My journey in Zen Buddhism began at a time in my life when I was in desperate need of answers.  Having just completed Philip Kaplean’s influential work The Three Pillars of Zen, I was convinced that the key to picking up the pieces of my shattered life and marriage could be found in the incorporation of Rinzai-style Koan into Soto traditionalism.  With the fervor of the recently converted, I auctioned off my worldly possessions and boarded a flight to Kyoto, Japan.

I knew my journey would not be an easy one.  The monastery of the Shoji-ji temple in Kyoto, selected for no other reasons than my affinity for cherry blossoms and the beautiful statues of the great healer Binzuru, was notoriously difficult to gain admittance to, and stories of mistreatment at the hands of the monks were legion and legendary.  I was not concerned however.  Through my extensive 3-hour readings on the subject, I was aware that refusal at the door of a monastery was a Zen Buddhist tradition, a tactic designed to weed out all but the truly dedicated.  I was truly dedicated.  And for the first time in my life, I felt free.  I would receive Zen instruction from the monks at Shoji-ji, or I would die trying.

Upon my arrival in the Oharano area of Kyoto, I stopped a man on the street who was wearing the traditional black robes of a Japanese monk of the Soto school.  Speaking very loudly and slowly so he could understand my English, I asked him for directions to the “cherry-blossom temple.”  The man looked at me strangely for a moment, but then began laughing and motioned for me to follow.  After leaving the main street, my guide led me up a path of irregular and worn stone steps that weaved through fragrant cherry trees.  While the climb was no doubt arduous, I barely noticed in my excitement.  How would the monks of Shoji-ji react to my incorporation of the Koan?  Would I immediately be thought of as an equal, or would it take a few days for the monks to realize the power of my insights into their ancient teachings?  Would I be considered a loose-cannon among these staid practitioners of traditional Soto?  These questions and others raced through my mind as my guide brought me to a halt outside an ornately decorated, gated fence.

After thanking the man and assuring him he had provided a greater service than he would ever know, I turned my attention to the gate.  This was it, I thought to myself.  I had come here seeking the truth, and I knew that where truth is sought, Zen may also be found.  I could smell the pleasant scent of cherry blossoms.  In the distance I could hear the murmurings of a mountain stream.  As I rattled the gate and yelled loudly for admittance, I even imagined a third eye that shined more brightly than ten suns emerging from the center of my forehead.  I was not even inside yet and already my entire body was bristling with ki.  I will ride a pack of wolves, I thought.  I will bring my enemies to their knees with a mere glance.  I was more than ready for Zen’s first lesson to begin.

Presently, a man wearing the same traditional robes as my guide approached me from the opposite side of the fence.  “Why you bang-bang gate, aho?” the little man demanded as he rapped my fingers sharply with a stick.  “What you want?”  I explained that I was there to request instruction in Zen, and that while I knew he would tell me that the school was too poor or too crowded to accept another student, I would not be leaving until I was granted admission.  “Suit yourself, roundeye” the man laughingly replied before turning and walking away.  The game as they say, was afoot.

Now I wish I could tell you that the eighteen days and nights I waited outside that gate flowed by like water through the fingers of those who try and clutch it.  Alas, I cannot.  From the very start, a multitude of devious monks descended upon me like locusts, tormenting me in ways previously unimaginable in the Western mind.  One night early in my vigil, I awoke to find that a particularly enterprising and stealthy monk had shaved off my eyebrows.  The next night, a blanket was used to pin me down while I was beaten quite soundly with Koi fish.  It was not uncommon to wake up in the morning and find that a crudely-draw representation of Godzilla defecating on me had been tacked to the fence above my head.  During the day, monks would nary pass by without lifting their robes and waving their tiny, Asian genitals in my face while yelling “banzai!”  I was forced to sponge down the same dirty old man at least a hundred times.  I was derisively referred to as “Cowboy” and pummeled with bamboo. I subsisted on only rainwater and whatever edible raw garbage I had been pelted with the previous day.

On the eighteenth day, as I lay by the gate no longer caring whether I lived or died, an older monk I had never seen before approached gliding on a ball of light.  Even in my weakened condition, I could tell that this was the wisest man I had ever met.  Stopping at the gate, he looked upon my tattered visage with the sadness of a thousand miles in his eyes. 

“My son, why do you lay here day after day like a lowly animal, suffering the abuse of passersby and the elements alike?” he asked in perfect English.

“Great teacher,” I replied, “I do so only because I desire admittance.”

“My son, what you seek is impossible I’m afraid.”

“But why?” I shouted.

“Because this is the Welcome Center and Gift Shop.  It will be closed for three more weeks due to scheduled maintenance.”

“The gift shop?” I asked incredulously.  “May I be granted teaching at the monastery then?”

“Um, we’re pretty overcrowded as it is right now.  Funds are tight.  But if you leave your name and number with…”

“You motherfucker,” I interrupted, and began crawling off towards the American Embassy.

…