Jo wrote the first part of this reflection after meeting Shinzan Roshi at Gyokuruji and attending the sesshin in June 2014, included in The Zen Character book, (2015; p.195):
“…Meeting Shinzan for the first time, in the garden of the temple, I stumbled my way through some greetings I had rehearsed, and he very kindly smiled and chuckled at my attempts. Later, as we sat on the tatami floor facing one another in the sanzen room, he was welcoming, generous with his teaching, and completely clear about Zen practice. Seeing him sitting framed by the open sliding doors, the valley sides rising up, covered in trees, bamboo, creepers, lush green foliage, is an image I will never forget. He looked completely at home, as much as the trees growing on the slopes. There was a sense of safety, an easy laugh. Then stern, completely focussed teaching.
The direction was simple, and often repeating the same message. Each time it opened up another angle; the same core viewed from different sides. A connection to nature. “Now living, now surely going dying.” “Teach children.” “When cooking – cooking, cooking, only cooking, cut off idle thinking.” These are a few of the phrases he spoke in English. There were more, all directed towards this, being in harmony with our true nature. Beyond the language of ‘this and that’, English and Japanese.
Shinzan embodies his teaching; simply being a force of nature.”
Then, in 2015 Shinzan Roshi came to England and I attended a sesshin with him at Gaunts House in Dorset. It was on the topic of the Rinzai Roku.
While sitting, I had a strong build up of energetic pressure in my chest and throat, that seemed to grow the longer we sat in the meditation hall. I spoke to Daizan about it in sanzen, expressing concern that I might burst out screaming or crying etc. and disturb everyone else. He was reassuring, as ever, and suggested that if it felt possible to express it, this would be fine and could even be of benefit to others.
The next sitting period I was expectant of it being there again, but of course it wasn’t, at first! However, the longer we sat the more I could feel it building again. Finally, it reached a high pressure point and I explored the reflexive ways that I might have normally minimised it, or ‘kept the lid on’ and gently explored how it might feel to ‘let the lid off’. A loud kind of screaming wail of a shout came out, breaking the silence of the meditation hall. Then, following some after-tremors, it settled. It felt good. A relief, and very energising. I was grateful to feel the groups grounded presence, containment and sense of acceptance. I didn’t need anything else.
Later, I went to sanzen with Shinzan Roshi. I can’t remember what I said, but what I remember very vividly was that he became tearful, expressing much gratitude and affection for his teacher, Itsugai Roshi – how much he had valued him as a teacher. Again, with the same ease, naturalness and directness. And then it was over. And on to the next thing.
I still find much comfort and teaching in this memory; the naturalness of his tears, the fundamental ok-ness of emotion (energy-in-motion as it has been described) being allowed to flow.
Later, at the end of the sesshin, I saw him engaged in a play sword-fight with keisakus! With much laughter and lively exuberance.
I must have held some belief that zen practice would somehow lead to a flatter, less emotional expression of life, or that it should be channelled into powerful, loud and punchy action. However, here was true nature expressed tenderly, a moving moment, showing gratitude for our teachers. And then an ease of responding in another moment with playfulness!
