The Spiritual Journey of Alejandro Jodorowsky: The Creator of El Topo

10. Master to Disciple, Disciple to Master, Disciple to Disciple, Master to Master

Suddenly, this man sensed that the plain had turned in a complete circle. The sky and its clouds seemed to lie at his feet.

SILVER KANE, UN COLLAR DE PIEL DE SERPIENTE

(A SNAKESKIN COLLAR)

“Above the place where his head had been, a small cloud of blood floated. . The blood seemed to have a life of its own.”

SILVER KANE, CON PERMISO DEL MUERTO

(WITH THE DEAD MAN'S PERMISSION)

Ten years later, disguised as a film and theater director, I returned to Mexico. I had been invited to give a lecture in a theater of the University of Mexico. On its facade, nineteen huge letters proclaimed it as the TEATRO JULIO CASTILLO. I realized that this talk represented the closure of a cycle of my life.

Julio Castillo, the same young man who had asked me years ago to teach him about lighting (not spiritual light), had gone on to become the director of many successful plays but had died at the peak of his fame. His legacy to the world of theater was so important that the autonomous University of Mexico had named its largest theater after him. In my own homage to Julio Castillo, I tore up the notes I had prepared and decided to repeat the same mistake I had made with him years ago — but this time deliberately. They wanted me to talk about cinematography, but I was going to talk to them about spiritual enlightenment and my experiences with koans.

In front of the thousand young people who filled the hall, I proposed this: “I am going to give you some riddles to solve. When you’ve finished offering all your solutions and exhausted your inspiration, I’ll offer you mine.”

With great perplexity they listened to me clap my hands and ask: “That is the sound of two hands clapping. What is the sound of one hand clapping?”

After considerable laughter, the responses came: snapping your fingers, slapping your forehead, holding out one hand and making the sound of a fart, and so forth. When they had finished and declared their inspiration exhausted, I had them each lift their right hand, as if about to swear an oath. Then I lifted my own and said what I had learned many years before from Ejo Takata.

“The sound of my one hand is the same as the sound of your one hand.”

This elicited enthusiastic applause. Inspired by this appreciative audience, I began to invent koans and offer solutions.

“Why do mountains have rocks?. . Mountains don’t have rocks. The rocks are the mountain. . Why is the mouth under the eyes?. . Because the mouth is for kissing the earth and the eyes are for kissing the sky. . Why can’t I stop thinking?. . I don’t think — the thoughts think me.”

Carried away by their enthusiasm, I even stepped down from the stage and began to mingle with the audience. Suddenly, I saw that their eyes were no longer on me but were fixed on the stage, which was at my back. Something was happening there.

When I turned around and looked, I felt as if I was in a dream. Ejo Takata, dressed in a monk’s robe was seated in meditation position, grinning at me.

It had been ten years since I’d seen him, but he looked the same as ever — generous spirit, ageless face, anchored to the ground, head pushing at the sky!

He jumped right into our game, holding his wooden kyosaku in a threatening gesture. (On one side of this stick the characters say: “I can teach you nothing. Teach yourself.” On the other side is written: “The plant flowers in the spring.”)

“What is the sound of an empty mind?” he asked me.

“The same sound as the voice that asks,” I answered without hesitation.

Ejo shouted a joyous “Kwatzu!. . Where does a thought spring from, and what is it?”

“Ideas have no owners. They are in the world, seeds of action.”

He began fanning himself. I realized I had fallen into the old intellectual trap. I prostrated myself three times before the master (sensei), and I recited one of his own proverbs: “A boat can find support on the water. The water can overturn the boat.” And I awaited the next question.

“When the mind is empty, what does it see?”

“Everything but itself.”

“Kwatzu! When a thought springs forth, where does it come from?”

“Tell me where it is going, and I’ll tell you where it comes from.”

“Kwatzu! If you see that a thought is excessive and artificial, do you think that there also exists a natural thought?”

“The farmer waits for rain; the traveler waits for good weather.”

“Kwatzu! What does your birthday mean to you?”

“There is no birth or death.”

He made a sign for me to come on stage. I climbed up and kneeled before him and touched the floor three times with my head.

He lifted me up with a smile. Holding the kyosaku in a horizontal position, he offered it to me. My hands were burning and my feet were freezing. Never had I expected to receive such an honor. Without thinking about what I was doing, I took the stick as in a dream and held it against my breast.

The students began to applaud. I had to acknowledge this with a bow, but as I was doing so, Ejo took advantage of the moment to disappear. After a minute of confusion, I ran outside to try to find him.

By chance, several cars were waiting in line to leave the parking lot. I saw Ejo in one of them, a beat-up old car with an Indian-looking driver. When he saw me, he rolled down the window. I held out the kyosaku to him, crying, “I don’t deserve this! You yourself once told me: ‘If you have the stick, I will give it to you. If you don’t have it, I’ll take it away from you.’ You must give your stick to someone who already has it. And I do not have it! I demand you take it!”

Ejo lowered the window farther. Instead of taking the kyosaku, he threw his fan in my face and rolled up the window again. The car started moving. I ran after it as fast as I could, but I could not catch up. Breathless, I stood there and began to fan myself. On the paper of the fan was written: “Chapultepec Forest. The usual place, same time, tomorrow.”

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Deep down, I had always aspired to become a master basking in the veneration of hundreds of disciples. Not only that, but I wanted to be able to sit cross-legged for endless hours in a zendo, a smiling Buddha until I died. I also knew this was an unattainable goal. I knew only too well my shameful weakness, my flawed successes, my ignorance like that of a microbe in the infinite cosmos.

To lose Ejo as a master was unbearable. “A master is for your entire life.” By giving me his stick and his fan, he made me not only his peer but also his successor. He must be saying that he was leaving, that he was sick, or that he thought he was about to die. I felt nauseous at this thought. I was losing my support. The axis around which I turned, thinking it always protected me, was about to be taken away. I had countless questions and no real answers. Ejo was the only one who could provide the one answer to all my questions. A cloud veiled my vision. If Ejo perceived in me the value of a master, he was mistaken, and if he could make such a mistake, then he was not a true master. I felt like vomiting. I collapsed, sitting upon a cement bench. I fanned myself with his fan. With the stick I gave myself several blows on my shoulder blades.

“Master. .”

An exceedingly skinny youth with brilliant eyes came up to me. Feeling ridiculous, I immediately stopped striking and fanning myself. I forced myself to smile at him. He kneeled before me.

“Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Daniel. I just came from your lecture. I saw your film The Holy Mountain. It changed my life. I have made a short film, inspired by your work. I wanted to thank you. .”

His admiration came at a most inopportune moment, but I replied, simulating a warm friendliness: “Stand up and come sit down beside me. Thank you for your thanks. Would you like an autograph?”

“Well, of course, that would give me pleasure, Master. But if you don’t mind, I would like to ask a favor of you. .”

“Ask whatever you like, but don’t call me ‘Master.’”

“Actually, I’m a writer as well as a filmmaker. I’ve been reading ever since I could think. Yet I know nothing about Zen. I’ve never heard of these strange koans before. When you asked them, I had no idea how to answer, and afterward I didn’t understand your answers. Nor did I understand the ones you gave to the monk. Could you explain the meaning of all this to me?”

I had to get a grip on myself in order not to burst into tears. The absurd dance of fate had sent me a boy who took me for a master, whereas my mind was like a mirror broken into a thousand pieces. His desire to understand was so naive and his trust in my artistic mastery was so great that I felt incapable of disappointing him. Mustering a tone of calm and assurance, I improvised a little speech for him.

“Mountains do not have rocks any more than the world has individuals. The rocks are the mountain; the individuals are the world. The totality of the universe is one. The mouth is below the eyes; the birds fly in the sky; the fish swim in the sea. Everything has its natural place, without effort, in happiness. The bird drowns in the water just as the fish drowns in the air. Happiness means being ourselves in the place that is right for us. We think but we are not our thoughts. When we identify ourselves with our thoughts, we cease to be ourselves. Thoughts are, but we are not. The sound of an empty mind is the noise of the words of the one who is asking questions. ‘From where does a thought spring and what is it?’ That question is a bunch of words that cannot be answered properly by another bunch of words. One thought springs from another thought, and so on to infinity. Yet saying ‘bread’ does not satisfy our hunger. I should have just screamed at every question and given that as an answer. When the mind is empty, the observer-actor dualism disappears. If we see ourselves, we are not empty — no one arriving, no one leaving, everything just always here. Every thought is a mirage. There is no first cause; it is neither the chicken nor the egg. No beginning, no end. Permanent impermanence, formless present. Accept this appearance of change!”

Daniel tried to thank me, but I left in a hurry.

The trees in the forest were half hidden in a grayish, toxic, morning smog. In a clearing at some distance from the hordes of automobiles rushing like sheep to the slaughterhouse, Ejo and I had established a custom of meditating for two hours at six o’clock in the morning. I found him there, in zazen position. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. Beside him was a mesh sack. I prostrated before him and placed the stick and fan in front of him.

“You are mistaken, Ejo. I am not a master.”

He shouted “Kwatzu!” at me so loudly it must have been heard a mile away. Then he seized me by the shoulders and forced me to sit in his place. He kneeled before me, touched his forehead to the ground, and spoke softly:

“Sometimes we are disciples, sometimes masters. Nothing is fixed.”

I did not want to accept this. I took him by the shoulders and sat him again in his place. I prostrated again before him, pressing my face obstinately against the ground three times.

Sighing with exasperation, Ejo recited a text that he had apparently learned by heart: “Are we ourselves? Where are we when we are? If I close my hands, water still escapes from them. When these hands play the lute in the moonlight, they are like the hands of the Buddha. Master Rinzai said: ‘Sometimes a cry is like a precious sword molded of the purest gold. Sometimes a cry is like a magnificent lion merged with the bushes. Sometimes a cry is like a fishing pole in the middle of the grass in whose shadow fish gather in a group. Sometimes a cry does not function as a cry.’ A monk asked him: ‘What is the meaning of the first maxim?’ Rinzai said: ‘When the seal is removed, the red ink becomes visible. Though the letter has not yet been read, the roles of the guest and host are already decided.’ The monk asked again: ‘What is the meaning of the second maxim?’ Rinzai said: ‘Careless one! Why should the work be inferior to the ideal?’ The monk insisted: ‘What is the meaning of the third maxim?’ Rinzai said: ‘When the puppet dances on the stage, the movement comes from the hand of the actor hidden in its clothes.’ And he added: ‘If you understand the first maxim, you will become the Buddha’s master. If you understand the second maxim, you will become a master of men and gods. But if you understand the third maxim, you will not even be able to save yourself.’ Then he continued: ‘Sometimes you remove the man without removing the surroundings. Sometimes you remove the surroundings without removing the man. Sometimes you remove both. Sometimes you remove neither.’”

These words, recited rapidly by Ejo, engraved themselves in my memory. I can regard them from several points of view. Their apparently different elements fit together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. An understanding came to me through these words like luminous flashes (I can find no better metaphor for it). Ejo was now showing me the higher level of koans!

Are we ourselves? It is impossible to define ourselves, for we do not belong to ourselves; we are the world. Where are we when we are? Reality is formless and fluid, constantly changing. The dry leaf carried away by the stream is in the water, not in a place. If I close my hands, water still escapes from them. If my intellect identifies itself with a separate self, it does not capture eternal truth. When these hands play the lute in the moonlight, they are like the hands of the Buddha. The Buddha imagined by our intellect lacks any hands. When my hands produce beauty, they are the hands of the cosmos. All things are one and one thing is all things! Sometimes a cry is like a precious sword molded of the purest gold. The master transmits his satori directly to the disciple without words, like an electric shock. Sometimes a cry is like a magnificent lion merged with the bushes. The master seeks to open the stagnant mind of the disciple, who believes the world is dark because his eyes are shut. Sometimes a cry is like a fishing pole in the middle of the grass in whose shadow fish gather in a group. The master penetrates the unconscious of the disciple, trying to bring light to his hidden treasure, his essential being. Sometimes a cry does not function as a cry. The master cries without finality, naturally and spontaneously, from the highest heaven to the depths of the earth. It is thunder resounding in the blue sky with a bright sun. There is no disciple. There are two masters.

What is the meaning of the first maxim? The monk is looking for truth in the meaning of Rinzai’s teachings. Rinzai tells him not to ask such questions, but to trust his inner treasure and surrender himself to meditation. When the seal is removed, the red ink becomes visible. Though the letter has not yet been read, the roles of the guest and host are already decided. Though I am not capable of understanding the teaching, I must give myself to the work that submerges me in essential being. Ejo is the seal, I am the sealed letter. I must remove the seal in order to find myself and know that this self is the same as that of Ejo, and the Buddha.

What is the meaning of the second maxim? The monk remains a prisoner of his search for ideal truth, for a personal self. Why should the work be inferior to the ideal? Without feeding words to the ravenous intellect, sit calmly, concentrate, and observe the unfolding of life until you are yourself the truth: this is the way.

What is the meaning of the third maxim? There is no distinction between a first, second, and third truth. There are no degrees. Unity acts bluntly, like a hammer blow that breaks open our head. When the puppet dances on the stage, the movement comes from the hand of the actor hidden in its clothes. In the beginning, the master is the puppeteer and the student is the puppet. Finally, the student understands that the master is a force inside him, a force that does not belong to him.

If you understand the first maxim, you will become the Buddha’s master. If you understand the second maxim, you will become a master of men and gods. But if you understand the third maxim, you will not even be able to save yourself. The reality that appears to us as something different in different situations is what it is, neither more nor less. In reciting these maxims, you can imagine yourself as a master greater than the Buddha. Like a blind man’s dog, you think you are leading essence. You set up differences between men and gods, you have the impression that awakening has two faces, you make judgments about right and wrong so that finally you cannot even find yourself.

Sometimes you remove the man without removing the surroundings. This is an attitude of the mind in which the object dominates the subject. You abstract the man (subject), but not the surroundings (object). Sometimes you remove the surroundings without removing the man. Here, the mind fixes on the subjective pole, but it denies the objective. Sometimes you remove both surroundings and man. This is a state of emptiness in which the distinction between self and other is eliminated. Sometimes you remove neither the surroundings nor the man. In complete unity with yourself, like a child, you act spontaneously, thus returning to the ordinary world. Subject and object are recognized “as they are.”

Ejo sat in meditation before me, indifferent as a mountain, but I knew that in some way, he was waiting for me. The situation was so important that my mind lost track of time. In a few seconds, I was able to complete thoughts that would have taken hours in other circumstances. The concepts of guest and host occupied my attention. Which of us was which? At first, I saw Ejo as the host, the one who was offering consciousness, and myself as the guest who is asking for consciousness. Yet this relation of master and disciple, subject and object, confused me. One of us represented the world of circumstances. Was it me? Then was Ejo the other, the one who produced them? He was the only totally honest man I had ever known in my life. I loved him with the love of an orphan looking for a father. He knew everything, I knew nothing. . Stop it, Alejandro! Enough of that sentimental self-indulgence! Was I seeking truth or a loving father figure to heal my sad, abandoned child?

Now my mind took another leap. Master and disciple are in reality symbols of an inner process: essential being and ego. Hence the host is the first and the guest the second. But I am not the owner of the house, nor am I the house itself. My reason is a simple guest, an ephemeral phantom in eternal consciousness. Before meeting Ejo, I considered my intellect to be reality. Anything that could not be put into words was untrustworthy. Thus the guest was usurping the place of the host. Having little or nothing to offer, this false host could only strut in front of himself, deaf and blind to the other. When I first sought out Ejo, I did so as a beggar, with the feeling that he was the generous guest and I was merely a thirsty, bottomless well. My demand was without limit, infinite. With mouth wide open like a baby, I wanted him to feed me without limit, for I wanted to devour the entire universe. The illusory guest of an absolute host, I lived like the seeker in the Sufi story who weeps constantly, thinking of his absolute need for God without ever imagining that God might also need him. When I had understood that the mind can never grasp itself, I realized that instead of emptying it, I should simply let it go, allowing thoughts and impressions to come and go without identifying with them. Ejo and I both were master and disciple. My ego created essential being and essential being created the ego. Finally, I realized that I was now with Ejo not because I needed to obtain something from him, but for the pleasure of being with him, vibrating at the same level of consciousness, him with his ego, me with mine, like two blind men who have learned to see but keep their guide dog — not because they need him, but out of affection for him.

A fresh wind blew away the gray fog. It shook the leaves of the trees, making a pleasant sound. From the whole forest a music arose like the vibrations of the surface of a lake agitated by shoals of fish. The birds began to sing. Even the noise of the traffic was in harmony with the whole. The world had transformed itself into an orchestra of angels. I ceased to see Ejo either as upon a heavenly summit or in the depths of the earth. He was a man like me, a clown like me, a Buddha like me.

“Ejo, it was my anguished ego that first brought me to your teaching. It is thanks to you, essential being and host, that on this day, the guest is finally a good disciple who has learned to be a mirror. He does not take anything for himself. He receives what is given without attempting to keep it. He sinks his feet in the mud but leaves no footprints.”

Happy, and grinning so that I could see the metal caps on his teeth, Ejo said: “So! And what have you decided about the kyosaku?”

“I accept it, Master. But I will not keep it. I have no desire to give blows to sleepy monks. When Bodhidharma^*28 sat in silent meditation before the wall of a cave for nine years, he needed no one to strike his shoulder blades. Neither did Eka,^†29 a man who was capable of cutting off his arm to convince Bodhidharma to accept him as a disciple. Nor did Sosan,^‡30 the leprous disciple of Eka who died in meditation, standing under a tree.”

At first I thought that Ejo was angry and was about to let out a roar that would frighten me and the hundreds of birds around us. He closed his eyes and began to sway back and forth, fanning himself. Suddenly, he snapped shut his fan, opened his eyes, and exclaimed:

“You’re right! From Doshin^{§ 31} on, the wandering life came to an end. Zen became a government-sponsored religion and monasteries began to take in children. From that time on, an iron discipline was instituted. They began to strike the young ones who fell asleep meditating — but is it really that important that individuals not fall asleep during meditation? There is nothing to lose, nothing to achieve. Arriving or leaving, essential being is always there. When you eat, you eat. When you meditate, you meditate. When you sleep, you sleep. The blows of the stick offer nothing except discipline for a childish mind.

“In the Sierra Tarahumara I became ill with an inflammation of the heart muscle. My Indian disciples brought me back to the city. It seems I have to have an operation, but the real wound is to my child’s heart, and it is the real sufferer. When I was nine years old and the doors of the monastery closed upon me, the first thing I did was cry out: ‘I don’t want to stay here! Let me out!’ They put me in a dormitory where I was the youngest boy. When I failed to hear the bell ring at dawn, they kicked me awake. I had to scrub the floor while the other boys meditated. I didn’t do a very good job, and I was kicked for it. At my first breakfast of rice soup, the cook hit me with the ladle because I made noise drinking it. He also made me chew in total silence, without wasting a single grain of rice, but I couldn’t help spilling a few drops of the soup — more blows for that. Then they told me to use a hatchet to chop large pieces of wood into smaller ones. When I got splinters in my hand, they only made fun of me, calling me clumsy. At bedtime that evening, a twenty-year-old monk, the head of our group, asked me to massage him. The other boys started to giggle but stifled the sound quickly by covering their heads with the blankets. The monk told me that I was to spend the night in bed with him. ‘You will learn our customs. From now on, your job will be to soothe and relax me.’ Under the covers, he took one of my hands and placed it on his erect penis. ‘Imagine you are cleaning a carrot. Go on, do it with all your strength!’ For a whole year, I had to satisfy his whims. What could I do about it? Among monks, just as among prisoners or sailors, peoples’ sexual problems are worked out by abusing the weakest. When a new boy arrived, my torture finally came to an end. Afterward, others followed him.

“I never thought of becoming enlightened. All I wanted was to play. And I was never allowed to.”

“Ejo, I want to propose something. Let us bury this stick among the trees here, as if it were a plant. Let us imagine that someday it will sprout and produce branches, even fruit. .”

After we finished burying it, my friend gave a huge sigh. It was as if he had shed an immense burden. He burst out laughing, then he took his monk’s robe out of the net sack. “It was my master, Momon Yamanda, who gave me this kesa.^*32 He wove into it parts of the funeral shrouds of his father and his mother. Do you understand? We often speak of the transmission of the light, but the real master transmits the shrouds of the dead. We must see life — both our own and that of the cosmos — as an agony. This is the teaching of the Buddha Shakyamuni. After his satori, he went to the place where they incinerate corpses, and he gathered pieces of cloth left there, washed them, dyed them, and sewed them together painstakingly and slowly, giving his total attention to every stitch. That kesa was transmitted from patriarch to patriarch through the ages. Everyone who wore it while meditating was burning in body and in soul. To reach the marrow of the soul, everything superfluous must be burned to ashes. By wearing the garments of so many dead people, Buddha taught that liberation is to be obtained for them as well. When a flower opens, it is springtime for the whole land. The Buddha is like the brilliant prow of a vessel that leads it and its blind passengers to the port of salvation. I know that my way is not the same as yours, for you are more attracted to artistic creation than to meditation. But you know — there is really no difference between us. Compassion inhabits us both. Just this once, please give me the pleasure of seeing you dressed in my kesa.”

It was still so early in the morning that we were alone in the woods. I undressed slowly. Sensing an abyss before me and another behind me, I inhaled every breath of air deeply and exhaled each time as if it were my last breath. Then, feeling like a fugitive so weary of fleeing that he finally surrenders to his pursuers, I entered into the folds of the robe. Although its color was a uniform ochre, that of dry earth, it was composed of many pieces of cloth of different sizes, each connected to others with large stitches that dissolved into the form of the garment. It clung to my skin readily. I absorbed the years of meditation of Ejo, his master, and those of other masters and patriarchs all the way back to Shakyamuni Buddha himself. The sensation of my body changed, and I finally understood what it was to feel like a mountain. There was no more space or time. The voice of the first awakener resounded unceasingly: “Never pretend anything that is not certain. There is no substantial ego, no object that is not impermanent. Perceptions, feelings, and visions are processes empty of real substance. Life is suffering. Birth, illness, old age, and death are suffering. To be separated from those we love is suffering. To be forced to be with those we do not love is suffering. To be unable to satisfy our desires is suffering.”

Yet Ejo’s kesa seemed to be saying to me: “Do not dwell at the surface of things. Beyond the Buddha’s words, in the deepest depths, in the highest heights, lives an exalted passion. Listen to cosmic consciousness, the phoenix surging forth from the mind in flames, for it is telling you: Life is pure happiness. Birth, illness, old age, and death are four gifts as marvelous as the cycle of the four seasons. You can never be separated from those you love, for they live in you forever. You cannot be forced to be with those you do not love, for you have let go of aversion. Your light, like that of the sun, is for everyone, and you love even those who appear odious. To be unable to satisfy your desires is not suffering — the important thing is the prodigious gift of desire itself, satisfied or not, which gives you your sense of being alive.

“Go beyond this litany of The cause of suffering is attachment to desires and things, because when attachment to desires and things is free from all possessiveness, it is sublime goodness. All that appears to be impermanent is engraved in the memory of God. Every second is eternity.

“Go beyond the litany of Put an end to all attachments and end all suffering. No — we cannot end these attachments. If all is one, then how can one detach itself from itself? Attachment through love is the way of realization. Eternal being is attached to you with an infinite tenderness.

“Go beyond even the litany of the Buddha’s Eightfold Path of ending suffering by right seeing, right thinking, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right attention, and right concentration. Free yourself from all conceptual chains; trust in the wisdom of Creation. You are not merely a part of Creation, you are Creation. To live in full happiness, walk in the infinite, pathless land. Let your eyes see what they invite you to see; do not put blinders on them. Let your thought wander in all dimensions, let your every word be rooted in your heart, act like a beloved child of beloved parents, see a thousand lives in one life. Make no effort; instead, allow things to happen through you, for every natural act is a gift. Right attention and right concentration are the offspring of a passionate love. Think, feel, desire, and live with pleasure. A cat makes no effort to concentrate when it sees a mouse.

“Go beyond the litany of Everything arises from ignorance. Why must we be born? Why must we die? Unity is total knowledge. When you become one with it, there is no ignorance. When the sun appears, darkness dissipates. We must die in order to be born. Existence venerates death; it does not deny it. There is no will to exist, for we already exist eternally. Anxiety to live is born of a lack of generous contact with the world, which is neither inner or outer, because there is no separation. To look is to bless; to hear, touch, feel, taste is to bless. The body, soul, spirit, and mental functions are one and the same. Ignorance is the desire to separate ourselves from them.

“Go beyond the litany of Everything changes ceaselessly. Everything passes. Everything is impermanent. Nothing is permanent. In God, nothing changes ceaselessly. Everything is permanent, eternal, infinite. Nothing passes away.

“Go beyond the litany of All is emptiness, ku, zero point. Nothing is ku; emptiness is an illusion. All is filled with God.”

At one crucial moment, as the rough cloth adhered to me, pressing upon me as if glued to my skin and bones, immobilizing me in a centuries-old posture while my thoughts flooded like a torrent in all directions, transforming legends, presuppositions, and written ideals into a mummified skin, Ejo Takata spoke to me in a voice full of kindness: “You are constructing everything that you think around the word God. If I took this word away from you, you’d have nothing left. Tell me: What is God for you?”

The first thing that came to mind was the definition that had fascinated poets and philosophers through the ages, from Hermes Trismegistus all the way to Jorge Luis Borges, including Parmenides, Alain de Lille, Meister Eckhart, Giordano Bruno, Copernicus, Rabelais, Pascal, and so many others. So I replied: “God is an infinite sphere whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere.”

Then, to head off any possible critique from Ejo about my intellect needing to die, I shouted: “Kwatzu!”

But then I had to confess, in a grumbling voice, that this definition was unacceptable even to me, because as soon as it was formulated in my mind, it became just one more prison. There are thinkers who are seduced by the sublime, geometric beauty of it, the sphere being the most perfect of all forms for them, but for a lover of organic beauty, a tree, a leaf, or an insect could be a better incarnation of perfection. Defining God as an infinite sphere is as absurd as defining God as an infinite fly. In any case, the infinite is beyond form by its very nature. Besides, because the center is everywhere and the circumference nowhere, there can be no parts. If all is center, what does center mean? A center requires something other than itself. It is absurd to speak of a center while affirming that this center is the only thing that exists. It is the same as saying: “God is an infinite human whose navel is everywhere and whose skin is nowhere.”

This provoked Ejo to a fit of uproarious laughter. Then he became serious again. “You still haven’t answered my question. All you’ve done is quote someone else’s definition, and then criticize it. Consult your hara^*33 and then reply.”

“Ejo, my reason is always seeking distinctions and limits. It can neither define nor explain nor understand a reality in which absolutely everything is united and forms one unique truth, but if we grant that no concept is reality, that it is only a limited sketch, I can learn to use words not as definitions of the world, but as symbols of it. A symbol allows for a vast number of meanings, as many as there are individuals to perceive it.

“For me, the ‘personal’ God, the prime actor of every sacred work, cannot have a geometrical, mineral, animal, vegetable, human sexual, racial, or other form. He cannot even have a name and cannot be the special property of any religion. Any quality or category that I might give him would amount to only a superstitious approximation. He is impossible to define with words or images and inaccessible to search for. It is absurd to say anything about God. The only possibility that remains: to receive him. But how? How can I receive what is inconceivable, ungraspable? I can do so only through the changes and mutations that it works in my life in the form of clarity of mind, happy love, creative capacity, and a joy in living that remains in spite of the worst suffering. If I imagine God as eternal, infinite, and omnipotent, it is only by contrast with what I believe myself to be: finite, ephemeral, and impotent in the face of the transformation known as death. Yet if everything is God and God does not die, then nothing dies. If everything is God and God is infinite, then nothing has limits. If everything is God and God is eternal, then nothing has a beginning or end. If everything is God and God is omnipotent, then nothing is impossible. Though I cannot name that or believe in that, I can still intuitively sense it in my deepest being. I can accept its will, a will that creates the universe and its laws. And I can imagine it as allied to me, whatever happens.

“It’s true that I need not say all this. Words are not the direct way — they point, but they do not go there. I accept that I belong to this unfathomable mystery, an entity without being, nonbeing, or dimension. I accept to surrender to its designs, to trust that my existence is neither an accident nor an illusion nor a cruel game, but an inexplicable necessity of its work. I know that this permanent impermanence is part of what my mind calls the cosmic plan. I believe that even if I am an infinitesimal cog in an infinite machine, I participate in its perfection, and that this destruction of my body is the portal I must cross to submerge myself in what my heart feels as total love, what my sexual center feels as infinite orgasm, what my intellect calls radiant emptiness, and what my body considers its mysterious home. If we are one with the universe, then it is our temple. We are renters beholden to a landlord who feeds us and supports and sustains us in life for the lot of time according to his will. This house is our certain refuge, but we can make it into either a Garden of Eden or a garbage dump. It can be a place of flourishing creativity or a dark, stinking realm where bad taste reigns. Between these impenetrable walls we can either thrive or commit suicide. The house of God does not behave in a certain way — it is simply there. Its quality depends on the use we make of it.”

Ejo Takata smiled. Mimicking my last phrase and way of talking, he said: “The mind does not behave in a certain way — it is simply there. Its quality depends on the use we make of it.

“I would like to remind you of a koan from the secret book. The disciple Hokoji^*34 was agitated and came to ask his master Baso: ‘What transcends existence?’ Baso answered: ‘I will tell you when you have drunk the entire Western River in a single gulp.’ Hokoji suddenly became calm, bowed respectfully, took a cup of tea, and drank it down in a single gulp.”

“I know, I know, Ejo. It is impossible to give a true reply to such questions. How can we define the indefinable, describe the indescribable, or think the unthinkable? Instead of giving a solution, Baso demanded the impossible of his student: to swallow a river. Hokoji realized that there is nothing beyond existence. By drinking a gulp of tea, he sided with the natural against the metaphysical. Yes, I know, but I am not a monk. I am a poet. And the poet’s ideal — even though he knows the project is doomed to failure — is to express the eternal silence in words.”

“Alejandro, neither of us is a monk or a poet. We are beings beyond definitions. When I asked you to define God, I was hoping that instead of elaborating on your ‘artistic’ theories, you would say something like: ‘I will tell you when you drink an entire river and eat a herd of elephants, bones and all.’ Now, how about leaving here and having a nice cup of tea or some tacos?”

I had the sensation of lightning striking my tongue, and I felt like biting it off. Of course I understood that words such as God, spirit, and infinite circle are interchangeable, but I was still enraged. I felt an immense rage that had been accumulating for years. By what right could this Japanese make fun of me when he himself was caught like a fly in the web of Buddhism? I began to spit out words in anger. I knew that much of what I was saying was foolish, but I could not restrain myself, because I still had an arrogant desire to shake that granite self-assurance I had always perceived in him.

“Ejo, you are fond of repeating that maxim of ‘If you meet the Buddha on the road, cut off his head.’ Yet you yourself continue to meditate in the same position as the first patriarchs. You have continued to wear your kesa, which imitates the Buddha’s renunciation of the world, and you repeat like a parrot or a fanatic the sutras of his words. You fill your days with useless ceremonies that you learned as a child. You live in a past that is not even your own. Among millions of poor Indians, Shakyamuni was the son of royalty and wealth. His father, the king, gave him everything: a palace surrounded by fabulous gardens, exquisite food, the most elegant dress, the most beautiful of women, hundreds of servants. Living in this luxurious prison, he did not know the misery of the lives of his numberless servants. Suddenly, because a small, dead bird fell upon his head, the future Buddha had a crisis like that of a hysterical woman. Reality was not what he thought it was! So he reacted as spoiled children the world over react, and instead of learning to accept life as it is, he began to hate it. ‘Life is suffering!’ he proclaimed. ‘It is a horror of old age, illness, and death! This is all a result of being born! To be free, I must reject matter, reject incarnation, never create a new body by mating with a woman, never enjoy the pleasures of the senses. Flee, flee, flee this existence!’ He was capable of leaving his entire family and exchanging his palace for the shade of a tree. He was able to deny himself. Ashamed of his earlier life of wealth and privilege, he became the poorest of the poor, wearing a robe made of funeral shrouds that he scrounged at the burning ghats. But this is still essentially the reaction of a spoiled child!

“We, on the other hand, have not been raised in the luxury of an artificial paradise; we have always known the misery and conflicts of the world. We grew up knowing that even if we had a roof over our heads, there were many others in this world who didn’t and that every time we had food to eat, there were millions of children going hungry. We were raised among egoists, old people, sick people, dying people — yet we were still able to celebrate the dawning of every new day! Would we have agreed to don the garments of corpses? Never! This kesa of yours is not for us, because we do not want to escape life! Even if we see life as an endless cycle of reincarnation, why should we want to free ourselves from this sacred cycle? We shall return again and again. Little by little, we will make the world a bit better, we will alter the cruel laws of the cosmos, because we are the consciousness, the best aspect of the Creator. We must develop this consciousness from life to life by communicating it and multiplying it. Ejo, we are here in this life with an immense responsibility: We cannot cease to exist as long as we have not perfected this universe, as long as beings still kill and destroy each other. We must return again and again until everything is joy and the love of light is in perfect harmony with the love of darkness. .”

At this point, I broke into tears and had to stop speaking. Ejo held me gently in his arms until my sobbing ceased. Delicately, he helped me out of the robe. He stretched out the kesa on the ground, folded it elaborately, like an origami design, as he had learned in the monastery, until it was reduced to a rectangle. Then he told me, calmly:

“My friend, it is easy for you to say that traditional sutras and teachings are lies, because they are only words. Yet these words propose experiences that can plunge us into a deeper reality. The foundational myths are necessary, because we cannot construct a society without them. It would be dangerous to try to destroy them, for such destruction would undermine the foundations on which human relationships are based and replace them with nothing. On the other hand, it is very useful to reinterpret them in a way that is in accord with what we both value. If you feel this interpretation, you will experience it.

“As for this kesa, it is now like an old, worn-out skin. Thanks to many generous hands, it has acquired its current form and served as a recipient for consciousness. It is like a caterpillar’s cocoon, and now the butterfly is ready to spread its wings. It would be stupid to continue to live in the boat that has served to help you cross the river to the other shore.

“The reason I revere the memory of Shakyamuni is because of what his figure has given the world — unlike you, I don’t bother about whether he was historically this or that or whether his deeds were mythic or real.

“Yet your poet’s point of view has shown me something that my monk’s imagination was unable to see: The patriarch gathered a bunch of funeral rags, sewed them together with care and respect, and made himself a robe. This amounts to an artistic creation, but for centuries, we have been merely imitating this creative act. Hence this kesa is not a creation of my own soul; it is ultimately an imitation of the work of Shakyamuni. It actually belongs to him, not to me. Times have changed, and we are not living in India or Tibet. Still less are we practicing the original Chinese Ch’an Buddhism. Zen must adapt itself to each country according to the customs of its people. Otherwise, it will become a form of religious imperialism. It is not Mexico that needs Japanese Zen, it is Japanese Zen that needs Mexico. The Tarahumaras weave a type of pure, simple, white linen cloth. It is a bit of luxury in their misery, symbolizing the desire for a cleaner and better life. I shall weave my own kesa with that cloth.”

Ejo arose, gathered some dry branches, and lit a fire. Upon it he placed his carefully folded old robe. With great tenderness, he watched it burn; he wore the kind of expression of loving farewell to a friend who will never return. His eyes full of tears, he turned his back and took the path that led out of the woods and back to the city.

Very soon, I returned to France without seeing him again.

Five years passed. This time, I returned to Mexico wearing the hat of a therapist promoting my new book. As usual, the publishers had arranged a lecture at the Julio Castillo Theater.

It had been two weeks since my son Teo died, and I was broken by this terrible loss. When the accident happened, I was in the midst of a flurry of obligations, courses, conferences, interviews, therapy sessions, and preparations for this trip to Mexico. Nothing made sense to me any more, but I forced myself to respect my obligations, knowing that if I abandoned them now, I would never take them up again. When I arrived in Mexico City, I felt as though a secret weight was pressing me down into the earth. I had to call upon all my experience as an actor to put on a good face before the eager audience of readers and students and somehow transmit my message of the joy of life — but in the middle of my presentation, it was as if a spring snapped inside my throat. I lost my voice. A desperate sob was down there, trying to open up a passage. I gritted my teeth and hid my face, pretending to use my handkerchief. I felt as though I could not continue.

At that exact instant, Ejo Takata came up onto the stage. He unfolded a Mexican version of a tatami mat and sat down to meditate. Instead of a kesa, he wore white linen pants and a simple shirt of the same material, like the Indians of the Sierra.

Here was my master, indeed — authentic as ever, solid as a mountain, his knees grounded in the earth and his head pushing against the heavens, at the very center of eternal time and space. His presence gave me the strength to continue. At the end, as on the last such occasion, he took advantage of the applause to disappear. I ran out, looking for him, but this time I could not find him at all. I needed his consolation, but I no longer had his address. I felt very sad. Jacqueline, a beautiful dwarf, came up to me and said, with great warmth: “I am a disciple of Ejo. He knows you need to see him. He told me to take you to where he is living, outside the city.”

After two hours in a beat-up old taxi, we arrived in a poor suburb where Takata lived like an Indian, teaching his Tarahumara disciples to meditate. Discreetly, Jacqueline waited for me in the old car. As I related at the beginning of this book, the master consoled me with a single word: duele, “it hurts.”

This was the last time I was ever to see him. I gave Jacqueline some money to buy flowers for his wife and adopted daughter.

“The wife and daughter could not bear the harshness of Ejo’s life between the city and the Sierra,” Jacqueline told me. “Tomiko married in the United States. She lives in Texas with her husband and three children. Michiko lives with them.”

Two years later, Jacqueline called me in Paris. In tears, she announced the death of Ejo Takata. I tried to console her. “Yes, Jacqueline, it hurts. It really hurts terribly — but life continues. When a branch is cut from the tree, it never comes back and the scar always remains on the trunk. The tree covers it over with new cells, and then new sprouts appear from it. The wound underneath the bark becomes a haven for mushrooms that fall from the tree and nourish the soil in which it grows.”

I received a fax from the Tarahumara disciple who now directed Ejo’s group and had taken the title of Roshi Silencio. He asked me for a thousand dollars to build a stupa, a Buddhist monument that would contain the master’s ashes and, later, those of his disciples. Instead of sending him a contribution for such a project, I sent a poem:

A pound of ashes,

a thousand pounds of ashes,

what is the difference?

The Master’s ashes

are my ashes.

When the wind carries away my remains,

the Master’s remains are dispersed with me.

A stupa does not give peace

when it is a stupa of death

seen without a master.

May his tomb

not be the tomb

of those who are afraid to traverse alone

the dissolution of their consciousness.