The Hidden School

by Dan Millman

  My food arrived. I set the newspaper aside. I would finish the article, I decided, on the ride to Aokigahara Jukai.

  The next morning I found an English-speaking ticket agent who gave me a schedule and detailed directions. I caught a bus to the northwest side of the Fuji foothills. Then I walked several miles. The article had described how tourists also visited the forest where the bones of long-dead people could be found near more recently deceased bodies. Many of the corpses stayed well hidden, and families seeking the bodies of loved ones might not find them for months, if they found them at all.

  When I finally arrived, I entered a thick cover of trees. The air had an odd odor and what I can only describe as a strange energy. I moved deeper into what I already thought of as an underworld, said to be populated by the restless ghosts, demons, and angry spirits associated with those who’d died there. I felt strangely at home.

  As I walked farther into the dense woods, the air grew thick, muffled by a blanket of silence. Apparently, birds and other animals avoided the area due to the presence of radon gas, leaving an uncanny, windless stillness. I had found Taishan Forest strange at first, but this place seemed darker, even otherworldly. This time I knew that I couldn’t rely on my compass due to the high concentration of volcanic rock and magnetic ore.

  I wandered along a marked path, looking for one of the rocky ice caverns or wind tunnels. At the forest’s entrance, I’d seen signs posted in multiple languages warning hikers not to leave the trail without twine or tape—“If you don’t mark your way back, you could easily be lost!”—and I recalled the diver in the underwater cavern and my own near-death escape at Mountain Springs Summit. Why tempt the fates? I thought. I’ve pushed my luck far enough for one man. I’d purchased a roll of twine before entering.

  An hour into the forest, I spotted some scattered bones. Human? It was difficult to tell. Since sunlight couldn’t break through the dense foliage, there were no distinct shadows. At first I thought that someone was following me, until I recognized the sound I heard as my own footsteps echoing in the dead air. Even with the arrival of late afternoon, the heat and humidity remained oppressive. Several times I ventured off, then followed the twine back to its source and moved off in a different direction.

  Other visitors had reported finding decomposing bodies—green and yellow, bloated, covered in mushrooms and other growth, as the corpses fused with nature’s organic matter. I found this idea of bodies returning to the earth comforting, and thought again of my friend Chun Han.

  Just as I’d started to reel in the twine one last time to return to the trail, I lunged to avoid tripping over a corpse. It appeared to be in the early stages of decomposition, still recognizable as a woman. It gave off a strong odor, sweet and nauseating. I started to look away, to respect its privacy, but something caught my eye. Under the woman’s arm I could see the corner of what appeared to be an envelope wrapped in plastic.

  Brushing moss off the plastic, I could make out words written in a calligraphic style. Having seen it recently on many signs, I recognized the ideogram for “Kyoto.” An address? I pocketed the envelope, then headed back to reach the bus stop before dusk, thinking, I’ll never again be able to visit Chun Han’s grave, but maybe I can do a service for this woman.

  When I reached the hotel that night, I stopped at the front desk, pointed to the envelope, and asked what it said. The man at the desk translated: “Please deliver to Kanzaki Roshi, Sanzenji Zen Temple, Nakazashi-ku, Kyoto-shi, Kyoto-fu.”

  That I could do. I could grant the last wish of this nameless woman.

  THIRTY-TWO

  * * *

  After another bus ride and a long walk up a steep grade, I observed the artfully landscaped grounds of the Sanzenji Temple and the backdrop of green mountains in the distance. Smaller than other temples, without any of the tour buses I’d seen parked elsewhere, this temple expressed simplicity, elegance, and solitude—what the Zen monks call wabi-sabi. I approached an attendant. “Kanzaki Roshi?” I showed the letter but held it in such a way as to make it clear that I wouldn’t relinquish it. Not yet. The attendant gestured to the garden. Ah, it’s going to be a while.

  After the attendant moved away, I explored the garden. Glancing back toward the buildings, I noted the temple’s resemblance to a villa. Perhaps it had once been a residence. Deep-purple Japanese maples added contrast to the verdant greenery of moss and pine trees, which had been trimmed to form shapes that radiated serenity and balance.

  I knelt by a small pond and watched koi fish glide through clear water. In moments like these, life felt like—what were Mei Bao’s words?—“a wonderful dream.” Could I be imagining all of this? From a certain vantage point, my life seemed to unfold in one visionary experience after another, dreams interspersed with the occasional nightmare, my waking life a suspension between fantastic scenes.

  I felt a light touch on one shoulder and turned to see an older man in a monk’s robe smiling gently down at me. I rose to my feet and bowed. He spoke in heavily accented English: “I am Kanzaki Roshi. I understand you have a letter for me?”

  I introduced myself and, in the Japanese custom, handed him the letter with both hands, then bowed. He took the letter in a similar manner, then opened it. I saw, through the paper, that it was a short letter, one that couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds to read. But the roshi gazed at the words for more than a minute.

  When he looked at me again, I saw that his eyes were moist. “Would you join me for tea?”

  “I’d be honored.”

  A few minutes later, we each knelt at a low table as a kimono-clad woman appeared with the elements of matcha, the pungent green tea. She poured steaming water onto the green powder and mixed it rapidly with a whisk. Before taking a sip, I copied the roshi’s movements as best I could, turning and admiring the cup, a ritual characteristic of the mindful approach of Zen, bred of long meditation practice.

  When we’d finished, the roshi asked me how I came to possess the letter and what had led me to deliver it. I explained as simply as I could. When I finished, he bowed again. “Thank you for going to the trouble.”

  “It was no trouble at all,” I said. I wanted to know more, but I didn’t want to offend him by asking.

  Sensing my question, he said, “Her name was Aka Tohiroshina. She worked part-time here as an attendant. I did my best to counsel and guide her. Not well enough, it seems.” He took out the letter and translated it for me.

  Respected Kanzaki Roshi,

  I’m sorry for taking my life. As you know, it has been a long struggle. I didn’t mail this letter in case I changed my mind. I don’t expect that it will ever reach you. If by some chance it does, please don’t attempt to retrieve my body. I don’t wish to cause more troubles. It would be a great service if you could convey my apologies to my mother, who did her best. I thank you for your guidance and care. You made my life more peaceful for a time.

  When he finished reading, we rested in silence for a time.

  It seemed as if both this young woman and the elder aikido master I’d learned of earlier had succumbed to the demon of depression. I recalled an acquaintance in the San Francisco Bay Area also afflicted with depression, who had, on impulse, leapt from the Golden Gate Bridge, only to become one of the rare few who survived. The fall broke his pelvis and both legs and caused other internal injuries. Several years later, after he’d completely recovered, he revealed that a moment after he committed himself to the air, as he plummeted down for those long seconds, weightless, in a numb and disoriented state of suspension, he changed his mind: he wanted to live. How many others had also changed their minds on the way down?

  Kanzaki Roshi invited me to walk in the garden with him.

  He asked about my presence in Japan, and I explained my interest in practices such as Zen and the martial arts. “I’ve read enough to understand that the heart of Zen is zazen meditation and koan practice leading to direct insight. And I’ve done a little practice,” I told him.
He waited for me to continue, so I added, with a smile, “I know too much; I’ve realized too little.”

  The roshi seemed so receptive that I found myself sharing my deepest thoughts and concerns: “I’ve done much introspection,” I said, “yet my life feels like an unsolved koan. I’ve been fortunate to have studied with a master whom I call Socrates, after the Greek sage. But I remain restless. . . .” Now I was babbling again. After a pause, I chose my words more carefully, “I hope to gain insight to complement my beginner’s understanding.”

  As we walked, I noticed how the red-and-green maple trees leaned gracefully over the pond and the path of stepping stones surrounded by freshly raked gravel. As nearby gardeners in their two-toed shoes raked the path and trimmed the foliage, the roshi said, “Japanese gardeners do not create beauty but merely honor it and cultivate it. Like a wood sculptor who cuts away anything that isn’t needed for the final shape, landscape artists remove the extraneous—in the trees and in themselves.”

  Kanzaki Roshi gestured again toward the moss-covered stones, roots, and water. Pointing to one of the trees, he said, “To the Japanese people, plum is the brave heart, the first tree to blossom after winter’s chill.” He directed my attention to a small green grove to our right. “Bamboo, with its uprightness, represents honesty.” As we walked past the carefully raked area—a sea of sand that held small stone islands and, atop them, small pines pruned in the bonsai style—he added, “We draw inspiration from the pine tree because, steadfast in all seasons, unchanging in shape or color, it evokes strength and constancy.”

  I told him, “Near the entrance I noticed the branches of a pine tree decorated with many small pieces of white paper, hanging like tiny fruit, with writing on them.”

  “Prayer messages,” he said. “A Shinto tradition.”

  “But isn’t this a Buddhist temple?”

  He smiled and shrugged. “Shinto is interwoven into the roots of the earth and of Japanese life. One Shinto belief says that oni, bad spirits, gather where dust and dirt accumulate. That’s why, for so many Japanese, cleanliness is, as you say, next to godliness. The Shinto religion has ten thousand gods—another way to say that Spirit is everywhere. But students of Zen avoid such abstract ideas, preferring the immediacy of each moment.”

  “It seems that both Shinto and Zen are so interwoven into Japanese culture that it’s difficult for an outsider like me to separate them.”

  “They do blend somewhat,” he said, intertwining the fingers of his two hands. “Yet they are distinct. Shinto, or Way of the Gods, is Japan’s indigenous religion and dates back to ancient history. It draws on beliefs in kami, or spirit deities of nature, and involves purification rites to atone for wrong deeds and find spiritual balance. Most Japanese practice or honor Shinto in their own way. Zen came more recently to Japan, evolving from the Chinese Buddhism known as Chan, based on the Buddha’s Four Noble Truths and Eightfold Path to attain enlightenment and transcend the cycles of life and death and rebirth and suffering. While Buddhism emphasizes study of the sutras and rituals, Zen, as you understand, has a direct approach to enlightenment through the practice of zazen and koan work with an experienced teacher to gain insight that may lead to gradual or to sudden enlightenment. While Shinto is traditional and communal, Zen has a simple, individual focus, dependent on the practitioner’s own sincere effort and practice.

  “In the words of Master Takeda Shingen: ‘Zen has no secrets other than seriously thinking about birth-and-death.’ ”

  After my recent experiences, these words struck at the heart of my search.

  Perhaps seeing my expression, Kanzaki Roshi smiled and said good-naturedly, “There, Professor Dan, I have used up my allotment of words for the week with this look into the heart of the garden and of Japanese life. Perhaps your own meditation and koan practice can help you to appreciate such concepts directly, beyond the intellect.”

  I nodded, recalling the young woman’s letter that had brought me here. “Recent circumstances have led me to contemplate death more intently. It’s been a koanlike preoccupation, which took me to Aokigahara Forest and to your student.”

  “Soon,” he said, “I will perform a ritual that honors her among those who knew her. She has given us another reminder of impermanence, of how all of us pass through life as in a dream.” I felt a chill of recognition as his words captured my present state. When will I awaken? I thought.

  Abruptly, Kanzaki Roshi turned to me, looked into my eyes, and asked: “What truly brought you to Japan?” His directness surprised me.

  I searched for the right words, but none came. So I removed my knapsack and brought out the small samurai, handing it to him with both hands, my head bowed. He accepted it in similar fashion and spoke directly to the statuette: “So desu!” he said, a note of intensity in his voice—and something like amazement.

  “Sometimes such things happen,” he murmured to himself. Then to me: “It seems that you have served another purpose in coming here.”

  “What purpose?” I asked, curious.

  He smiled again, this time the way a child might in anticipation of a surprise. Handing me back the samurai statuette, he said, “I cannot answer you in words. There is another temple, a retreat site. A place so little known, it has no name. With your permission, I’ll take you there myself, without delay.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  * * *

  After a short drive, our car dropped us off at the end of a cul-de-sac. I could see some small homes farther down, but the road ended here, and a thick forest of bamboo began. I followed the roshi as he made his way carefully through the bamboo.

  Once inside, I found a narrow dirt trail that cut left, then right, before opening onto a wider path paved with stones and gravel. Kanzaki Roshi’s robe flapped as he again disappeared at a sharp turn. A few minutes later, I found him waiting for me in a clearing. On the other side of the clearing, near another wall of bamboo, stood what might have been a traditional home, its thick thatch roof steeply pitched, made of what the roshi described as rice straw and cedar bark.

  The bamboo fence had an entrance, a low gate made of wooden dowels and woven reeds, which swung upward, forcing would-be entrants to first bend their knees and bow in order to raise the gate, an act of humility, much like the traditional bow of martial arts practitioners as they enter or leave a dojo. Kanzaki Roshi moved with grace through the gate and propped it open using a small pole. I followed, also bowing low. He removed the pole, and the gate swung shut behind us. As we approached the house, I saw that its floor was raised slightly off the ground, protection during the rainy season.

  We removed our shoes on the small veranda and entered. In the center of the room, a low table squatted over a small fire pit, which would serve both cooking and heating purposes. Older but immaculate tatami mats covered the floor. A single window let in a soft light. The walls were made of rice paper panels.

  We passed quickly through this room. Kanzaki Roshi slid open a panel leading to a covered walkway with a view of another pristine garden, smaller than the temple’s. Along the length of the walkway, closed panels led to other rooms, which, once opened, would look directly out into the garden. Now the roshi slipped his feet into sandals and bid me do the same. Radiating the same childlike enthusiasm he’d shown before, he led me to a far corner of the garden and onward along a winding path of irregular stones, ending at a waist-high boulder, its top flattened.

  On the boulder’s surface stood two small samurai statuettes nearly identical to mine in age and appearance, facing away from each other at an angle. Each warrior stood in a different posture: The first, the roshi explained, stood in the classic water stance, with the sword held in front of the body, hands and hilt near the waist, sword tip pointing upward toward an invisible adversary’s throat. The second warrior stood in the fire stance, with the sword held high, the hands over the forehead, and the sword tip pointing back and up, ready to strike downward in an instant. Both classic fighting postures.

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nbsp; The roshi pointed to a slightly discolored oval where a third statue must have stood. He turned to me and waited. I drew out my own samurai and set it in the third place, turning it one way, then another. Only when I turned its back to the other two did it fit perfectly into the slight hollow of the boulder. Now the three samurai stood in a triangle, each facing out, alert, each guarding the others’ backs. I’d considered my little samurai’s posture many times without any idea of what it meant. Unlike the other two swordsmen, his blade remained in its scabbard (or saya), his hand on the hilt—not a fighting posture, but ready—a peaceful warrior.

  For a few moments, I may have stopped breathing. How can this be? I wondered. Memories unspooled in my mind: finding the little samurai many months before in an underwater cave; carrying it with me through the desert; letting it point me onward to the city of Hong Kong, then to Taishan Forest and the school, and finally here. The little samurai had found his way home. I had no answer, but there was a rightness to it.

  The triad was now complete—and so, it seemed, was my journey. What had begun as a mystery ended in one. For a few more moments, I gazed in at this mysterious reunion. Then, with a bow to the three samurai, I let it go, and the revelation passed like a sunburst or a rain shower. I think Socrates would have been pleased.

  * * *

  As the roshi and I walked away, words from the journal came to mind: “memory, what you call the past, and imagination, what you call the future. . . .”

  As we removed our garden shoes on reaching the walkway, Kanzaki Roshi moved ahead and slid open a panel to one of the rooms facing the garden. “Before you go, perhaps you might find some benefit in sitting zazen for a time?”