Zazen (Attention to the present
moment) by Alan
Jackson
Yoshiro Takenada felt the August sun burning the back of
his neck. He was uncomfortable. Sweat ran down his arms and stained the
sleeves of his yukata. Normally at this time of day he would be in the shade, enjoying a
cup of jasmine tea when he could afford one. This day was different, he was out in the
burning afternoon sun and he was committed to a task that was none of his choosing. This
fact amongst all others irritated him the most. If he had his way, he would be in the tea
house now with a fine plump nakai-san soothing his brow and pouring his tea.
The sun had parched the earth for months now, and
consequently the dust blew around him in fine clouds which stung the eyes and abraded the
skin where it was exposed. The breeze brought the scent of a stand of bamboo which sat at
the river's edge. That fecund odour of green growth and mature vegetation which spoke of
summer in the countryside. It reminded him of the Edo fields he had grown up in, where he
had chased the water buffalo and the farmer's daughters. The scent was a pleasant reminder
that, beyond this disagreeable moment, the world lay open for the enjoyment of the senses.
Yoshiro shuffled his feet minutely. In his tabi the
thong of his sandals was cutting slightly into one toe. Enough to take his concentration
away from this effort of supreme meditation. He pondered on the wisdom of the Bhagavad
Gita, which says, 'for him without concentration there is no peace,' and drew his thoughts
away from this petty annoyance. Clarity of purpose was needed here today.
To help his focus, Yoshiro allowed his mind to dwell
upon the quality of his grip upon his katana. The long sword was a centuries old
masterpiece of the great craftsman Masamune. The handle of his katana was bound in tsuka
ito wrappings of black silk cord, which covered a layer of hard rough same ray-skin,
to give a better grip to the user's hand. Gold menuki in the shape of dragons
give texture to the handle to aid placement of the fingers in a two handed grip. Yoshiro
acknowledged all of these material sensations as he contemplated his grasp of his sword in
the heat of the summer sun. More importantly, his mind meditated upon the extension of his
arms which was the superb craftsman's wave edged o-midari hamon blade of the
katana.
He had drawn the sword some moments ago. To a samurai iaido,
the act of drawing the sword is 'the way of harmonising oneself in action' and the true iaidoka
wields a sword not to control the opponent, but to control himself. He had not wished to
draw a sword today, but circumstance and an irritating new acquaintance had dictated that
he must.
He stood with arms raised above his head, blade poised
and ready for a downward killing kesa giri diagonal cut. As he stood in the dusty
heat of this village street, he realised his opponent had adopted the tsuki
thrust stance. Yoshiro felt a deep abiding weariness, the outcome of this contest was
decided before either drew their swords. He could only pity the man who stood in front of
him in the afternoon heat, natural belligerence or an over-confident stupidity had brought
this stranger to his death on such a bright summer day.
Yoshiro dispassionately watched his opponent's face as a
bead of summer sweat ran down the man's cheek and dropped to the ground. He could not
allow his concentration to be diluted by wondering who this wretch was, where he had come
from, or why the fool had forced this confrontation. Yoshiro cleared all this clutter from
his mind, and strove to achieve the height of Zen oneness with all his being. That moment
of zazen, where the body and mind's whole attention was focused on just one single moment:
that perfect moment when all his skills as a swordsman could be applied in the execution
of this unwarranted duty..
A mosquito rose from the nearby bamboo, and circled
Yoshiro's head, its high pitched buzzing whine in his ear making no impression on his
rooted, sure-footed, stance. The mosquito, out in the full glare of the sunlight, away
from its dark damp refuge in the bamboo roots, lights for a moment on the upraised tip of
Yoshiro's sword blade. Yoshiro feels the singing vibration of the tense blade resonating
to the beat of the insect's wing. As the creature alights to fly again, as if by its own
volition, Yoshiro's blade slices forward and down.
The August afternoon sunlight picks out the brilliant
crimson of the first drops of dark blood before they soak in and vanish in the dust of the
street.
This is the moment. This is zazen.
*** End *** |