A. In the Beginning
I was born in July 1915, in Kumamoto, Japan, to a family that belonged to the Jodo Shinshu School of Buddhism. I have a vague recollection of going to the temple with my mother and grandfather while still a little child. In May of my fourth grade year in elementary school, my maternal grandfather died at the age of 83. He had lived a long life for that era. Priests from various places sent congratulatory messages. I wondered why death was an occasion for celebration.

The fact of the matter is that my grandfather had taken ill and died once at age 25. After the temple priest had offered last rites and gone home, my grandfather had started to breathe again. My grandfather mused, "Had I died then, I would surely have fallen into hell." Later in life I became interested in clinical death experiences and surmised that my grandfather must have gotten a glimpse of the world of the dead. After this experience my grandfather became a devout seeker of Buddhist teachings. Since he was a follower of the Jodo Shinshu School, he traveled far and wide to call on priests of high virtue in this tradition. At that time my grandfather was connected with the newly-introduced paper-manufacturing business and enjoyed the luxury of time for travel between his business responsibilities. There were esteemed priests who earned the highest possible scholastic honor in Buddhist studies and who preached at the Hongwanji Temple in Kyoto and at their home temples in Hiroshima and Oita. Such august priests were my grandfather's mentors.

At age 60, my grandfather retired from the paper business, cloistered himself in a room and began to write. He had embarked on penning, Shinjin no sho (Writings on Devotions). I remember my grandfather facing a blank sheet of paper with a writing brush in hand. His writings filled seven book cases, but all were reduced to ashes during the air raids of World War II. The day before his death he summoned my father, his son-in-law, to his bedside, and relayed a lengthy final message. It was not about his estate; in essence, all he said was, "Honor the teachings of the Buddha."

My grandfather died in May, and in August one of his esteemed mentors, Ekaku Koreyama, a learned priest, arrived in Kumamoto for a summer seminar. He was our house guest for one week. Reverend Koreyama preached once in the morning and once in the afternoon in the largest temple in town. I accompanied my mother to these sermons, and this was the first time in my recollection that I listened to a sermon with some awareness. In the morning his topic was "Gi naki wo gi tosu (Meaning exists within non-meaning)," and his audience was made up of lay members. In the afternoon he spoke on Master Zendo's "White Path Between Two Rivers" and addressed the clergy. Lay people sat in the perimeter around the priests and listened to the sermon. I attended the twice-daily sermons for the entire week. The story of the Two Rivers was simple enough for children to understand. The metaphor of the two rivers made me feel that life is indeed like two rivers. In retrospect, "Meaning exists within non-meaning" had profound meaning; but at that time it seemed quite logical and natural, although deep within my child's heart I suspected that this was teaching at a higher level. I was not particularly moved, however. But I remember that Master Koreyama spoke not just with his mouth, but with his entire body.

Subsequently I began to listen to sermons of my own volition. In fifth grade the following year, the Reverend Shuzen Endo of the Gyoshinkyo School in Osaka was a house guest for five days, and he delivered sermons early in the morning in a tiny temple with which he was associated. It was winter and very cold, but the sermons were delivered early and did not interfere with school attendance. I went to listen to the teachings daily. Reverend Endo was not a "fire and brimstone" preacher. His sermons were unpretentious and restrained, and he simplified the teachings of Jodo Shinshu, which made a deep impression on my little boy's heart.

I was in the sixth or seventh grade when I listened to a sermon delivered by Master Jun'nin Kiritani of the Hongwanji. This was a different sort of sermon--refreshing, as if religious devotion spewed from Master Kiritani's being. In March of that year I completed middle school. The Reverend Shinryu Umehara held a three-day religious gathering in Kumamoto. This was a period during the Reverend Umehara's life when he was in his mid-forties and burning with zeal and lofty goals. At that time I was preparing for entrance into the pre-war secondary school, but I could not refrain from being totally immersed in his lectures. His topic was, "Shukyo no jishusei ni tsuite (The Nature of Religious Autonomy)," and I detected a fresh outlook never before seen in other priests I had heard. I was so elated that I have no recollection of how I got home. When I realized where I was, I found myself walking around in circles back in my own room.

Fortunately, I was admitted to the Fifth Public High School in April as a literature major. During the first year, Professor Asai lectured on natural science. He said that the boundary between the living and the lifeless is not very well demarcated. At that moment my religious moorings crumbled. Because the spirit is alive, one is able to be born in the Pure Land of Amida Buddha. If there is no distinction between the living and lifeless, what does it mean to be alive? When we speak of Birth in the Pure Land (ojo), what is it that attains Birth?

In the Jodo Shinshu School, we learn the concept of mon soku shin which means, "what one hears is in itself one's faith." Through the many sermons I had heard over many years, I had come to my own understandings and drawn some conclusions. I believed that this was my religious belief. My belief had disintegrated in an instant, and I was rudely confronted with the realization that the heart was not very dependable. Everything now seemed empty and futile.

Around this time there arose a desire in me to begin an earnest study of Buddhism from its basic teachings. During my third year in high school I first participated in the Zen practice called sesshin (the exclusive practice of meditation) at Bairinji Temple in Kurume, Fukuoka. The old master gave me a koan (a conundrum used by Rinzai Zen to awaken spiritual insight): "What is the sound of one hand clapping." A sound is produced by clapping both hands; however, this koan teaches us to hear the sound through only one hand. To embrace an illogical problem and to labor over its solution is a Zen koan. Pondering deeply, I held many discussions with the old master but got nowhere. One week elapsed while I existed in a daze.

Making a lasting mark on my memory was the character of the old master. At about three in the afternoon there was a sarei (tea-drinking) ritual. With the master in the center we partook of tea and cakes. In the humidity of August, a priest sat behind the old master, fanning him with an over-sized fan. The old master sat serenely, a smile on his lips. He looked the same as he did while carrying out his meditative practice. I have studied with many masters since, but I have never encountered anyone with such serenity. I was told by an old veteran of Zen that the master is said to have stated that entrance into the state of meditation is akin to entering a pair of bellows. I remember these words clearly. Might the master have been in samadhi (a state of meditation) right then? The realization came to me years later, although I failed even to remember this teacher's name.

B. Religious Experiences
In April of 1936, I enrolled in the Buddhist Studies Program of the Indian Philosophy Department in the School of Arts and Sciences at Tokyo University. At that time there were no Buddhist reference materials; I received Buddhist education for the first time after matriculating at the University. In retrospect, I realize the benevolent influence of my teachers, who, beginning with an introduction of Indian philosophy and Buddhism, guided me through the study of Buddhism as a whole. They then taught me the Pali, Sanskrit, and Tibetan languages to a point at which I could read materials in their original language, which is immeasurable in its value.

Be that as it may, I was confronted with two problems in my pursuit of Buddhist studies. The first was the fact that my faith had been shattered in senior high school. If one could not rely on the mind, it was obvious that one could not rely on intellectual understanding alone. Believing that the Buddhist teaching must be a physical experience, I found a Zen mentor and began to meditate.

The other problem surfaced a while later. I began to think that the mere study of Buddhism did not help toward a true understanding of Buddhism. Man lives life in many different ways. The differences of man allowed for many religious schools and a myriad of philosophies. Only a comparative study of religion and philosophy would clarify the characteristics of Buddhism. As I pursued this reasoning it became clear to me that all religions and all philosophies ultimately pointed in the same direction. In the final analysis, the great teachers of humankind--the Buddha, Jesus Christ, Socrates, and Confucious--taught the same essential message. To further condense this thought: there is only one final truth for humankind. I have been able to come to terms with this truth as a result of my prolonged study of zenjo (samadhi; the state of meditation) taught by the Buddha. This truth is an essential, unavoidable theme in the present-day world; however, I shall not regress here and will limit the scope of my discussion to the Way to Enlightenment.

I wish to go back to the first problem that confronted me. In other words, feeling that true understanding of Buddhism would only come from academic pursuits plus physical experience, I began zazen (the meditative practice of just sitting quietly). My first mentor was an upper classman of the Buddhist Studies Program in the Indian Philosophy Department at Tokyo University, Prof. Gentaro Okuno. I was captivated by Prof. Okuno's spirit, passion, genius, and indication of the world of absolute transcendence and vowed to devote myself to zazen for life under the tutelage of this great teacher.
Zazen, however, is not as simplistic as it seems. The goal of zazen is to delve into the self. Yet, when one confronts one's self in the context of meditation, one realizes that the self is extremely complex, and the innermost chambers are shrouded in darkness. One can only call this an unfathomable blackness. Since the one in pursuit is also the self, both subjective self and objective self are covered in darkness. That is, it is nothing but a struggle between darkness and darkness. The longer I sat, the more intense became my suffering. I roamed from maze to maze in a pitch black fog. A year elapsed, then another.

On a memorable day--February 7, 1941--at about 5:00 p.m., I entered the special reading room in the Tokyo University library in despair. The sun had set and only a few students remained in the quiet of dusk. I took out the Jujikyo (Sutra of the Ten Stages found within the Avatamsaka Sutra) from my bag and looked absentmindedly at the first chapter "Kangiji (the State of Joy)ﾓ.
It happened at that precise moment. With no warning, there was a tremendous explosion. My universe broke into fragments and became a mist. I had no consciousness of the passage of time. When I came to, I felt a tremendous joy well up from the depths of my being. This was my first conscious emotion. That which I had agonized over and sought for so long had become a reality. My elation enveloped my entire being. I had no doubt that it was a clear, cloudless awakening. My joy was so profound that I was dumbfounded, as if in a trance. I have no recollection of how I made it home to the Sugamo dormitory from my campus in Hongo.

What does this experience mean? All the years I had spent studying Buddhist teachings and practicing zenjo became clear to me, yet at that moment all I could do was immerse myself in the ecstasy of elation. I was in such a state for perhaps a week. In about ten days, however, my awe dissipated, and I was back to where I used to be. I was plagued by the same evil passions and self-attachments. What was that experience? Was it merely a hallucination? Indeed, it was not. I could not deny the reality of that explosion. However, no amount of inquiry changed the existence of my evil passions and self-attachments.

My doubting heart was back to its starting point, my doubts even escalated, and I continued zazen and avidly pursued the study of Buddhist writings. About a month later I relaxed in the lounge of the library at Tokyo University, reading the Discourse on Method by Descartes. When I came upon "Cogito ergo sum (I think, therefore, I am)," I erupted! As if the bottom had fallen out of an old wooden bucket, the extraneous baggage of my body and mind fell away. This experience, at this time, was definitely related to Descartes. I am not certain, however, whether or not the first explosion had any bearing on the Sutra of the Ten Stages that I was reading at the time. I may have grounded myself on my readings on a subconscious level. Compared to my first explosion, the second was a small explosion, a tiny awakening; however, the experience was similar in scope. This time, again, I was back to my old self in a few days.

C. Two Masters
During this time I continued to meditate and to listen to sermons by Prof. Okuno. I also frequented Engakuji Temple in Kamakura to listen to masters Gyodo Furukawa and Hogaku Seigo.

One summer, a Zen session by Prof. Okuno convened at Rin'noji Temple in Nikko. This meeting was held under the sponsorship of the Ministry of Education. In attendance were 40-50 middle school principals who assembled to study Zen for five days under the tutelage of Prof. Okuno. I accompanied Prof. Okuno as his assistant. During this session I encountered a superlative experience, different from any other experience I had previously. Upon awakening one morning, I noticed that the mountains of Nikko, as far as my eyes could see, were transparent in their brilliance. My heart, likewise, was shining in transparency. Unconsciously, I held my palms together and worshiped the mountains. This was not merely the breathtaking beauty of nature. Nature and myself were in communion, and knowing no barriers, were consorting with one another. The radiance of spirit and the freshness of nature seem to be aglitter. It was incomparable joy.

The other experience was the discourse on the Heart Sutra (Hannya-shin-gyo) by Prof. Okuno during this session. His exposition was different from that of any other master. It was also different from the lectures I had heard in his meditation hall. His fiery sermon picked my brain dry. It was as if theory and comprehension gored my entire body, and its taut strength made me about to burst. What a discourse! It was my first and last such experience. After the seminar I visited Prof. Okuno to thank him again with a deeply grateful heart.
Prof. Okuno later contracted tuberculosis, became bed bound, and on August 3, 1942, passed away suddenly. He was only forty-five years old, and I had studied with him for three years. I sat before his lifeless form in utter dejection and was, myself, drawn into the Pure Land. In purity and serenity I sat still forever.

About this time I met another of my life's mentors. He was Master Joen Ashikaga, a publisher in Kyoto. Although he belonged to the tradition of Shinran Shonin, he had no temple, and was commonly referred to as hiso hizoku (a priest who establishes a home; neither monk nor layperson). In 1940, after graduating in April, I called on him in Kyoto unannounced, a friend's introduction in hand. Master Ashikaga appeared at the front door in informal attire. "It is he!" I thought, awe-struck. I had met many masters of the Pure Land tradition in the past, and there is no argument about the eminency of these masters; however, I did not feel that I could place the matter of my salvation into their hands. Yet, I connected with Master Ashikaga at this first meeting. I placed my faith and trust in him. No matter how I try to explain this, I can only say that it was a karmic relation.

I was told by Master Ashikaga that he was about to go on an errand and that I should return around 7:00 that evening. That night, I called on him as I was told to do. Master Ashikaga, who was already well into his 60's, was very different in appearance from Prof. Okuno. He also spoke slowly and deliberately, in a quiet voice. Mesmerized, I lost track of time, and it was after 11:00 p.m. before I realized how much time had elapsed. Apologizing for overstaying my welcome, I took my leave, boarded an express train at Kyoto Station, and headed for my home in Kumamoto. En route I reflected over and over on my discourse with Master Ashikaga and did not sleep a wink that night.

In March of that year I entered graduate school. I lived in Tokyo, and Master Ashikaga lived in Kyoto. As I stated before, every day of my life was a continuum of agony and anguish. Each time a problem surfaced from my subconscious and cast me into hopelessness, I donned my ikat kimono and hakama (men's split skirt) and raced from Tokyo to Kyoto by train. It was a distance of eight hours one way by express train. I reviewed my questions, sorting and categorizing them mentally. Upon arrival in Kyoto, I hurried to Master's home. I would be asked into his family room, be served tea, and while I sipped my tea, all of the questions I had so carefully pondered were erased from my consciousness. Elated, I would dazedly wonder what had come over me. I experienced the same phenomenon several times at the home of Master.

Such were my encounters with my two masters. One was Zen Buddhism, the other Pure Land Buddhism; however, I see no conflict or contradiction. Rather, I am baffled by the fact that I could so completely immerse myself simultaneously in both schools. At that time, sectarian consciousness was dominant. Zen Buddhism taught jiriki (self power); Pure Land Buddhism taught tariki (other power), and was strongly opposed to Zen thought. Self power or other power was of no concern to me. All I sought was deliverance from my bottomless anguish, and there appeared before me two true masters of Buddha's Way. It was not at all amazing that I was so completely absorbed by the teachings of these masters.

D. My Bottomless "Gakai (Mass of Ego)"
I was drafted and entered military service on October 5, 1942. The war ended on August 15, 1945, after which I returned to my home in Kumamoto. I had many religious experiences in the army, but all of my war years will be omitted here. I taught school for a short time in Kumamoto, returned to Tokyo in 1951, and again pursued academics in graduate school at Tokyo University, studying both Buddhism and Western philosophy. In 1954 I began to teach Buddhism in the Buddhist Studies Program at Toyo University in Tokyo. During this time I participated in meditation led by Master Keizan Shirouzu of Heirinji Temple. In 1959 I left Toyo University and taught Buddhism in the Buddhist Studies Program of the Indian Philosophy Department at Tokyo University. I then began to practice Zen with Master Hakuun Yasutani. Master Yasutani was the successor to Master Sogaku Harada. They were masters of Soto Zen, and Master Harada also practiced koan Zen in the Rinzai School, as did Master Yasutani.

I was posed a muji no koan (a type of koan which teaches that the truth is beyond any description) by Master Yasutani, attended each sesshin (meditative session), and was allowed to practice kensho (seeing the true nature of self). Thinking back, each explosive experience in the past resulted in reversion to my old self; but kensho means to explode, and I understood that to explode is to awaken. That is, kensho and explosion are synonymous.

As soon as I experienced kensho, my mentor gave me a new koan. I had to wrestle with the new conundrum, until I succeeded in kensho. It is not, however, easy to discover the answer to a koan. I grappled heart and mind, and after many days I sometimes solved the conundrum; sometimes a solution would not come to me, and I only saw the light after my mentor offered some clues. Whichever the case, I was elated and deeply content each time I unearthed a solution. I continued to grapple with conundrums during meditation and while participating in a meditative session from time to time.
In doing so, I became aware of an earth-shattering problem. A koan is a dialogue among the Chinese Zen priests, and I had been given these questions and found myself wrestling with them in desperation. Essentially I was pursuing solutions to problems that were not mine. If the Zen priest's dialog itself is the major theme, the true koan should be basic questions of the moment on a personal level. In other words, the problem I had of reverting to my old self after each explosion needed to be addressed. After kensho, I had wrestled with one conundrum after another, and in the process had forgotten that I had been reverting to my old self. In the depth of the unconsciousness of my complacency, I was aghast that there thrived within me a dark Mass of Ego, that emerged each time I solved a problem. Should I continue on the path of solving conundrums, the problem of my dark Mass of Ego would be left untouched. I described the intricacies of my thought to Master Yasutani in great detail, which he accepted in good spirit. This was my departure from the zazen (the meditative practice of just sitting quietly) of the Zen School and the genesis of my resolve to pursue the study of zenjo (samadhi) of the Buddha.

A. Appearance of the Dharma
The samadhi of the Buddha, as taught in the Pali Scriptures, is easily understood and practical as well. To illustrate this point, the Four Stages of Meditative Absorption (Jp.shizen/ Pali.cattari jhana) are explained here. The depth of samadhi (zenjo) is systematically classified. It is the most basic systematization of the concept of samadhi. The following is a diagram of the Four Stages:

First stage --> investigation --> contemplation --> rapture --> happiness
Second stage ------------------------------------------> rapture --> happiness
Third stage ----------------------------------------------------------> happiness
Fourth stage ----------------------------------------------------------------------->purification of mindfulness

In the first stage, "investigation" (Jp.jin/ P.vitakka) and "contemplation" (Jp.shi/ P.vicara ) allude to the vacillation of spirit. One who practices zenjo for the first time lacks equanimity. Trying to attain tranquility exacerbates this uneasiness. "Contemplation" is essentially more subtle than "investigation." Further in the depths of both "investigation" and "contemplation" is an inexplicable feeling of "rapture" (Jp.ki/ P.piti) and "happiness" (Jp.raku/ P.sukha). "Happiness" is deeper than "rapture."

In the second stage, there is an absence of "investigation" and "contemplation," and only "rapture" and "happiness" remain. In the third stage only "happiness" remains. In the fourth stage everything is extinguished. This state is referred to as "purification of mindfulness" (Jp.shanen shojo/ P. upekkha-sati-parisuddha) where one abandons judgmental thoughts and only purity remains. These stages describe the depths of the four stages of meditation, but a word of caution is necessary here. If one is aware of these steps, it would not be a true act of zenjo (samadhi). The true spirit of the practice of zenjo is not an awareness of "investigation," "contemplation," "rapture," or "happiness." For instance, to clarify that "investigation," "contemplation," "rapture," and "happiness" are of the first stage, and that only "rapture" and "happiness" are of the second stage is not the true sense of zenjo. The true zenjo means to merely practice the attainment of purification of mindfulness. In other words, it is ichigyo zanmai (the samadhi of single practice).

Upon entrance into zenjo (samadhi), the murkiness in the mind dissipates and is absorbed into one's body. Entering deeper, the upper torso is absorbed into the lower body. Finally one becomes a single mass. It need not be said here that this is not a tangible physical phenomenon--it happens at an individual's insightful level. To become a single mass, however, one must understand and accept the process of the Four Stages of Meditative Absorption, which will allow one to practice the samadhi of single practice.

Thus, I practiced zenjo (samadhi) according to the Buddha's teachings, aspiring to attain a wholeness of mind, heart, spirit, and body; in other words, my whole persona. As I continued the samadhi of single practice, the bottom of the old wooden bucket occasionally fell out, washing out the sludge, and placing me in a state of pure mindfulness. In truth this happened rarely.

At the age of 58, I encountered the Buddha's words of enlightenment uttered under the bodhi tree. This is called udana in Sanskrit. Udana means "to face skyward and exhale." In this case it alludes to an ode that resulted from rapturous joy. As the night wore on the Buddha uttered these verses as he penetrated the truth of dependent co-origination (Jp.engi/ P.paticca samuppada).

Verse at Dusk
Verily, when the Dhamma becomes apparent to the practitioner deep in samadhi, all doubts of the practitioner will vanish. This happens because the practitioner penetrates the arising of causes and conditions.

Verse at Midnight
Verily, when the Dhamma becomes apparent to the practitioner deep in samadhi, all doubts of the practitioner will vanish. This happens because the practitioner penetrates the cessation of causes and conditions.

Verse at Dawn
Verily, when the Dhamma becomes apparent to the practitioner deep in samadhi, the practitioner has annihilated the army of evil and abides in tranquility. It is as though the sun illuminates the skies.

Dhamma is Pali; Dharma is Sanskrit, and in China the concept is translated as "Law." Dhamma connotes many meanings; here it can only mean "life itself apart from any form." It can be called "pure, or genuine life"; however, one must not get embroiled in semantics. "Practitioner" refers to the Buddha as Gautama before realizing buddhahood.

Be that as it may, when the Buddha realized enlightenment, he described the state of enlightenment as "the Dhamma becomes apparent." My encounter with the words, "the Dhamma becomes apparent" melted away all of my questions regarding my religious experiences, such as the great explosions, the minor explosions, and the washing away of sludge when the bottom of the bucket fell out. The simple words, "the Dhamma becomes apparent," revolutionized my consciousness.

Indeed, to become enlightened or to awaken means, "the Dhamma becomes apparent." From the perspective of "self power" and "other power," the phenomenon of the Dhamma becoming apparent is, without question, "other power." Later, when the Buddha took disciples, the word Dhamma was often replaced by the word Tathagata. Tathagata is the body of ultimate reality, also known asDharma-kaya or the Dhamma Body of the Buddha It is life without form. Therefore, Dhamma and Tathagata are one and the same, but Tathagata is more familiar and intimate from our perspective. Consequently, I wiil refer to this as the "Dhamma-Tathagata becoming apparent." In other words, the absolute other power of the "Dhamma-Tathagata becoming apparent" is at the same time a manifestation of the absolute power of Tathagata. Put another way, the power of the Tathagata comes toward me head-on.

After each religious experience, up to this point, I had reverted back to what I had been before. I am at present, again, no better than I used to be. This means that my zenjo (samadhi), henceforth, consists of beginning meditation none the wiser, placing my implicit belief in the absolute power of the Tathagata, and immersing myself in practice.

B. The Maturation of Karma (Jp.go-jukutai/ P.kamma-vipaka)
When we compare the three verses previously cited, there are differences between dusk and midnight, and midnight to dawn. The common factor is that Dhamma becomes apparent; however, at dusk the law of the arising of causes and conditions is penetrated, and at midnight the law of the cessation of causes and conditions is penetrated. Near dawn, the army of evil (i.e. countless defiled passions) is destroyed, and the sun seems to illuminate the skies.

What do these changes suggest? If according to the meditative state of the Buddha, I personally enter a state of meditation, and the bottom falls out of my bucket (when the Dhamma becomes apparent), careful introspection of the causes and conditions will make the meaning of these changes clear to me. At dusk, when the Dhamma becomes apparent, causes and conditions arise. Then, as the Dhamma begins to permeate the totality of the Buddha in the middle of the night, he experiences the cessation of causes and conditions. Finally, a deeper absorption of the Dhamma turns into a form of the Buddha. At dawn, the Dhamma has penetrated into the Buddha, dispelling all evil passions. It radiates into the cosmos as if the sun illuminates the skies.

The significance of such a change gradually became apparent as I practiced meditation, and the meaning of the verse at dawn has only now, at age 83, become solidly fixed within me.

At age 60, I retired from Tokyo University and took a position at Tohoku University in Sendai. I taught there for three years until my retirement at age 63. The most momentous occurrence for me during this period was the discovery of the teaching of the maturation of karma (kamma-vipaka) in a Pali text. That is to say, Dhamma-Tathagata becomes apparent through the maturation of karma (kamma-vipaka). This concept served to fix the Way of Buddhism within me.

What does "the maturation of karma" mean? After reviewing some of the Buddha's sermons, the following idea is clear:

From a beginningless past, sentient beings have mingled with each other while transmigrating through the delusive realms of birth-and-death. The existence of one's present body at this time is the result of these ever changing phenomena which is all united in a universal co-existence. My existence is the fruit of my nature and also of a common nature. Furthermore, its foundation is limitlessly deep, without consciousness, without wisdom, ignorant, and rather filthy and sludgy.

This is "the maturation of karma". I realized that the Dhamma-Tathagata does, indeed, become apparent through "the maturation of karma" (kamma-vipaka) and will continue to penetrate through kamma-vipaka. It became clear to me that this perpetual function of the Dhamma is the essence of the Way of Buddhism. All buddhas--the Seven Buddhas who appeared before Sakyamuni Buddha as described in the early Buddhist Scriptures, Amida Buddha, Sakyamuni Buddha, Buddha Vairocana, and Tathagata Mahavairocana as described in Mahayana texts--appeared through the boundless energy of the Dhamma. This has been extrapolated in the sutras.

The fact that this became obvious was an earth-shattering event for me. If I were to cite the three major karmic relationships in my awakening, the first was the massive explosion; the second was the "the Dhamma becomes apparent"; and the third was the eternal energy of the Dhamma-Tathagata becoming apparent through the "the maturation of karma" and continuing to penetrate through kamma-vipaka. The third karmic relationship is the solution for all important questions related to Buddhism. I learned this through the study of various sutras, but it was also the fruit of my continuous study of the zenjo of the Buddha. Without the zenjo, none of my questions could have been answered.

C. Nembutsu (Being mindful of the Buddha)
How is the study of the zenjo of the Buddha taught? I have traversed the many paths indicated in the early Buddhist Scriptures, condensed my learnings, and stated my findings in my New Quest for Buddhism--Living in the Dhamma, Daizo Shuppan, 1990. I would like to focus on Nembutsu in this paper because Nembutsu is the foundation of all Buddhist teachings.

It need not be pointed out here that taking refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha has been the basic stance of the Buddhist practitioner through the ages, from early times through Mahayana Buddhism. This is referred to as Reliance Upon the Three Treasures. Representative of the Three Treasures is Nembutsu (being mindful of the Buddha). Originally, Gautama realized enlightenment because the Dhamma-Tathagata became apparent. Therefore, it would be natural that the Buddha exhorted his disciples to meditate on the Tathagata, believing it is a necessary process toward enlightenment. In other words, this is Nembutsu (being mindful of the Buddha).

Nembutsu today seems to be the exclusive "possession" of Pure Land Buddhism, and zenjo (samadhi) seems to be the signature of Zen Buddhism. However, it was not the Buddha who consolidated Nembutsu and zenjo; their roots were one and the same. Nembutsu is zenjo, and zenjo is Nembutsu. Let me attempt to interpret a sermon of the Buddha on Nembutsu (being mindful of the Buddha):

Meditate on the Tathagata. That is to say, 'the World-honored one is also called Arhat, Samyak-sambodhi, Vidya-carana-sampanna, Sugata, Lokavit, Anuttara, Purusa-damya-sarathi, Sasta-deve-manusyanam, Buddha, and the World-honored one.' When one meditates on the Tathagata, one is released from the evil passions of greed, anger, and ignorance and becomes pure of heart toward the Tathagata. If one becomes sincere and pure-hearted, one is then able to embrace the Dhamma spontaneously, and also feel gladness being one with the Dhamma.

Eventually one experiences rapture, and one's body becomes weightless with relief (Jp. kyoan /Skt.prasrabdhi). More profoundly, one becomes free of burden, finally enters samadhi and becomes a Dhamma-sota-sampanna (stream winner of the Dhamma). This is truly Nembutsu.

The first statement in this text is to "meditate on the Tathagata," after which the Ten Epithets of the Tathagata are enumerated. The Ten Epithets of theTathagata began in early times and continued throughout Mahayana Buddhism. They indicate the eternal Tathagata. To call out the name of the Tathagata in worship is the beginning of the vocal Nembutsu; i.e., the recitation of the name of Amida Buddha.

Meditation means visualization of the Tathagata in order to focus one's mind in concentration. In doing so, one's mind is released from greed, anger, and ignorance, and one's heart opens to the Tathagata. It means that one becomes sincere and genuine. Once one's heart is opened, the Dhamma naturally begins to permeate our being. This causes inexplicable joy to well-up within us.
Continuing on a deeper level, joy arises. This "joy" is the same one as previously described in the Four Stages of Meditation (investigation, contemplation, joy, and bliss). The body becomes weightless with relief (kyoan). As one goes further, the feeling becomes bliss. This is also the same feeling as in the Four Stages of Meditative Absorption. Bliss is more intense than joy. Thus does the entire human entity enter samadhi.

Finally, one becomes an entity that has entered the flow of the Dhamma. Put another way, the human entity is totally absorbed in the flow of a formless life. Or it can be said that life itself embraces one's entire being. I am indeed embraced by the Tathagata and am immersed in the infinite life of the Tathagata. This is the form of one who has consummated Nembutsu.
Thus, Nembutsu itself is samadhi, and samadhi itself is Nembutsu. We are discussing the way of Nembutsu here, and what is really practiced is the samadhi of single practice, contemplating the Tathagata. In retrospect, however, one can see the process by which one enters the depth of practice. If one practices according to the samadhi of the Buddha, one will ultimately experience these results.

A. Three weeks of entering Samadhi
The discussion thus far may convey the impression that my life in search of the Way of Buddha was one of smooth progress. It was hardly so. I would say that it was a trip of endurance; panting, I traversed over mountains, valleys, rivers, and cliffs.

Repeatedly I awakened, then relapsed, awakened and relapsed again. In other words, I advanced and retreated; opened my eyes and closed them, over and over again. Since I understood that awakening meant the appearance of the Dhamma, I desired the appearance each time I entered samadhi. Yet, the Dhamma seldom became apparent to me. I was experiencing the very same process I did when I was immersed in the earlier years. The truth is, however, that the more times I practiced zenjo (samadhi), the more frequent the Dhamma's appearance became.

The times when the Dhamma failed to become apparent posed a problem for me. Often I was deep in zenjo (samadhi), but try as I might, the Dhamma did not become apparent. This was indeed a poser. In reality, the harder I tried, the less apparent the Dhamma was. Put another way, the practice itself became a hindrance in my quest for awakening. When this happened I was overwhelmed with the feeling that I would never again encounter the appearance of the Dhamma. Was this not the destruction of the Way of Buddha? The depth of my despair was beyond description. I was now over 60 years of age. It was futile for me to attain the Way of Buddha at this late stage in my life. There was no way to alleviate the pain of my despair, yet I was unable to discontinue zenjo (samadhi). I continued meditating morning and night.

In March 1979, I terminated my duties at Tohoku University, and in April of that year I began teaching at Nippon University. In the interlude I entered samadhi for three weeks. In consultation with my family, I placed myself in total isolation. My meals were placed outside my door. I detached myself from all family relations, all professional work, and did not concern myself with anything that occurred around me. I spent my time completely isolated, concentrating on zenjo. I was careful to monitor my health, however, and between meditations, I took walks in the garden and sometimes jogged outside to maintain my body in good condition.

Finally my three weeks of zenjo were completed. In the first half of the three weeks I was able to enter meditation effortlessly, nurtured by the Dhamma; but concentrate as I may, I merely became fatigued. The hills and dales, a step forward and a step back, the ups and downs were extreme. During the second half of the three weeks, however, the hills and dales became less pronounced, and the entrance into zenjo was more a physical reaction than a mental one. However, I was not at peace; there was indeed, somewhere in the deep recesses of my being, a whirlpool of struggle. In truth, this was not a tranquil practice; it was a practice wrought with pain.

Although I was not aware of it during this period, sometime after my three weeks' experience I realized that my body was leaning more toward zenjo than it previously seemed to be. I continued my twice-daily meditation in the morning and at night; realizing that meditation for a lengthy period was more effective, however, I have practiced, now and again, the same meditative ritual for a period of three days at a time.

B. Death and Non-death
The summer after my three weeks' samadhi I celebrated my 64th birthday. With the passage of time I am experiencing more frequent appearances of the Dhamma. However, there were times when the Dhamma did not become apparent no matter how hard I strived, and the frequent appearances were for naught. If the appearance depended on the state or circumstances of the practitioner, it would not truly be the function of the Dhamma.

Fourteen to fifteen years after age 64, my life was a twisted web of elation and dejection. I would climb to the highest joy, then plummet into an abyss of despair. There was no pattern to these situations. The ultimate elation, no matter how fulfilling, is nothing but illusion; the elation would be meaningless if one were to later descend into the depths of despair.

In the summer of 1991, I contracted a bad cold and lay in bed with a high fever. I had no appetite for few days, my body became weak, and my old bones could not bear the fatigue of such a high fever. All I could do was moan in misery. I realized suddenly that my faith in salvation had blown away. I was already 76 years old. I had lived my whole life seeking the truth. How regrettable that I had not attained my goal! When hopelessness compounded with physical pain and I truly became desperate, the image of the maturation of karma crossed my mind. At that moment my physical pain and desperate spirit seemed to vanish. Some unknown power of enormous magnitude had enveloped me in its arms. This was, indeed, an experience of being taken into the protection and guidance of the Buddha, who abandons no one.
This episode passed, and I was taken to a hospital by ambulance and lay in bed. Late at night on the third day, just as I had drifted off to sleep, I fell into "The Hell of Interminable Pain." A blistering wind blew incessantly through my body. There was no abatement; it was torture by fire. Flames were not visible, and neither did I see red or blue demons. I was burning at the stake without the presence of fire. The misery I suffered at home was of no comparison. At home I had the presence of mind to be aware of my suffering. This time I was consumed with pain; no other thought made its way into my consciousness. (This reflection was possible only after the fact, of course.) I was being burned alive; I should be dead, but I was not dying. How much time had passed?

At any rate, the pain was continuous and excruciating. In time, and in agonizing pain, I began to see the merging of death and non-death --that I was not dead even though I should be dead. At the same time, whether from being beyond pain, or the other side of pain, or within the confines of pain, I vaguely sensed the Tathagata. The agony remained, but I was embraced by a sort of serenity and drifted off to sleep.

I have no explanation for this experience. My total being was consumed with torture and pain. I did not imagine it; I was not hallucinating. I must accept it as a phenomenon that was a reality. And the fact that in the depths of hell, one who should die does not die; the truth of the oneness of death and non-death, had become a reality in my own body. One can fall no further than the depths of hell. I descended as far down as was possible; death and non-death had become one, and the Tathagata had finally become apparent to me.
This experience reversed all that I had felt and espoused up to this point. One may believe that the human entity has matured; however, one's faith, salvation, and emancipation are totally unreliable--they disappear as easily as soap bubbles. Ultimately, one is confronted only with the basic inalienable truth.

During that fall of 1991, I was discharged and spent time recuperating at home. As I regained my strength, I resumed zenjo (samadhi). In time the Dhamma became apparent to me nearly every time I meditated; but even when there was no appearance, I felt the strange stirrings of blackness in the bottom of my heart that was preventing the revelation. I could not deny that this was the stirring of the Dhamma-Tathagata. This belief came naturally to me. My serious illness and my experience during hospitalization left indelible footprints in my subconscious; it was as if they were gradually bringing about a metamorphosis in my frame of mind.

In mid-December of 1993, when I was 79 years old, I suddenly realized that "something" had fallen out and left me. It was not during meditation, not during ordinary daily activities, nor when I was in a stressful situation. It just happened. What was that "something?" Upon introspection I realized that it seemed to be my desirous attitude. That is to say, my desire for the appearance of the Dhamma when the Dhamma did not become apparent, was gone. My desire had vanished.
Ever since that time, the Dhamma-Tathagata never fails to become apparent and penetrate into my being each time I meditate. As the days go by, the penetration becomes more profound, intense, and in constant change. I have repeatedly felt that this, indeed, was the ultimate form of the zenjo (samadhi) of the Buddha. However, this proved not to be the case, the phenomenon continued its profound expansion.

Suddenly one day, a year later, the Dhamma had turned around and faced the opposite direction. This meant that the Dhamma, whose penetration into my being had become more profound, overflowed from my total entity and with tremendous force, burst forth into the skies. Once I attained this state of zenjo, I experienced this phenomenon repeatedly, and the emanation increased in intensity.
Three years later, when I celebrated my 83rd birthday about a month ago, this state of zenjo had become fixed, and it became clear to me that no other zenjo would occur for me. It became clear that this was truly the zenjo (samadhi) of the Buddha.

C. The Meaning of the Zenjo of the Buddha
What is the zenjo (samadhi) of the Buddha? As stated before, it is the "Verse at Dawn" recited by the Buddha upon His enlightenment under the bodhi tree: "Verily, when the Dhamma becomes apparent to the practitioner deep in samadhi, the practitioner has annihilated the army of Evil and abides in tranquility. It is as through the sun illuminates the skies." Interpreted, the "Verse at Dawn" means, "The Dhamma, becomes apparent in the being of the Buddha, and penetrates it; it destroys every evil passion, overflows from the physical entity, and as if it is the sun illuminating the skies, radiates into the cosmos in infinity.

Perceived in this manner, the samadhi of the Buddha and my personal emulation of this samadhi may be vastly different in scope, but the essence is the same. That is to say, in my own meditation the Dhamma enters my being, overflows, and radiates into the skies.

What does the zenjo of the Buddha mean? After a long sermon cited in a certain sutra, the Buddha stated, "As if the sound of a conch shell were resounding in all directions, the four Divine Abodes (Jp.shi-muryo-shin/ P.brahma-vihara) of the great compassion of the Buddha permeates into all quarters and dispels all karmic effects." In other words, the Dhamma that enters an entity, saturates it, and disperses into the cosmos means that the immeasurable wisdom and compassion of the Buddha envelops the universe and rids the world of the maturation of karma that has come of age.

Although this phenomenon is described only in the context of zenjo (samadhi), this does not happen only to the Buddha. The Buddha articulates that if one practices as the Buddha teaches, all practitioners will attain this state. Truthfully, the zenjo (samadhi) of the Buddha was realized after a long period of time, but it finally became fixed in the reality of my own meditative state. I must repeat over and over, here and now, that the teaching of the Buddha is meant to be comprehensible to even one as commonplace as myself. If it can be understood by one such as I, it should be within the realm of comprehension of all others.

As for myself, I remain mumyo (ignorant) and self-attached upon the conclusion of meditation. Yet, as ignorant and self-attached as I am, once I commence zenjo, the Dhamma-Tathagata penetrates my being, and radiates into the universe. And as this zenjo becomes fixed within me and increases in depth, I become more keenly aware of the profundity of my ignorance and self-attachment.

Why is this so? Carefully pondered, the basis of ignorance means, "to be aware of nothing." To be aware of nothing is to say that my mind is blank. If one's mind is blank, so is one's body. Because one's entire being is in a void, the smooth and natural passage of the Tathagata into myself becomes possible. If there is a shadow of an extraneous "something" in me, it would be a hindrance to the function of the Tathagata. This is described in Dogen's Fukan Zazengi, which states, "A slight shadow greatly separates the skies and the earth."

To enter a state of zenjo is to place oneself in the Tathagata with ignorance and self-attachment. As pure as a newborn, I need only to relax and sit in peace. In time a subdued exhalation emits from the depth of my throat, the depth of my belly, from the center of the earth, the very fountainhead of the cosmos, and becomes the Dhamma and the Tathagata, appearing with no abatement. My total being is humbled in solemnity and tension beyond imagination.

After my return to everyday life after meditation, the Tathagata continues to accompany this ignorant and self-attached man. Awake or asleep, I am always one with the Tathagata. And on some auspicious occasions, Amida Buddha appears. In times of joy, in times of pain, it is Namu Amida Butsu. No matter where or when, the Tathagata fulfills all needs.

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