In 1969 I went to Japan in search of Zen. There I met Kosho Uchiyama, abbot of Antaiji Temple. It was neither my first meeting with a Japanese Zen teacher nor was it my first stay at a Zen temple in Japan, but it was a special meeting for me because it was my first meeting with a Zen teacher who seemed to have none of what I will call ‘Zen posturing’. Our discussion was informal and I walked away feeling that I had met someone who could be a friend as well as a teacher. Uchiyama invited me to stay at Antaiji and I did.
Sodo Yokoyama
During my stay at Antaiji I came into contact with five teachers of Zen. Three, I met, and two I learned of through their heirs and their writings. All of these teachers were, in some capacity, connected with Antaiji, a small poor temple in Kyoto that seemed to be a magnet for Zen figures who did not mind breaking with tradition. The most unique of these teachers was a poet monk named Sodo Yokoyama.
Yokoyama sat in a park practising zazen and inspiring travellers. If traditional Japanese dance is poetry in motion, Yokoyama’s upright sitting posture was motionless poetry. Many took his photograph and were encouraged by the image of this monk whose practice was to follow his heart. As one woman who brought Yokoyama a coat that her mother weaved for him said, ‘My dad is a Zen priest, but he has a family. He cannot live the life of pure Zen like Yokoyama Roshi does. We wanted to show our appreciation to Roshi for upholding the Way.’
Yokoyama played tunes that he composed by blowing them on a leaf. For Yokoyama, leaf-blowing signified the freshness of youth. He said that only children try to get tunes from blowing into a leaf; adults have no time for such playful activities. As long as he blew the leaf, he was reminding himself that the playfulness of youth should never disappear. He also felt that one would never get a perfect tune from a leaf, that it was an instrument for amateurs, and there lies its charm.
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