"Before I had studied Zen for thirty years, I saw mountains as mountains, and waters as waters. When I arrived at a more intimate knowledge, I came to the point where I saw that mountains are not mountains, and waters are not waters. But now that I have got its very substance I am at rest. For it's just that I see mountains once again as mountains, and waters once again as waters." (Qingyuan Xingsi)[1]
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Earlier this year, I went to Mount Fuji. Mt. Fuji, or Fuji-san (富士山) - as they call it here in Japan, is possibly the most famous Japanese symbol. It is a 3776 meters high volcano in the border between Shizuoka and Yamanashi prefectures. Every year its ways are opened for whoever wants to climb it - and there are lots of people that do want to. A popular saying here in Japan suggests that anybody would be a fool not to climb Fuji-san once - and a fool to do it twice.
Fuji-san has 10 stations throughout the climbways, and we started climbing from the 5th. We arrived at 10 in the night, and planned to reach the top at 4:30, which was a very close estimate. When we approach Fuji-san by night, we have no idea of what is waiting for us, and this is very good - otherwise we wouldn't be motivated enough to go up. It was all a deep darkness, except for the flashlights of the climbers. In fact, we only found the way by following the huge line of small lights, that resembled a bunch of fireflies. (Actually, I remembered some scenes from my favorite Japanese anime, in which endless lines of people go walking slowly through a desert valley to a big hole where they jump to the world of Death. [2])
There is no noise up in Fuji-san. No animal sounds, no rivers, no trees: nothing. There is only the distant station lights, and one would often hear the noise of other climbers dragging their way up the rocky ways. Even though everyone go up in groups, the feeling of loneliness in unavoidable. In the mountains, in the silence and darkness of the night, the echoes of one's mind become considerably loud.
By the start of the journey, the weather was quite fine: it was a typical summer day when we left Tokyo - hot and humid 35+ degrees -, and Fuji-san was at a delightful 23 ºC that night. However, as we went up and deeper into the night, the temperature fell way below 10 ºC, and a persistent rain washed us all somewhere in the middle of the way. At some point between the 8th and 9th stations, already 3100 meters up, I just found myself alone, sitting on a rock, all wet and shivering. Looking up, the warm lights of station 9; looking down, a big line of small flashlights. Apart from that, it was all a vast darkness with a bunch of stars shining above my head and some blurred city lights in a distant horizon, under the clouds.
I don't know how much time I spent there gazing at the stars and looking into the darkness, but that very same time I understood why great sages would go to the mountains to meditate and pray. Buddha went into the mountains when he left his palace to pursue truth; Jesus would refuge into mountains to talk to God [3], and so did Moses [4] back in the Old Testament. In fact, the first ascent of Fuji-san is believed to have been performed by a monk, in 663 d.C.
In the mountains, one is totally helpless. If you slip, take one single miscalculated step, you die. If you do not use all of your concentration and be not fully present and fully attentive at every step, this might mean the end of the line - specially at night. In some parts of the route we had to literally climb, using both feet and hands. One inattentive movement, and one's life and everyone else's is endangered. So, attention is something very important.
I cannot precisely explain why, but there is a kind of sacred feeling in Fuji-san: everyone would speak in a low voice and have mindful attitudes when climbing. I would say that it is almost like a religious experience - you see life and death right in front of your nose, and you are the only responsible for holding the thin line that separates them both.
Master Dogen [5] dedicated a whole text on mountains and water, named Mountains and Waters Sutra (山水経) [6]. In it, Dogen talks about the various different faces of mountains and waters. One of his main instruction is: examine in detail the characteristics of the mountains's walking. No, I did not make a typo. He actually instructs us to examine the mountains's walking.
How can we see the mountains's walking? Mountains and waters were common sights for monks at that time, so talking about mountains and waters was a very efficient way of teaching them the reality of our world. For instance, in this text Dogen approaches the concept of erosion and the water cycle - way ahead in time. The mountains do walk: they are slowly decomposed by wind and its particles reach everywhere, and become new mountains. That is how a rock can give birth to a baby rock!
How can we see the mountains's walking? Mountains and waters were common sights for monks at that time, so talking about mountains and waters was a very efficient way of teaching them the reality of our world. For instance, in this text Dogen approaches the concept of erosion and the water cycle - way ahead in time. The mountains do walk: they are slowly decomposed by wind and its particles reach everywhere, and become new mountains. That is how a rock can give birth to a baby rock!
As master Qingyuan mentioned, when we start studying Zen (not only Zen, but Nature itself: Chemistry, Biology, Physics etc.), we reach a point were things are not what they were before. I remember clearly when I started studying Chemistry, I would see a glass of milk with sugar not as a glass of milk with sugar, but rather as a milky solution of glucose. I am pretty much sure botanists don't see flowers the same way as we do, nor do physicists gaze at stars with the same naivety as mere human beings do. But, then again, when you drink that glass of milk and sugar, it is nothing but milk and sugar. Just as it is.
When we were at Fujisan, shivering and sleepy cursing our stupid idea of climbing that bunch of rocks, my friend told me: "Yeah, I used to think Fujisan was beautiful when I saw its pictures! But now I am pretty much sure I won't ever think it's beautiful again!"
When we experience things directly, all our concepts go to the ground. There is no beauty, no grandiosity, nothing good in Fujisan when we are there. There is only cold, back-ache, a huge pain in the legs and feet, and regret. Nowadays, as I talk about Fujisan, I see it as I did before: a huge, beautiful, imposing mountain - but I know how it is in reality. That's why I admire it much more than before.
I'll end with the closing paragraphs of Dogen's text:
"There are mountains hidden in treasures. There are mountains hidden in swamps. There are mountains hidden in the sky. There are mountains hidden in mountains. There are mountains hidden in hiddenness. This is how we study.
An ancient Buddha said, "Mountains are mountains, waters are waters." These words do not mean mountains are mountains; they mean mountains are mountains.
In this way, investigate mountains thoroughly. When you investigate mountains thoroughly, this becomes the endeavor within the mountains.
Such mountains and waters of themselves become wise persons and sages."
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| The sunrise at Fujisan! In Japanese, 御来光 (goraiko): "honorable come of light". It is so cold there, that all you want to do is stand still under the Sun, feeling his warm embrace before going all the way down. |
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Notes and References:
[1] Qingyuan [青原, Jp. Seigen] (660-740) was a Chinese monk, one of the Dharma successors of Huineng and, thus, the 7th patriarch in Zen lineage from Bodhidharma (and 34th from Shakyamuni Buddha). From his lineage, three of the major five Zen schools aroused: Caodong (曹洞, jp: Soto), Yunmen (雲門, jp: Unmon) and Fayan (法眼, jp: Hougen). From: Shi Daoyuan, "Transmission of the Lamp", ca. 1004 d.C. In: Watts, A. The Way of Zen. Vintage: New York, 1989. p.126.
[2] In Saint Seiya, the limbus is described as a place where dead souls wander until they find these abysses where they fall to the eternal death. See this video for an excerpt.
[3] For instance, in gospel of Luke, Ch. 22, verse 39, Jesus is depicted in the Mt. of Olives spending a night in prayers before his capture and crucifixion.
[4] According to the Book of Exodus (chapter 24), God told Moses to go up Mt. Sinai so as to give him some new instructions He had prepared to lead His people (the Ten Commandments).
[5] Eihei Dogen (永平道元) (1200-1253) was a Japanese monk, the first monk of the Caodong (Soto, in Japanese) Zen school to bring its teachings to Japan. He is the 24th patriarch on the lineage of Bodhidharma (and 51st since Shakyamuni Buddha). Dogen is regarded as one of the most renowned Japanese philosophers, and wrote an extensive treaty on Buddhism called "Treasury of the True Dharma Eye" (正法眼蔵, Shobogenzo), a huge compilation of 95 chapters expressing the fundamentals of Buddhism through the interpretation of Caodong school.
[6] Written in 1240 and presented to a bunch of monks in a monastery in Uji city, Kyoto. Interesting though, Uji city is famous for it's beautiful Uji river; and the former name of Kyoto was Yamashiro (Castle Mountain). In this site, you can find the official pdf version of Nishijima-sensei's translation of Dogen masterpiece, the Shobogenzo. The text I mention is in chapter 14, within Volume 1.
