Autobiography of a Zen Monk: Taisen Deshimaru

By Taisen Deshimaru and Reiryu Philippe Coupey

A story of bravery and false starts, The Autobiography of a Zen Monk candidly recounts the author’s development from a highly mischievous Japanese boy into a world-renowned Sensei (Teacher) of Zen. While countless memoirs exist written by Zen students and teachers, few are as engaging and as tantalizing as Taisen Deshimaru’s. Looking back at his early life, growing up in Japan, from the viewpoint of his status as a Zen teacher in Paris, the author reflects on his earliest misadventures―from defacing a valuable painting of Bodhidharma as a child, to turning the “Zen stick” on a young monk during a retreat. Adventures abound with stories about alcohol and women, during his student years, and his activities during World War II in working for the arms industry in Malaysia, where he was sympathetic to the underground freedom movement.
This first English-language translation of Taisen Deshimaru’s autobiography will be prized for its clear and honest documentation of this great master’s life. Many people all over the world have been influenced by Deshimaru’s Zen teachings, especially his book on Zen and the martial arts. This memoir fills an important gap in our knowledge of his teacher, Kodo Sawaki’s influence on the world of Zen. The story of how Deshimaru met Sawaki as a boy, even slept in the same room with him, and later received monastic ordination is the story of a lifelong friendship of two extraordinary characters in the history of modern Zen.
Deshimaru’s influence extends beyond Zen practitioners, though, especially in those interested in the martial arts, as he touches on his martial arts experience as a young man and offers a look into the master’s early training.
Additional interest extends to historians who recount the supposed “scandals” of Zen masters’ participation in the war effort. Although Deshimaru’s viewpoint is decidedly subjective, he was intimately acquainted with priests and generals alike, and approaches the difficult subject with a refreshing lack of judgmental disdain which counterbalances many other more lopsided works.
Translator, Richard Collins, a longtime Zen practitioner, and currently the Abbot of the New Orleans Zen Temple, is a literature scholar and author of several books including No Fear Zen, Hohm Press, 2014. His knowledge of the subject matter and his finesse with language combine to make this book a delightful read for those who appreciate well-written memoir.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hohm Press
• Release date: Mar 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781942493730

Taisen Deshimaru

Taisen Deshimaru (d. 1982) was the founder of the Association Zen Internationale, one of the largest influences on Zen in the West. He is author of: The Ring of the Way and The Zen Way to Martial Arts: A Japanese Master Reveals the Secrets of the Samurai.

Book preview

1

AT THE EDGE OF THE CHIKUGO RIVER

Every morning, after conducting zazen at the dojo of Paris, I go for a walk in Montparnasse Cemetery. The scorched chestnut trees, the leaves falling one by one and crackling under my feet. Autumn in Paris. The sun, still warm, lends a special charm. Slowly the tones are changing from the green opulence of summer to a twinkling golden yellow before taking on the ashen gleams of a life that comes to an end in the peace of renunciation.

Through the transparent veil of this Parisian landscape, I can see the Japanese autumn, its freshness under an immense sky of deep blue. I feel nostalgic. This stirs up all sorts of images like those at the end of a kaleidoscope. First, the village where I was born, all of it there, downstream on the Chikugo River, snaking through the Chikushi plain. A little fishing village on the Ariake Sea, close to the big city of Saga, in a region that survives half on agriculture and half on fishing. The levees that lie along the river are bordered by lacquer trees, their autumn leaves a burst of dazzling scarlet. Often, in high school, after sketching them, I attempted to replicate this shade of red, unique in its tint, but I never succeeded, no matter what combinations of colors I tried.

In the mud along the banks, from spring to autumn, a luxuriant proliferation of reeds grew where countless sparrows squawked. Across the plain stretched wheatfields and vegetable crops. The violet blossoms of the water chestnuts perfumed the stagnant waters. At dusk, the solemn tolling of the temple clock filled my tender heart with a sweet sadness. It was in this scene of Japanese nature, so elegant and now almost extinct, where my most profound thoughts and feelings were born.

My father was a shipowner and the president of the Agricultural and Fishing Societies in my village. The return of boats to the port, the passionate stories recounted by the young sailors, the nets full of still-wriggling fish, the animation of the auctions, the raucous cries of seagulls, and my rapport with the robust children of the fishermen, all this gave my life, from earliest childhood, a strong and healthy flavor. My character was forged by contact with the ancestral tradition borne by my family, by the stories that still circulated of our victories in the Russo-Japanese War, which was won thanks to the traditional spirit of martial arts. My character was formed through contact with the authority my father exercised over the fishermen and the farmers of the neighborhood.

In complete contrast, my mother was full of compassion and great delicateness. Fervently religious, she followed the Shinshu sect.⁶ She was so respected that certain people could not believe she wasn’t Kannon reincarnate.⁷ Her example instilled in me from childhood profound religious sentiments. I had two older sisters and two younger sisters, but I was the only boy in the middle of these four girls.

Since the village had no kindergarten, I was raised by my grandfather, a great, strapping fellow, large and solid, that the people of Saga described in their dialect as obangyaka.⁸ In the era of the Meiji restoration, he was taught judo by some samurais. Even as an old man, he was possessed of formidable strength. From time to time, he taught me the rudiments of his art. His rough and ready methods were truly obangyaka. More often than not, he would send me crashing to the mat without caring whether he hurt me or not. Tears in my eyes, I thought, What an old brute! But even when he grew truly old, he could still perform an ashi barai against me, sending me into the air with a sweep of his foot.⁹ I never failed to come crashing to the floor. Despite his brutality, my grandfather was far from lacking artfulness. When the New Year approached, he constructed huge kites which he could fly incredibly high in the sky. He also made stilts for me. Delighted to become taller than him, I followed him everywhere on my new long legs.

2

FRIGHTFUL SCRAWLS ON A KAKEMONO OF BODHIDHARMA

One day around the New Year just before I entered school, I was perched on these stilts when I accompanied my grandfather on a visit to the Buddhist temple of Manpukuji. ¹⁰ In this temple, not far from our house, lived an old monk by the name of Tera Etsuo. In this part of the country, he was one of the few who could read and had a thorough knowledge of the writings of the Yuichi Kigaku school of thought. ¹¹ My grandfather had great respect for him. This old monk, a lover of antiquities, possessed a large number of precious kakemonos. ¹² That day, he had proudly hung on the back wall a sumi-e painting of Daruma ¹³ from his collection of scrolls.

What a beautiful piece! This portrait is far superior to those you usually see.

Really! If you compare it to those drawn by Shinran, which do you prefer?¹⁴

Oh! This one here is much worthier!

They began to discuss the merits of this painting. It must have gone on for at least a good two hours, but it seemed to me to go on endlessly. I was bored to death. In front of this costly Daruma, with the frightening and silent face, I felt the impulse to do something foolish. With a leap, I seized a brush and inkstone that were on the table, and I drew my own Daruma above the head of this famous representation. All this took a matter of seconds.

Suddenly, the two men stopped talking and froze when they heard the scrape of my brush on the scroll. I can still see the expressions on their faces when they turned to see me with that brush in my hand. Their attitude being truly worrying, I quickly slipped behind the kakemono. Immediately after, I heard a double detonation, their two voices exploding in unison.

Ah! What the hell has he done? Their thunderous voices seemed terribly menacing. Never since then have I seen such looks. The abbot, normally impassive, had his eyes bulging out of his head. My grandfather, normally rugged, seemed to be on the verge of tears.

Good God! What have I done! I thought to myself. It’s going to get hot!

I hauled ass towards the main building, and both of them took off after me, but these old men could never catch me. They followed me inside the big building. I hid behind the big gong which was rung during the chanting of the sutras. I grabbed the wooden striker used to hit the gong and faintly resembled the clubs which cops used to carry on their hips. I brandished it and faced them.

Hey there! my grandfather roared. Watch what you’re doing, you little scamp! Yet he still seemed to be on the verge of tears.

I didn’t especially want to confront him. Changing tactics, I struck the gong, then retreated higher to the platform with the statue of the Buddha. They both shuddered and stared at me without moving, but the sound of the gong set them off in pursuit of me again. I climbed even higher, right next to a statue of Buddha Amida that had been placed center stage.

What a little devil! cried my grandfather, his face misted with tears. Where do you think you are climbing to?

Circling to my right, they approached a painting of Shinran placed on the shelf. This time, I was cornered. I had to find a way out of this at all costs. I glanced at Buddha Amida and gave him a wink. But the Buddha didn’t budge. He didn’t seem inclined to give me a helping hand. Since my winks didn’t seem to work, I put my hands together in gassho as a sign of respect. Nothing helped.

I began to envision myself jumping, when I realized that the corridor on the left of the building opened out to the cemetery. I leapt immediately and rolled like a monkey on the mossy ground. My little body easily found a hiding place behind the tallest headstones. I sneaked from one headstone to another, and when my grandfather approached, I slipped surreptitiously to the other side and thumbed my nose at him. Finally, I hid myself behind a slick and worm-eaten vault. It was that of the Deshimaru family. The two exhausted men paused to catch their breath, then regained their voices.

What a little good-for-nothing! Well, this is the first time in my life I’ve taken a tour of the cemetery.

I am truly heartsick! lamented my grandfather, apologizing deeply in a voice still drowning in tears. But I assure you he’ll get a beating like he’s never had before.

Don’t do that! After all, this loss won’t kill me.

Oh! Good Lord!! But it was even more precious to you than the Shinran painting! This is truly frightful.

Listening to this exchange in the shadows of the tombstones, I was overcome with sadness. For the first time in my life, I became conscious of human loneliness.

Loneliness is found not on the mountaintop, but on the street, some philosopher said.

My loneliness began in a cemetery, or rather it was born of a conversation between my grandfather and a monk discussing the respective merit of two painted images of Bodhidharma. I felt like weeping. I even asked myself if I shouldn’t leave my hiding place and beg forgiveness with all my heart from these two men. After all, it mattered little to me that they would punish me.

Yet. The memory of my grandfather’s judo punch caused me to reconsider. If he caught me, there was a strong risk that I would be sent flying through the air and, subsequently, crashing brutally back to earth. The mad terror that the abbot had inspired in me increased my hesitation. After another moment spent sheltered in the tombs of my ancestors, I concluded that I couldn’t wait any longer and that it was high time that I ran away. I melted into the bamboo grove behind me. I bitterly regretted leaving the stilts I came on behind, but I didn’t need legs up to my neck to take me barefoot home.

3

THE NEMBUTSU OF MY MOTHER

After I left, my grandfather, downcast and worried, waited for me by my stilts until late in the evening. Finally, dragging his legs and huffing and puffing, he brought himself back to the house. When he returned, he told the whole story to the entire family.

Yasuo hasn’t come back yet? Where has he gone? He’s such an impossible boy, and who knows what he’ll end up as! he ranted in front of my mother, who, well aware of my stupidity, was about to cry. Papa, his arms crossed against his chest, tapped a regular and lively beat with his pipe against the mantelpiece. Some minutes later, in a calm and deep voice, he said, There you are, Yasou, come sit down here.

Papa had known all along that I was in the house. Determined and resigned, I placed myself in front of him and humbly apologized. My father, my mother, my grandfather, but also my grandmother, with her back hunched over from work, and my sisters, everyone was there. I had to sit, completely alone, amidst them. Isolated in this way, I felt anew, and more strongly than ever, this human loneliness. A loneliness that manifests itself when man, surrounded by those who are most dear to him, is exposed to their hard and icy stares.

Papa spoke first.

What is this that you have done, again? This morning at Manpuku-ji, you have conducted yourself like a hoodlum. These were the same words used by my grandfather, but I was surprised and hurt by the tone in which my father pronounced the word hoodlum. And while I was about to apologize, I received in the back two or three strikes of the pipe which has an even greater effect than the blows of the kyosaku¹⁵ of the Rinzai sect.¹⁶ I was in such pain that I burst into tears and fled to the kitchen.

Mother joined me there and in a soft voice told me, You conducted yourself very poorly at the temple. You will be punished. Promise me that you will never act like that again.

I wiped my tearful eyes on her kimono.

Mama, I understand, but, I beg of you, forgive me for what I have done.

Silence hovered between us for a moment. Then frightened, I lifted my eyes to hers and asked, Mother, what kind of punishment are you talking about?

Divine punishment, she said sweetly, with the intention of comforting me.

But for my childish heart this punishment represented something terrible.

By who and how does one receive this punishment? Is it Buddha who punishes us?

"Buddha will always help you if you say the nembutsu," she replied, and her words immediately freed me from my terror.

Nembutsu, I recited with a sigh. This was perhaps the last time that I called on my mother to rescue me. But this was also, it seems to me, my first true contact with religion. That night I saw Buddha in a dream. He had the fearless attitude of Buddha, so similar to the one I had seen in the temple that afternoon.

Soon after that incident, more than my father and grandfather, it was my mother’s profound faith that I respected. No one but her could so relieve my feeling of solitude. She said to me several times during this period, In this world where the wind of evanescence blows, everyone must die someday.

To which I would respond: But, Maman, what if we closed all the shutters right now and went to sleep, what would happen then?

This wind passes through shutters, penetrates the sheets, and disrobes your soul.

The soul, what’s that?

"If you are bad, your soul will go to hell. But if you recite the nembutsu, it will go into the paradise of the Pure Land."

Tell me, Maman, hell and heaven, what countries are they in?

Ah! These are other worlds, millions of kilometers from here.

Firmly believing all she told me, my heart burned with a passion to verify the existence of this heaven of hers and this hell.

Each morning and each evening, my mother read the sutras. She never neglected to read the Gowasan.¹⁷ She made us sit, my sisters and me, all five of us behind her. It often occurred to me in the course of these readings to get up and go to the kitchen to steal some cookies, not even sharing with my sisters. Although she caught me doing this, my mother never punished me. She even went so far as to give some to me alone before the recitation of the sutras. I felt so embarrassed that, next time, I shared my stolen cookies.

4

GENERAL RASCAL

Distant memories sometimes reappear in surprising ways. Today, I have already taken my walk in the streets of Paris after zazen. The cafes are part of the Parisian landscape. One can find them on every street corner, from the snobbish bars of the Champs-Elysees to the student cafes of the Latin Quarter and the little old-fashioned coffee houses of Montparnasse. These are elements peculiar to France, unimaginable in Japan. In France, these privileged spaces bring together all classes of society, lively and eminently social places where one can take a moment to relax. One can simply smoke a cigarette and sit at a little table that looks out on the street, an attitude inconceivable to the Japanese, so rigid and haunted by their incessant busyness. The bustling marketplaces, students discussing among themselves, workers taking a break to catch their breath, and thinkers diving deep into their theories.

My Zen dojo, which faces the Metro station at Pernety, opens at the back of a deserted lawn, in the shade of a tall modern building. A tranquility rare in Paris reigns there, where a dozen or so pigeons build their nests under the roofs.

Ever since I was a child, I have always been attracted to birds and to animals in general. It