ENLIGHTENMENT

     by David Landrum

     Two men sat on mats facing one another in the quiet of a Buddhist Temple. Incense burned before a large bronze statue of the Enlightened One. One of the men, a Sensei, cleared his throat--a sign the session with his student should begin. The student understood the prompt and spoke.
      “Sensei, what did Sakumani say about confession?”
      “He said nothing. Did you come here to confess something?”
      “Yes. I have something on my soul. A sin.”
      “I see. Well, a confession of sin assumes we do not already believe rules of right and wrong to be illusion ... But tell me, what is the matter you want to call a sin?”
      “I memorized a poem,” the student said with gravity, as if were confessing a murder. The Sensei suppressed an urge to smile.
      “Is memorizing a poem so very wrong?”
      “I can’t meditate since I learned it.”
      “Then you must let it take you to where it will. All things conclude.”
      “I’ve tried that,” he replied, “but I can’t.”
      The Sensei felt weary. It had been a long day. His back hurt.
      “Did you learn the poem for your own enjoyment?”
      “Not exactly. A woman gave it to me.”
      “Is this woman affectionate toward you?” the Sensei asked.
      “She is.”
      The Sensei smiled. The student seemed agitated and ashamed.
      “That’s fine. There’s no disgrace in feeling affection for a woman.”
      This statement did not help the student, and Sensei pondered further. Was he missing something? He decided he wanted to hear this mysterious poem.
      “Will you recite the poem to me?”
      The student bowed and recited as follows:

    I cannot forget
    how she stood at the top
    of those marble stairs,
    amazed, and then,
    with sleepy pirouette
    danced upon the fountain-quieted
    square, nothing upon her face
    but loneliness--her movements,
    a falling glide, and whirl,
    as when a leaf or petal
    is drawn to the falls
    of a pool, and circling
    a moment above it,
    rides over the lip.

     He finished. The silence of the Temple fell once more. The Sensei felt somewhat vexed that he had not entirely understood the poem. He was used to koans, haiku, and the spare, rarified verse of the old and new Zen poet-masters, not the heavy, complex verbiage that Westerners liked.
      All the same, he said, “Very nice, very beautiful.”
      “It troubles me.”
      “Why?”
      “It emphasizes the individuality of the dancer. She stands out as a distinct personality over and against the world.”
      Now he saw it. The poem—at least as the student understood it—militated against the idea of oneness. Zen ideally eliminated the ego, but this work of art suggested uniqueness of personality.
      “There might be more than one way to understand the poem,” he prompted.
      “How?”
      “Is her dance not really a participation in the force of law and beauty that underlies all things? In her graceful movements, is she not joining herself to the unity of all things, as opposed to setting herself apart?’
      “I thought that at first,” the student said, his voice almost gruff. “But somehow it doesn’t work. The danger in the poem is a distinct thing of beauty like—"
      He stopped. Silence fell. The Sensei had grown so interested that he forgot his fatigue.
      “Go on.”
      “I think she gave me that poem on purpose.”
      Buddha smiled serenely only a few feet away. Oddly, though, the Sensei felt empty, and it was not the kind of emptiness he wanted.

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