The Roshi Fukushima Enlightens Pomona
By Lori DesRochers
Staff Writer

"You should sit as close to him as possible," Professor Yamashita advised my Asian History class. "This may be the only time in your life that you're 10-15 feet away from an enlightened being." I arrived early at all three of The Roshi Fukushima Keido's public events at the Pomona College-a lecture, a demonstration of calligraphy, and a meditation practice-and listened closely to the words of this Zen Master.

The 70-year-old Head Abbot of Kyoto's Tofukuji Temple visits Pomona College every year. His first public appearance for this year's visit was a lecture entitled, "Zen, The Bridge." Wearing a chocolate brown robe with a gold brocade sash resting about his shoulders, the Roshi sat at a table alongside his translator, Pomona College Japanese professor Kyoto Kurita. He had clearly studied English before, as his Japanese explanations were peppered with English phrases, and he often provided the punchline to his jokes in English. Professor Kurita's soft-spoken translations matched the Roshi's gentle demeanor, and by the end of the lecture I was certain that everyone wanted to give him a big hug. His smiling eyes were so warm, his quiet sense of humor so endearing.

He spoke about bridges, both spiritual and physical, including many stories about bridges and their purposes. "If we can make bridges over every border, world peace will be brought sooner rather than later," said the Roshi. The primary teaching in his lecture revolved around the concept of mushin. The word itself translates to "emptiness" in English, but he was quick to insist that it was not emptiness in the conventional sense; rather, mushin implies that one has an empty heart and has cut off his or her ego so that he or she can adapt to any experience. He explained that in order to understand anything, one must become that thing.

"When you cross a bridge, become the bridge. When you see a mountain, become a mountain," he said. Another Buddhist doctrine demands that the Buddha nature involves freeing oneself from attachments. The Roshi explained that there are good attachments and bad attachments-for instance, his proclivity for coffee, chocolates, and ice cream were good. "What happens when a Zen Master eats ice cream? He becomes the ice cream," he said with a smile.

A student asked about the path toward understanding negative things, such as war and hatred. "Do we need to become war to understand it?" she asked. The Roshi's answer was a simple affirmation of this fact. "Yes, that's right. I hate war, especially since I am a Zen Master," he said. "But it would be best for you to understand war experientially. If you only think about war using your brain, ego will enter your thought and you can't understand it. If your mind becomes empty, you can adapt yourself to both good and bad things. Then, if it is toward a bad war, you will be able to say stop that bad war."

The next day, the Roshi's demonstration of Zen Calligraphy drew an attentive crowd to Lyman Hall. This time accompanied by the head monk of his monastery and a young male translator, the Roshi removed his robe and settled onto his knees before a long swath of paper. Within arm's reach lay a collection of animal hair brushes, an inkstone, and a paper weight.

"If you see an art exhibition, it's static. This is a living art, it is dynamic," he said. As he explained that his demonstration was something of an unconscious meditation for the audience, silence fell across the hall. He traced the shape of the character in the air, then dipped the largest brush into his inkstone and began drawing in broad strokes. The ink spread into the paper until the shape resembled no Chinese character I'd ever seen, but the beauty and composition were striking.

All the while, the audience stared in silence, barely daring to breathe. As I stood up to get a better view, my sandals squeaked on the stairs, and the sound resonated like a gunshot throughout the room. I froze in position until he had completed the painting, some five minutes later. His assistant brandished the finished calligraphy with arms outstretched, while the Roshi described the significance of the characters and stamps. We poised on the edge of our seats for another hour and a half as he completed ten pieces in total, which he intends to give to one of the 3500 people who have made requests for his work in Japan.

That evening, I joined about 70 other students in the Pendleton Dance Center, blanket in hand, to participate in the Zen meditation. Judging by the description of daily activities in the monastery, I knew that I was in for a long evening of sitting. I was quite certain that with my generally buzzing subconscious and short attention span, I would be incapable of emptying my mind, even for the short 15 minute time period deemed appropriate for American practice.

While my companions settled into the lotus position and assumed the appropriate half-lidded blank gaze, I peered around the room with curiosity. The Roshi was ringing a sharp bell and clapping together wooden sticks as the meditation began. He then proceeded to slowly shuffle around the room and correct some of the students' postures. I must admit that I intentionally posed my hands into the wrong shape so that he would kneel before me and show me the right way. After all, how many times in my life would I get to be instructed by a true Zen Master? Perhaps this would be the key to my personal enlightenment.

By the time he had made his way to the row behind me, our fifteen minutes were up. We took a small break for a question and answer session, as well as to thaw our limbs, which had grown decidedly tingly and nearly numb. For the second session, I decided to attempt to concentrate on counting my breaths from one to ten, over and over again, as instructed. It didn't take long for me to realize that counting numbers and thinking thoughts were not mutually exclusive activities. The curious shape of the bottoms of my toes, the sound of students guffawing just outside, the rareness of the icy breeze that circulated through the room-these things captured my attention in such a way that before I knew it, I'd counted to 78 and the meditation was nearly over.

I decided that pondering the meaning of the Roshi's teachings was a much more appropriate use of my brain than emptying it. After all, enlightenment was a lifelong quest and certainly not the product of 30 minutes of sitting. A compassionate spirit, an artistic devotion, a willingness to share oneself with the world-perhaps these were the things that were possible to attain, these were the things for which I should strive. And if all else failed, I'd still know that my attachment to ice cream wasn't so bad after all.