The Benevolent Direction of the New Year
Walking the middle path with haiku master Kobayashi Issa
Of the religious impulses, I think what intrigues me most is the possibility that on an intuitive level, everything is okay as it is. Wholeness, we might say, as the nature of life, does not need anything desperately from us — it will accommodate all, no matter what. And yet, a contradiction must always follow on the heal of this serene proclamation, because everything as it is obviously needs work. In the words of Zen monk Shunryu Suzuki: “Each of you is perfect the way you are… and you can use a little improvement.”
The Middle Path
The spiritual life is truly a middle path: to impose one’s will upon the world, twisting it to fit our inner desires is not helpful for anyone — indeed this imposition of will is always a kind of violence; but neither is it possible to sit back and watch suffering unfold with a disconnected shrug. Seeing this, the middle path weaves between these extremes with effortless discipline.
The Madhyamaka Buddhist (a school of Mahāyāna often translated as the “middle path”) sees all things as interdependent — nothing exists “inherently” or “on its own side”; and yet, existence itself remains. The Madhyamaka walks the middle path between the extremes of apparent separation on the one hand, and repressive nihilism on the other, merging with the world in all its connective, “inter-in-dependence” (to use Raimon Panikkar’s term), reflecting across an endless web of dewdrops.
That is to say, on the spiritual path, the world acquires a dream-like quality that nonetheless feels more and more real. In the Oraga Haru (The Year of My Life), Japanese poet Kobayashi Issa (1763–1828) gives us his elegant advice for walking this middle path (as translated by Nobuyuki Yuasa):
Those who insist on salvation by faith and devote their minds to nothing else, are bound all the more firmly be their singlemindedness, and fall into the hell of attachment to their own salvation.
This is the first extreme to be avoided — the peril of violent self-righteousness, which attempts to mold the world to fit our fantasies. Sometimes this is referred to as “spiritual materialism.” Of course, we’ve all been there, greedily grasping for consolations that never fully satisfy. The constant striving for power is, as Issa tells us, a “hell of attachment.” To cling adamantly causes pain not only for others but also for ourselves. Issa goes on:
Again, those who are passive and stand to one side waiting to be saved, consider that they are already perfect and rely rather on Buddha than on themselves to purify their hearts — these, too, have failed to find the secret of genuine salvation.
This is the other extreme to which we might fall prey — the belief that because we are “already perfect” there is no action needed. This is a static, self-assured idea of “perfection,” causing us to disconnect from the world as we become unwilling to acknowledge our possible faults or mistakes. It is another form of self-exclusion — an evasion of responsibility: once again we attempt to force the world into our limited image of perfection, constrained by our desires.
Complete Surrender
Both extremes are too decisive: they leap to conclusions about the way things must be. Issa invites us to move beyond extremes for the sake of something undefined (what Issa calls “genuine salvation”). “The question then remains — how do we find it?” Issa continues. “But the answer fortunately, is not difficult.”
We should do far better to put this vexing problem of salvation out of our minds altogether and place our reliance neither on faith nor on personal virtue, but surrender ourselves completely to the will of Buddha. Let him do as he will with us — be it to carry us to heaven, or to hell. Herein lies the secret.
Issa advises us to “surrender ourselves completely to the will of Buddha.” What does this mean? Perhaps we can answer by way of analogy:
When learning to improvise music, we start out fearfully, unsure of ourselves, undermining our every note, terrified of making mistakes. But as we improvise more and more, we start to naturally loosen up. There are no wrong notes, it turns out. Our teacher already mentioned this, in fact, but we have to learn it for ourselves through experience. Through playing, we start to understand that each moment is new, that each expression is different, and what was required of us before is not necessarily required from us now. We listen and respond, lost in the odd sensation of being supported by and actively supporting others. The music itself is bigger than any individual (or group of individuals), and yet, we are its players, following (and forming) the rules as they build and recede, only to watch new paradigms emerge. Some moments we like more than others. Sometimes we simply go through the motions. Our ups and downs are integral to the performance. Without a design of our own — without a destination in mind — the interaction of self and environment takes us where it will, whether toward heaven or hell. We are, in the words of Issa, “entirely under the benevolent direction of Buddha.”
To walk the middle path is not to escape from life, but rather to drop our erroneous conclusions about it—we are not the director, nor the audience, but part of the play, striving for harmony without finality, eager to fulfill our responsibilities to others, and yet at peace. Issa’s method is to drop our defenses and join the ruckus — to include ourselves. He concludes:
Trusting to Buddha
Good and bad,
I bid farewell
To the departing year
Happy New Year!
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