MONK

When I was twenty-five, I took a freighter from San Francisco to Japan, a ten-day trip. I settled in the old capital, Kyoto, for what turned out to be a couple of revelatory years. I supported myself by teaching English, as there was plenty of work to be had, and tried to pursue the elusive idea of becoming a writer.

One of the incitements to the trip had been meditation practice I’d undertaken at San Francisco’s Zen Center. I had in mind continuing this discipline at Daitoku-ji, a temple near the house I’d rented in northern Kyoto.

I was fascinated by the ancient city and spent much of my free time wandering its alleys and back streets, its temples and shrines, and the forest paths through the Higashiyama hills.  One day, while browsing antique stores along a street called Shinmonzen-dori, I came across a mounted scroll of a Zen monk, a bonze, simply rendered in sumi-e ink, sitting in meditation. It wasn’t the most elegant or artful thing on offer in that musty shop, but there was something in the monk’s fierce gaze that arrested me. I bought it for the yen equivalent of $5.

I took it back to the house where I was staying and hung it in the niche reserved for such things in a traditional Japanese home. When I moved to a house in another neighborhood, the scroll came with me. I hung it near my bed, and each day I awakened to his unwavering regard. 

As it turned out, I didn’t get far with my sitting at Daitoku-ji, too captivated by the city and teaching and the promise of writing. 

After Japan, I moved back to California. Subsequent years would find me living in many houses, more than I would care to count. But wherever I resided, I hung my scroll of the steadfast monk. It accompanied me as a reminder perhaps of a path not taken, or simply as a silent, implacable companion.

I thought of him as my better self. Nothing diverted his resolute stare. He goaded by example, reminding me to pay attention, be always present.

At one point the old scroll, travel-worn, was repaired and remounted by a Japanese-American artisan in Los Angeles. Later it picked up some water stains, though I don’t recall where or when. 

Most things in my life I’ve shed or lost over the years. But the monk is still with me. Presently he hangs on the wall of my room in Mexico. When I open my eyes each morning, there he is.

What is of value in this life?

If this steadfast practitioner turns out to be the last thing my eyes fall upon before shutting forever, I’d consider myself blessed.