Does the Roshi, who just entered the hall, know the answers? Can he, the living Buddha, cut my illusions with his sword? I raise my head and follow him with my eyes. Very upright, very dignified, the lion has crossed the threshold. Short ice-grey hair, a fleshy nose and wide ears I sense in the darkness. Roshi even has an athletic silhouette in his flowing black robe and purple monk cape: Swimmer. Or Boxer. It may be – but now he is abbot of this temple; and temple is everywhere where he sits. Roshi has his hands folded in front of his chest and is standing in the middle of the room. Where did he leave his sword? He looks in a semicircle once, checking, and his look meets my eyes. I’ll look down quickly. He doesn’t need a sword. His quiet eyes are enough.
I have known Roshi for ten years and have the illusion that he knows the answers. How will he use his sword?
” DONG – Chak – DONG… ” sounds the big bell. The nun behind the bells and gongs struck it, muted it and struck it again. Jikido is called her position and she gives the time and is responsible for the arrangement in the meditation room.
With the ebbing sounds of the last beat, we fifty people begin to recite a verse in which we vow to take responsibility for our actions. I whisper the verse with my lips, I mean it. I’m looking for my sword.