I walk to the interview with a bit of fear; approaching an understanding of Zen is
daunting. Associated with the word are images of solitary meditation on snowy peaks, or
monks sitting sedately in faraway stone monasteries surrounded by their rustling
vermilion robes. These images are distant--remote and almost mythical--and certainly not
easily connected with the brick walkways and ivy-covered walls of the College. While
many students find what little they hear of Zen interesting--"Being one with the world"
and other fairly mainstream concepts--seldom do people our age, or any age, dedicate
serious time and effort to come to understand Zen as fully as they would another activity;
they are limited by the perception that it is something that one has to "do" while sitting in
the lotus position at four in the morning on a misty mountain-top in Tibet.
Sitting comfortably in a well-worn leather chair in his room at Psi U, with images of
the Buddha and Change of Pace posters covering the walls, Damon explains that "Zen is
the everyday," and can therefore be practiced anywhere, by anyone--all of the time. While
Zen is often perceived as an institutionalized set of dogmas, he stresses that "it is not
essentially a philosophy, an intellectual state, or a metaphysic. It is not even a religion in
the sense one usually uses 'religion.' There is no God in Zen, not even something which
takes the place of God." Without a deity as a focus or authority,Zen becomes "at once a
pursuit and a way of being. It is the world in its suchness." Zen is a life-long process, a way
of life and of living, restricted to no particular physical place or time.
These concepts are not easily grasped, due in part to the plethora of words that seem
familiar, but are used in unfamiliar ways. I wrinkle my brow in consternation while
Damon describes the idea of the "world in its suchness" as "the acute awareness of the
everyday," equating it with the Zen notion of the "'everyday mind' or heijo shin,
which manifests the principle of emptiness or sunyata." As I sit and ponder these
ideas, trying to conceive of them in a context with which I am familiar, I realize that I will
have to learn a whole new language, a Zen jargon, in order to more readily understand.
What is this "acute awareness"? What is "everyday mind"? And what is "emptiness"?
With the look of a man who has been asked to explain the meaning of life in three
lines or less, Damon begins: "In Zen, the whole universe is empty. Not in the sense of
nothing, not empty of content...Zen does not assent to a vacuum. It means empty of our
judgments about the world, so that the world is simply itself, completely...To view the
world from the standpoint of emptiness is to see the world in absolute fullness. At this
point we are not separate from the world--we become the universe itself." Empty of
judgments--of presuppositions--the idea begins to take form in my mind. This is pure
objectivity, seeing the world not through our judgmental eyes, but through eyes that
belong to the universe. Eyes that take in everything at once, equally. "The everyday mind,
then, is the empty mind...the mind which does not discriminate the self from the
world."
But is this self, my self that sits here listening to these ideas, getting in the way? I ask
Damon to provide an analogy, one which will relate to my world, not a world of theory
and of words, but a world of cars passing by outside, a light rain glittering the windows'
orange glow. He answers: "You know how you can be engrossed in thought, or
engrossed in a painting, or engrossed in music? You hear the music, see the painting, or
think the thought, and these activities and their objects are the same...you are engrossed,
and you do not think of yourself. It presents itself to you directly. You become literally
the thing you are experiencing." Yes! I understand this! I sit and listen to Ravel and I
cannot feel my body anymore...and I have seen people around me lost in thought, or in a
book--so lost that you have to knock them over to get their attention. They have literally
"left" their bodies, they are actually "lost" for that moment. Some educators refer to these
times as "flow," those precious moments when a child is wrapped up in an activity and
oblivious to the world around him or her. These moments quickly vanish the minute that
you become conscious of yourself--your self. As I fairly jump up and down on his throw
rug in glee, finally understanding, Damon calmly summarizes: "It is a process of self-
forgetting through which the fullness of the universe is manifested in one's life."
Ahhhhhh.
Much to my amazement, I learn that the enlightened practitioners of Zen--those who
have attained a selfless understanding of Zen--live in a constant state of this self-forgetting
bliss. But how do they get there? Damon brings the idea of enlightenment down from the
remote monastery and into our lives by explaining that, "while Zen encourages
zazen to develop this mindset--sitting in the lotus position in which the Buddha is
depicted sitting on a lotus flower--it realizes that you already have this experience, simply
because you are already in this world, because you are already in a situation where things
are presenting themselves to you. You simply do not realize it." Anything we do,
therefore, becomes an aspect of a meditation process that can eventually culminate in
enlightenment. Damon provides the most familiar examples of the tea ceremony, flower
arranging, and calligraphy, but he also mentions "walking, breathing, talking"...and the
martial arts.
Karate, specifically Shotokan Karate, is Damon's chosen method of seeking the Zen
way of life. Developed in 1922 by Gichin Funakoshi, Shotokan Karate is a martial art that
stresses self-defense through a practice of three basic areas: kata, kihon,
and kumite. An understanding of these three basic areas is critical to understand
how Karate, or "empty hand," leads to an empty mind.
"Kata," Damon explains, "is the oldest form of Karate instruction. It is a series
of prearranged movements against imaginary opponents. It is not a dance, but you could
say that the moves are set and choreographed as in a dance...Designed for self-training,
the idea of kata is to develop a peaceful mind." There are about twenty
kata still practiced in Shotokan Karate, but Damon stresses in particular the first,
Heian Shodan, which is named after a peaceful time in Japanese history:
"Heian Shodan means 'Peaceful mind, first step,' and though there are more
advanced kata, if you master this kata you master the fundamental
dynamics of movement which can be applied to any other kata." You repeat this
basic kata throughout a lifetime, and just as the movements become automatic
and do not require thought, so will the peaceful mind become automatic. Damon explains
this notion in a simple phrase: "Disciplined practice leads to selfless action." These
kata, which become so internalized as to become automatic, develop into
individual works of art as each person adds his or her own personal element. Damon uses
the analogy of "a musician playing a composed piece. Everyone playing that particular
piece of music will be playing the same notes, but each musician will add his or her own
personal touch, personal flavor. Just as the musician at some point goes beyond the
techniques and thinks only of the music as a whole, so is there always a certain individual
aspect of kata that goes beyond the techniques." kihon and
kumite, basic techniques and sparring, fall under similar contexts of the
kata. Kihon stresses individual techniques, whereas kumite allows
the individual to test the effectiveness of his or her techniques on a partner, attempting to
recreate an actual confrontation.
Still, I am troubled as I try to reconcile the violence of Karate with the compassion of
Zen. I ask Damon to resolve what I consider a blatant contradiction. This insight sheds an
entirely new light on the issue: "The martial arts are not violent. Their practical aspect is
self-defense...there is a saying, 'No first attack in Karate.' One does not have to argue that
violence is essentially offensive. Karate literally means 'empty hand.' This signifies that
there are no weapons in Karate, but 'empty' also means empty of aggression, of
pretension--an empty mind. In a dire situation, when one is forced to choose between life
and death, the choice must be immediate, selfless. That doesn't mean one must choose to
die, either. To choose life over death is not self-attachment, as long as the choice is made
immediately, with one's entire being. It cannot involve a conscious choice. Self-
preservation becomes a self-less activity. So, the paradox is resolved. To be attached to
some 'notion' of compassion which precludes an action is itself delusion. From the
standpoint of emptiness, any action manifests compassion. Critics think that there should
be some sort of passive resistance--that if someone is attacking me, I have to have
compassion for that person. To defend myself, to inflict harm on that person, would not
exemplify compassion, according to these critics. They stress the concept of 'no-self.' But
this is an incorrect understanding of compassion in Zen. Through rigorous training, you
simply act. At the same time, to decide to be passive and let this person harm me because
of certain reasons, certain dogmas...that is attachment [to the self]." Damon provides an
example which shows how the "attacker" may not even be personified: "Of course, one
should keep in mind that one is in a world where one could be attacked at any moment.
In the modern world, however, the most powerful attack on our well-being comes from
stress; although we may be attacked by a mugger on the street, we will surely be
inundated with responsibilities and deadlines...Balance, breathing, everyday mind: these
are applied in the dojo [training hall] and applied in daily life."
Throughout Karate training, the spirit should be cultivated, as expressed in the
"energizing utterances" called kiai. Thanks to decades of bad martial arts movies,
this kiai is widely misunderstood and misrepresented in the mainstream; any
child or adult who imitates a karate "chop" will invariably make some type of cry or noise
that attempts to duplicate the kiai of the great masters. This is no simple, dramatic
flair, however: the kiai represents "the harmonization of the life force," and can be
in itself a form of self defense. In a legend of the renowned Matsumura, for example, the
samurai defeats an opponent without even laying a hand on him--the energy released by
his loud kiai throws his opponent to the ground. Damon describes this energy, or
ki, as "a material energy that runs through the material world and is the essence
of animation. The essence of physical existence...ki is the essence of inspiration. It
is everywhere, present with you all the time...it is what drives you. Some people call it
ki... others call it the 'Holy Spirit.'" Another legend serves to illustrate the
importance of spirit as described in the saying "Strength versus technique, strength will
always win. Technique versus spirit, spirit will always win." In ancient Japan," Damon
explains, "samurai tested their swords on human bodies. There was one instance where a
prisoner was given a choice: he was condemned to die the next day, or he could have a
chance to live by fighting a great samurai who wished to test his sword. So the prisoner,
knowing he had nothing to lose, decided to fight. After it was over, the samurai said 'I'll
never do that again. That is the closest I have ever come to dying. I've never faced a
stronger opponent. His spirit was overwhelming.' The technique of the samurai was
incredible, but the spirit of the prisoner was also very strong. He had nothing to lose, so
he threw his entire self, his entire being, into the battle. The ki of this prisoner
almost overwhelmed the seasoned samurai." The prisoner realized that for him, as well as
for everyone, the knowledge that death is imminent should be synonymous with the
knowledge that we have nothing to lose. As Damon clarifies, "Our situations do not have
to be as dire as the prisoner's...but just as death was imminent for the prisoner, so it is for
us. We must constantly be aware of our death. We do not have anything to lose...we must
throw ourselves into our activities with this understanding." We must lose the self that
prevents us from fully reveling in life--the self consciousness--and enjoy our friends, enjoy
reading, enjoy running, enjoy freezing mornings--enjoy being. As Damon concludes,
"Every activity should be seen as a manifestation of our living experience, something that
we should revel in."
As I sit listening to Damon describe these complex, technical ideas, I try to combine
the image of this college student--a fraternity brother and bass guitar player, surrounded
by a comfortable disarray of books, photos, and a pizza box--with the image of the
intense leader whom I see at weekly training. And oddly enough, the two blend: the
intensity of his thought emerges during his kata, while the force of his
movements strengthen his words. Perhaps nowhere does Damon embody both images
more than while expressing the importance of "the moment"--the concentration and
enjoyment of every moment: "What we have the tendency to do in the modern world is
to concentrate on the deadline, the goal. The adage 'Life is what happens when you're
waiting for something else to come along,' is true. What we are doing at this moment is
living. We can try and qualify it, measure it, and say 'this moment is not good enough for
me' or whatever...whether it's good or bad, in either case we are living the moment. This
is the world, this is existence, this is our situation. Zen and the martial arts want you to
come to this realization: every activity is as significant as the next."
The "moment" at first seemed a limiting concept to me--one that restricted me to my
present state with no hope for change. Damon elucidates further: "The moment is infinite.
You may think, 'I'm in this room and it is the limit of my moment, of my
experience...there are other people out there, outside there are other things going on in
the world separate from my moment' But remember: your experience is the experience
of the universe itself. There is an infinite interconnectedness between all beings at this
moment...I believe this, and yet I find myself often losing sight of it. But it is something
that Karate has helped me come into contact with. I can't say that I don't stress about
exams or papers, or whatever...but what I take into consideration is that, no matter how
we do on that exam, though we try to do our best, the significance of the moment
transcends any particular outcome. As transient as a present experience may seem, as
much as it may be a step to some other goal in the future, it is a real moment. The
relationships we develop here at school are relationships between human beings. True,
real relationships...This is life. We need to take it seriously. This is why I value Karate.
When I train, it washes my mind of my expectations and demands and makes me
concentrate on the present moment. I believe that we are all on a pilgrimage to find the
present moment. And I have just begun my journey."
The room vibrates as I look around, everything with a new intensity as if I were
seeing it all for the first time. There is deep relevance in this way of living...it is liberating
and yet empowering. To think that I have a meaning, along with everyone, everything
else in the scope of the universe is astounding, and I cannot say that I fully believe this yet.
I, too, practice Karate--not as often as I should, or with the same focus as Damon--but I
try to maintain my "beginner's mind," a concept he describes as "an intense experiential
appreciation for what one is doing, not merely an intellectual, technical one." I find myself
frustrated with my clumsy movements and awkward postures, and yet I still revel in my
training, just as Damon revels in music. I have spent most of my life playing the violin,
and have a foundation in music that he lacks, and yet, as he explains, "when I listen to jazz,
though I don't know as much as a person with formal training, I don't think anyone can
say that that person has a greater appreciation for jazz than I do...if that jazz piece strikes
or affects me in a certain way, I am going to have an incredible sense of awe that will
make the whole scene all the more full." We must attempt to retain...or reclaim...our
beginner's minds in every activity.
As I walk home from the interview, the words and concepts make a mad swirl of my
thoughts. I try vainly to begin to plan how I will possibly manage to write an article that
covers everything Damon said. I stare at my feet as I trudge home...and suddenly stop.
What am I doing?! I take a deep breath and look up...the moon is surrounded by an
enormous halo...damp leaves glisten...and I am...