Practicing
Takuhatsu in America Eido Frances
Carney
It is the day for takuhatsu in Olympia, this small city in the State
of Washington. After zazen and morning ceremony, we eat a modest
breakfast of oatmeal and tea and still feel hungry. This is good,
as one should not go begging on a full stomach. The rain has held
off, but it is misty, windless, and raw. Streets and alleys are
full of puddles. Only students who have requested this opportunity
are participating, and two are doing takuhatsu for the first time.
There will just be four of us. We are not trying to create a
spectacle; we are practicing a tradition of Zen that dates to the
time of Shakyamuni Buddha and has been passed down with the begging
bowl to the lineages of the present day.
I am a priest and trained at Entsuji temple in
Japan, where Ryokan (l758-1831), the poet, priest, and hermit,
trained before embarking upon a life outside the monastery, totally
dependent on takuhatsu. Takuhatsu brings the monastery directly
into the marketplace. On the alms-round, I wear the traditional
takuhatsu clothing of the monk: kimono and horomo hiked up and tied
at the waist so that the white cloth leggings show below the knee;
half-gloves covering the visible portion of the forearm; towel
around the head to keep the wide straw woven hat from slipping;
grass sandals over tabi, the Japanese socks with the big toe
separated from the other toes, like mittens. Students wear their
street shoes and standard Japanese temple work clothing to clearly
identify them with our temple. They will also wear arahusu, the
"little robe," and a takuhatsu bag to collect offerings and display
our affiliation, Olympia Zen Center. We all carry begging bowls. I
also carry a tall stick with three rings on top that will make a
clear ching-ching as it taps along the pathway, leading the
procession.
Takuhatsu is one of the deepest traditions of my
Soto Zen lineage. We recognize the influence of Ryokan, who spent
his life in solitude and utmost simplicity, writing poems and
painting, teaching through the example of kindness and goodwill,
relying only on the fruits of takuhatsu for his food and
sustenance. It was along the narrow streets near Entsuji that the
sound of Ryokan-san's begging stick first rang out against the mud
walls of the old farm buildings. Later he returned to his hometown
and wandered from there throughout the Bunsui plain, living as a
mendicant. The tradition of takuhatsu remains unbroken in Japanese
Zen.
Begging is legal in Olympia as long as one does not
engage in aggressive panhandling. "Panhandling," an American
colloquialism borrowed from the homeless, literally refers to the
use of a pan with a handle for begging. In the United States,
religious begging has all but disappeared. Years ago, members of
the Salvation Army, the last of the street religious beggars, would
come out at Christmas with their unmistakable Army bells as
shoppers entered the supermarket. As late as the 1950s, religious
organizations practiced begging on city streets in the State of New
York. They went from door to door, or stood at train stations or
outside factories, accepting donations. This was acceptable and
recognized as virtuous practice. As begging became popular—though
not completely acceptable—during the hippie movement of the late
1960s, young people took to America's streets, demonstrating the
need for changing values in society. They did not hesitate to ask
for money, and people were curious and generally responsive. That
era ended with an increase in homelessness, and as the homeless
population grew, the practice of begging persisted and the public
became impatient with the continuing visibility of the poor. Other
areas were beset by members of the Hare Krishna movement, who had
aggressive and confrontational methods. Some cities passed
ordinances to prevent beggars from annoying people. Begging is now
illegal in some parts of the United States and restricted
elsewhere.
Few religious groups practice poverty today in the
manner of Ryokan, or even in that of St. Francis of Assisi, who
taught his monks to store no more food than they could use for one
day. At the same time, begging has been institutionalized in the
form of fund-raising, conducted by every church and nonprofit
corporation in America. Giving is no longer a direct transaction
from the donor to the begging bowl. Americans make appeals through
the mail requesting donations for every imaginable cause. If donors
are moved, they send a check. There is no contact, no communal
prayer, no immediate direct eye-to-eye gesture.
I was raised in a begging tradition. During my
childhood in Brooklyn in the 1940s and' 50s, the Great Depression
was still a recent enough memory for most people to appreciate that
begging had once been commonplace. Catholic monastics practiced
begging, and it was not unusual to see clerics sitting outside
shops holding coffee cups to collect coins. On Thanksgiving,
children would dress up in old, torn clothing and go from door to
door to beg. The practice reminded householders that kindness to
beggars, especially on such a holiday, was virtuous, and it taught
children that all people were worthy of notice and that sharing
goods was the right thing to do.
Because I had come of age in that milieu, takuhatsu
seemed natural to me. I practiced Zen for many years in California
with Kobun Chino Otogawa Roshi before traveling to Japan to teach
English. One day I wandered into Entsuji temple. The abbot, Niho
Roshi, saw me in the garden and invited me in. At that moment, my
practice of takuhatsu began.
In Olympia, just as at Entsuji, before leaving the
zendo we face one another in a line and chant Hannya Shingyo, the
Heart Sutra. We open the door and emerge into the cold winter air,
and feel a sudden vulnerability. There is no hiding, no way to
disguise what we are doing. We are suddenly visible to everyone.
Feelings of joy at the opportunity to carry on a deep tradition,
fear that we will be ridiculed and misunderstood, courage to go out
and practice, trepidation in the face of our physical
vulnerability, all mingle with the wisps of fog that catch around
our ears as we walk in single file. A little more chanting and then
down the hill into town we intone a deep "Hooooooooooooo," which
means "the rain of dharma," and it echoes from the belly in a long
vibrating stream. Our breathing is staggered and the echo is
continuous. Cold hits the hand, and the fingers numb around the
bowl.
As far as we know, no Zen communities in America are
practicing takuhatsu in this particular ancient form. Our sangha
has had long discussions about why, although it was practiced and
taught by Shakyamuni Buddha and all Zen monks since, takuhatsu has
not been transmitted to America. Why is it that Americans have
embraced zazen meditation and yet do not incorporate takuhatsu in
their practice? Even many Japanese teachers say, "Takuhatsu is
impossible for Americans." They may have been reticent to transmit
the practice in America for several reasons. We are a violent
nation; Americans are outspoken and don't hesitate to belittle or
ridicule what we don't understand. In takuhatsu, there is no cover
from the dangerous, the rude or obscene. Japanese teachers may have
seen the practice as too controversial, too problematic outside
their own culture, and felt that to establish it at all, takuhatsu
had to be acceptable to society. It had to find its way into the
mainstream of daily life.
Although we hold the bowl open for an offering, the
practice of takuhatsu does not teach us to be dependent upon
society, asking for something that is not earned, or pressuring a
community for an entitlement to food or goods. Rather, it teaches
us the fundamental lessons of the Buddha: to be dependent on
everyone, to live our original homelessness, to include the
homeless in thought and deed, to share everything, to accept what
comes to us, to be generous, to be humble in society, to recognize
the timid, to resist fame, to be modest, to resist the acquisition
of goods, to throw off ego, to have the courage to be fully visible
in practice.
We reach the main road and its heavy traffic.
Pedestrians see us and stare. Our begging bowls are held out in one
hand, the other held under the arakusu, eyes cast down. We cross
the streets with the traffic lights and pass in front of motorists
who now see us head-on. The insistent ching-ching of the stick
keeps us concentrated: we are a living sangha, moving in a single
body through the city.
Our first direct encounter is at Bread and Roses,
the Catholic Worker soup kitchen. About ten men are gathered on the
sidewalk talking as we turn the corner and walk toward them. We
appear as a small attack force arriving out of nowhere. There is no
precedent for this, no picture that they can turn to for reference.
We are moving at a moderate pace, chanting Enmei Jihhu Kannon
Gyo, the Kannon Sutra of Timeless Life, a devotion to
Avalokiteshvara, the same prayer chanted at Entsuji temple and by
Ryokan. The men on the street are facing us and staring. This is
their block, their territory, and many who are standing here now
will be begging later in front of various shops or huddling in the
doorways of businesses that have closed for the weekend.
Shopkeepers will ask them to move, saying they are bad for business
and that they keep shoppers away.
I look out from under the hat, and my eyes meet
one man's eyes. His are deep, tired, and watery from the cold. His
look is questioning, but in an instant we both recognize something:
the takuhatsu I am doing is engaged in prayer; his begging is a raw
kind of desperation that fights back incessant hunger and cold. I
can go home and shower; he cannot. I have a place to sleep; he may
not. We are exactly face to face. But though our material
circumstances are indeed different, we are on the same ground;
there is no difference in the essential truth of our
humanity.
Our group is pulled along by the action of walking,
by the silence of going forward step by step in our meditation. We
try to give the man a paper that explains what we are doing, but he
doesn't want to take it. He shakes his hand and his head
simultaneously. Finally, another man accepts. We go on our
way.
Making money or filling the bowl in takuhatsu is not
the point. The point is the practice of acceptance, humility,
poverty. It addresses the arrogance of our material times. When we
see that we are all homeless, we can fully exchange the meaning of
this practice. Our giving away and our receiving are the same act.
The spiritual gesture of takuhatsu reminds us where our true
treasures lie and that the begging bowl and the hand filling it are
always empty.
But coming to that realization on American ground is
a path rife with questions and doubts, even for sincere
practitioners. Because we live in an area populated by Christian
fundamentalists, some followers fear that through takuhatsu we will
be misunderstood, and to be misunderstood means to be discriminated
against. Others speak of what it means to face the homeless or feel
that by begging we might take what would otherwise be given to a
homeless beggar. But perhaps the deepest, most debilitating
notion—and one that hits the entire nation, not just those
contemplating takuhatsu—is the terror of being perceived as, or
associated with, the poor.
Takuhatsu is not about experiencing oneself as
invisible to society in the sense of being unrecognized,
overlooked, forgotten like the homeless, the poor or the aged. It
is about realizing the "small" self as invisible. In the practice,
we experience invisibility because the person we know by name—the
usual daily self—is transformed; there is no one there to need to
be noticed. It is the practice of liberation. Of course, we may be
tempted to use takuhatsu as a spiritual masquerade, to enjoy
accolades because of the exotic nature of the robes or the work.
But sincere Zen practice is a mirror where attempts to inflate the
ego are leveled again and again. We are brought to see the truth of
ourselves—that ego itself is delusion.
Will takuhatsu take root in America? First, a
visible monastic stream must flourish. While householder Zen takes
hold, such practice must rest on a foundation where training and a
clear understanding of dharma are solidly planted. In lay practice,
we risk becoming a Sunday-only congregation, using the cushions
occasionally but not when it interferes with the primary schedule
of family life.
The Buddha lived as a mendicant, knowing that poverty—that is, a
life of nonacquiring—is necessary to learn nonattachment and
acceptance. The alms-round permitted the monks to practice poverty
and humility, to overcome vanity. They also learned acceptance,
since they were completely dependent upon what was offered, eating
only what was put in the bowl, and only once a day. The disciple
Makakasho is said to have eaten a leper's finger that had dropped
into his bowl, an extreme practice of indiscriminate acceptance.
Ryokan ate food that had been shared by insects and grubs, going
beyond discrimination of the condition of the food. The laity
benefited through receiving the teachings the monks transmitted and
gained merit through acts of generosity.
Later in the morning, we walk beside the marina
and are photographed by a tourist against the backdrop of the State
Capitol Building, a dome that is the copy of our capitol in
Washington, D.C. We follow the boats to the farmers' market, where
we stand in one area for half an hour. One of us gives the handout
to the curious, who walk slowly away, reading. Some, when they
understand, return and make an offering. One man gives us a bagel
that we later eat for lunch. Back at the zendo, we chant, wash our
feet, and place the offerings on the altar. We drink tea, have
lunch, feel the stiffness and soreness set into the muscles and
joints. We begin to appreciate the life of a mendicant, the life of
simplicity in poverty. Poverty: not an end in itself, but a means
to a life in Buddha, complete and free.