Dear Bruce (and other shakuhachi readers),
Greetings and thanks so much for your review of Ray Brooks' Blowing Zen. I
too was excited to see this book, and wrote a review that was published in
January's Shambhala Sun magazine. I may have already sent this review out to
the shakuhachi news-group, I forget. I'm sending it along in case you
haven't seen it.
Blessings,
Robert Jonas
Book Review
Brooks, Ray. Blowing Zen: Finding an Authentic Life. Tiburon, CA: HJKramer,
2000.
© Robert A. Jonas, 1999
Everyone in late-20th century America and Europe recognizes that our
inherited religious institutions have declined dramatically in influence and
energy during the last one-hundred years. In the U.S., the constitutional
separation of Church and State, a rapidly expanding capitalist-consumer
economy and an intensely individualistic, materialist culture, have combined
to almost totally marginalize religion and spirituality. Baby boomers who
were raised as Jews and Christians have gone East in droves to find some
inspiration and peace. In America, attendance at Buddhist retreats in
particular is at an all-time high. Thousands of people show up for all the
Dalai Lama’s talks. If urban book stores have a religion section at all,
Buddhist books, primarily in the Vipassana (Southeast Asian Insight) Japanese
Zen and Tibetan Buddhist traditions, often outnumber Christian books 4 to 1.
However, some Buddhist traditions have not yet made it through the
East-West cultural barrier. For example, in Japan, more people follow the
devotional path of Pure Land Buddhism than practice zazen meditation, and yet
we in the West hear nothing about the Pure Land. Until now we’ve also not
heard of another curious and powerful path to Buddhist enlightenment, an
obscure Japanese spirituality called sui-zen, or "blowing zen". Fortunately,
a sui-zen practitioner who also happens to be a good writer has stepped
forward to offer the general reader a first-hand account of this strangely
attractive tradition.
Ray Brooks’ new book, Blowing Zen: Finding an Authentic Life. (Tiburon,
CA: HJKramer, 2000) is a gem. It’s a memoir of his journey from being a
denizen of the London nightclub scene to his new-found spiritual life as a
first-rate student of the best sui-zen teachers in the world.
From Brooks we learn that the "blowing" aspect of blowing zen refers to an
end-blown bamboo flute called the shakuhachi. An early version of this
five-holed flute is said to have come to Japan from China in the 8th century.
In fact, it arrived about the same time that Zen came to Japan from India by
way of China. The shakuhachi was played by court musicians, and peasants
enjoyed it as a folk instrument. But early records show that Buddhist monks
took it up as a spiritual tool. In bringing full awareness to each breath,
each note, the monk intended and hoped to attain not only a momentary
sensation of peace, or merely an aesthetic realization, but rather a complete
transformation of mind and heart, what is called in Buddhism, liberation or
enlightenment. One hoped to achieve Itchion jo Butsu (becoming Buddha in one
sound).
For these monks, the chanting of the Buddhist sutras as a meditative
practice was replaced by the playing of the shakuhachi. Gradually, these
monks gathered themselves under the name of the Fuke school, and soon Fuke
monasteries were built. Some monks, named komusô or "monks of emptiness,"
traveled with their shakuhachis, playing the meditative music as they stood
alongside their begging bowls. Gradually, recognizable pieces of their
meditative music, called "honkyoku" (origin music), emerged and were passed
on by oral tradition from monastery to monastery, monk to monk.
Today in Japan, the shakuhachi is primarily a "secular" musical
instrument played in ensembles with stringed instruments such as the koto and
shamisen. And of course, it is still a popular instrument for the layman who
plays folk music at family gatherings and festivals. The Fuke sect of
Buddhism died out over a century ago, but fortunately, blowing zen has
survived. Not in monasteries but rather among lay practitioners (almost
entirely men) who have collected and written down hundreds of honkyoku pieces
that have ripened in various monasteries around Japan. Sadly, there aren’t
many authentic sui-zen teachers today. Since the 1960’s, only a few hundred
Westerners have studied the shakuhachi, and fewer still have been interested
in the komusô dimension of it. Ray Brooks is one of those few who knew what
he wanted and was lucky or graced enough to find and study with several
spiritual descendents of the komusô, including two of the best, Yokoyama
Katsuya and Nakamura Akikazu.
Ray’s book is a delight to read. The reader learns some history of the
shakuhachi and receives a general understanding of the difficult techniques
that contribute to its reputation as a "haunting" "dazzling" or "mysterious"
instrument. But the strength of Brooks’ book is in its stories. I always
love to hear about the adventures of "gaijin", the Westerners who make their
way in Japanese culture by teaching. Brooks’ tellings are often poignant,
always compassionate (except perhaps, understandably, in the case of the
Japanese mafioso, the Yakuza), and often tender and beautiful. The reader is
treated to one fascinating encounter after another, all told with an
extraordinary sensitivity to the sometimes grating and baffling cultural
surprises that most visitors to Japan will recognize.
Throughout Blowing Zen runs the thread of Brooks’ relationship with his new
friend, Ozawa-san, a young Japanese businessman who dabbles at zazen and
shakuhachi. In the beginning of the book, Ozawa-san introduces Brooks to the
Eastern art forms that will soon become his spiritual and ethical center of
gravity, and at the end of the book, Brooks turns to help Ozawa-san by
listening deeply and compassionately as Ozawa-san struggles through a
depression and career crisis.
Along the way we meet other appealing and intriguing characters: his
smart and incredibly supportive wife, Diane (this is one adventurous and
truly extraordinary marriage!); the Yakuza lackey he appropriately calls
"Yellow Jacket", Ozawa-san’s old, wise flute teacher, Teruhiko Ota, the
curious taxi-cab driver, Perry the Aikido student, and the skilled,
knowledgeable and sometimes opinionated flute teachers, Yamada and Sasaki
Sensei. Those who play shakuhachi must envy the demanding and yet
aesthetically joyous relationships that Brooks develops with Yokoyama Katsuya
and Akizuki Nakamura. He is a fortunate man.
As a writer, Brooks strikes me as appropriately humble and self-effacing
throughout, even when he is telling us how his teachers praise his work. He
seems to have benefited by the Buddhist discipline of training the mind to
neutralize self-oriented thoughts. This frees him to tell funny
stories—often at his own expense--that don’t gloss the genuine human
suffering that runs like a continuous river through every ordinary
experience. His comical stories about busking (playing on the street for
money), encountering Yokoyama for the first time, and keeping his head in the
midst of a kidnapping by the violent and drunken Yakuza are painted with a
gentle wash of humor in the best tradition of a particular Japanese aesthetic
called wabi-sabi, noticing the delicate beauty in messy situations.
By the end of the book you begin to appreciate how well, how deeply, Brooks
has integrated some truly beautiful Japanese sensibilities into his own life.
As a Western man, he does not seem to be plagued by the culturally
predictable self-accusation that deep feeling is a weakness. Brooks doesn’t
say it, but one suspects that the discipline of the shakuhachi has refined,
clarified and tempered his emotional life in a Zen sort of way, allowing him
to see "what is", but always in the context of compassion. Of course, with
Japanese Zen one always worries that the emotional life becomes so refined
that it evaporates altogether. I don’t know about the real Ray Brooks, but
for the Brooks of Blowing Zen, this worry seems unfounded. Ray can have
feelings, but they are always sensitively understated as when he listens to
Ozawa’s story and then says, "I felt saddened, even a little helpless, at not
being able to suggest anything to relieve Ozawa’s frustration." Of course,
American readers, inveterate problem solvers that we are, might wonder why
Brooks didn’t make some concrete suggestions to his friend. Certainly it is
more "Zen-y" to feel sad and helpless and just sit with it until it
disappears.
Brooks’ authorial benevolence is crystal clear in his touching stories of
Mrs. Chen and the old hermit Tibetan monk in Dharamsala. One feels, with
Brooks, the inevitability of these meetings, and the precious, fragile gift
of friendships that seem to transcend our ordinary experiences of fear,
self-doubt, judgment, greed or grandiosity when meeting new people. Rather
than claiming the high ground of enlightenment, Brooks gets out of the way,
allowing his once-in-a-lifetime characters to speak their truth. So, Brooks
relays Mrs. Chen’s wisdom to the reader when she explains that the Japanese
word En means an inevitable or fated meeting between two people "We have to
be extremely careful when making new acquaintances," says Mrs. Chen. "If en
doesn’t exist, cause and effect can sometimes take you down a dark path. I
feel that en already exists between us." These are people I can trust.
Here and there, I quibble with Brooks. Mostly he is right-on to pronounce
negatively on the Japanese blindness to environmental destruction, and for
the way its business institutions sabotage and ruin family life. He sees
clearly the horrible consequences of corporate bondage in his own friend,
Osawa-san. Brooks notices and comments on the craziness of fake Japanese
medieval castles and the ubiquitous, giant, and garrish pachinko parlors.
But I think he loses his grip when he wonders if "these palaces were Japan’s
new zendos, or meditation halls" because, he figures, the participants must
let their thinking drop away in order to play well. Here, Brooks’ generous
spirit goes too far. Certainly, one must focus attention to play pachinko,
or violent computer games for that matter, but this is not Buddhism. There is
no real discipline of the mind in pachinko, no ethical structure, and it
nurtures no vision of connectedness or compassion—all essential elements of
any Buddhist school. I’ve been in these parlors in Japan. They are a
sink-hole of the human spirit, similar to our Las Vegas-type casinos. When
playing the machines, one enters a narrow isolation ward of self-centered
stimulus-response behavior. To me pachinko parlors and casinos symbolize the
absolute end of civilization. One might forgive Brooks for being kind or
subtlety ironic, but there is danger in his observation. Too often, Buddhism
has been criticized by Westerners for being narcissistic and nihilistic. Too
many westerners see Zen as something like playing pachinko and we shouldn’t
encourage these stereotypes.
Brooks also rankles when, in speaking with the monk Ota, he says, "The
direct understanding I’m talking about, Sensei, doesn’t need the guidance of
a psychologist, or some future ideal of self-improvement." Perhaps, as a
psychologist, I take this observation too personally. But over the years I
have worked with many clients who meditate. Too often they expect sitting on
a cushion (or maybe playing shakuhachi) to resolve all their problems,
especially those having to do with difficult relationships. All too often
this is not the case. Buddhist meditation can become an escape from
relationships and the feelings that arise there. Sometimes we need a trusted
counselor to help us sort it out.
Like Brooks, I play shakuhachi in the sui-zen tradition. And like him I
would be proud and joyous to see a revitalization of this beautiful aesthetic
and spiritual tradition. Still, I doubt if Brooks' vision of a
shakuhachi-induced cultural renaissance will actually happen. Playing the
shakuhachi well requires extraordinary commitment, discipline and natural
ability. The numbers of those who play will always be small. One can hope
that those who do play will be healed, as Brooks apparently was, and that our
deepening wisdom will be shared with, and so inspire, others. I expect that
his beautiful literary offering will bring sui-zen more to the forefront as a
viable spiritual and artistic path for more people.
---- Robert A. Jonas is a psychotherapist, spiritual director, and retreat leader. He is the founder and director of The Empty Bell, a contemplative sanctuary and study center for Buddhist-Christian dialogue in Watertown, Massachusetts ( www.emptybell.org). Robert received spiritual formation in the Carmelite tradition and has been a student of the shakuhachi and Sui-Zen (blowing Zen) since 1991. He is author of Rebecca: A Father's Journey from Grief to Gratitude (Crossroad) and Henri Nouwen: Writings Selected with an Introduction by Robert A. Jonas (Orbis). Request permissions to reprint from Robert A. Jonas at RbtJonas@aol.com
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