wiped out and all the things one cannot relinquish are blown to smithereens, life can be apprehended much more calmly. As my days at Eiheiji piled up, I generally cared less and less about all that I’d previously agonized over; I marveled that I’d ever let so many little things cause me mental stress. Problems that had loomed before me as a great wall against which I could only bash my head seemed now, on cooler inspection, so flimsy that I could blow them over with one puff if I chose. Or, if I looked a little to one side, I could spot an easy escape.
From the beginning, self-annihilation has been an important task imposed on Zen monks in everyday discipline. To cast aside the ego means to cast aside your selfhood, determinedly reducing yourself to nothing, all the while revering and obeying your seniors and carrying out your daily chores in perfect silence.
Monks take the human capacity for desire and turn it around so that, by observing the self that remains unsatisfied, that seeks no satisfaction, another, different self can obtain fulfillment in a different dimension. What convolution! Perhaps it’s a kind of instinctual thought process unique to our species, one that comes into play precisely because we are so proficient at using every possible means to satisfy our longings that we don’t know when to stop. Of all the creatures on the planet, we are capable of the most convoluted thought processes, a piece of good fortune that is perhaps also our misfortune.
Zen, it has been said, aims to compress human physical needs to the barest minimum and to direct the human spirit to a higher sphere of activity.
But here at Eiheiji, eating was a major undertaking. It was not a question of hunger or satiety, or of food tasting good or bad. The point lay in the act of eating itself. Eating was the Dharma, the essence of Buddhist teaching, and vice versa. In his text Rules for Eating Gruel Dogen wrote out detailed instructions for how to eat:
Sitting this way, you become immovable. Surpassing existence and nonexistence, you free yourself from constrictions of thought. This is the way of Zen sitting.