During my childhood in Hawaii, the only obvious allusion to Buddhism was a
black-lacquered shrine in my grandparents' house. Roughly forty-five centimetres
tall, it displayed irresistible miniatures: brass bell and mallet, porcelain
goblet filled with steamed rice, sticks of incense crumbling in a pot of ashes.
My father would instruct me to repeat the nembutsu, "Namu Amida
Butsu," three times, wearing a string of prayer beads around my hands.
I'd run the words together by rote, "Namuamidabutsu," whispering so
nobody would hear me.
I am a fourth-generation Japanese American and a Buddhist by birth, but growing
up, I knew little about the philosophy. In my family, Buddhism was an assumed
presence, taken for granted as was our dark hair and the island pidgin talk.
Back then we hardly ever visited the Hongwanji temple in Hilo, my hometown,
except for weddings. Nothing about the temple seemed particularly Buddhist or
Japanese. With a lofty ceiling and rows of wooden pews, it resembled a Christian
church - and every marriage I witnessed there included the traditional "till
death do us part" vow (and a pristine Cinderella dress).
Four years ago, I took a Zen meditation course and sat zazen for the
first time. At the opening class, Reb Anderson, senior dharma teacher of the
San Francisco Zen Center, arrived in drab robes. He folded his legs into lotus
pose and his hands into a mudra, facing the class. Without a word,
he sat for thirty minutes. Afterward he gave a dharma talk. But his initial
silence struck me as a minimalist way to demonstrate the lesson of his teacher,
Shunryu Suzuki: simply to sit is enough.
After the course ended, I occasionally sat at the Berkeley Zen Center, where
the regulars sat for forty minutes, either at 5:40 a.m or 5:40 p.m. They walked
barefoot in the zendo, hands clasped at waist, bowing at the abbot,
at each other, and at their zafu pillow. After zazen, they
performed nine full-body prostrations, followed by a monotone chanting of the
Heart Sutra. Upon meeting a few of them, I noticed a common, often lifelong
affinity for Eastern philosophy and direct spiritual experience.
These people were nothing like the Japanese-American Buddhists in Hilo. My
parents practise Shin Buddhism, a devotional form that arose from the teachings
of Shinran Shonin (1173-1262). Shonin believed that efforts toward enlightenment
are tainted by delusions of one's own goodness. Therefore laypeople in the Shin
sect forgo meditation and express their worldview simply by reciting the nembutsu,
which means "I entrust myself to Amida, the Buddha of Immeasurable Light
and Life."
Upon discovering Zen meditation, the Buddhism of my parents suddenly seemed
folksy and purely social, a senior citizens' club of sorts. If I inquired about
the Hongwanji, they'd mention sushi and pumpkin pie fundraisers, New Year mochi
rice pounding, and odds and ends collected for the annual white elephant sale.
Or they'd report on the funeral of a casual acquaintance from church, which
registered to me as small-town, obligatory bereavement support.
Is this Buddhism? I wondered.
