Hokyoji Highlights for December 2015

It was twenty years ago when I took part in a jukai ceremony and received the precepts. It was the early days of the Clouds in Water sangha, and we met in a space in the downstairs of the First Unitarian Society in Minneapolis. I believe I was in the second group to do jukai at Clouds. Clouds was a pretty non-traditional group at that time. We sat zazen in a large circle facing each other. We also had the option not to sew a traditional a rakusu, a miniature Buddhist monk's robe, for our jukai. I had debated with myself over whether to take the precepts. I had some doubts as to whether I felt the necessity to make such a declaration. Then I read a short article in Tricycle magazine which described the precepts like logs laid across a marsh. They were there to help you in your journey through life. This view made them sensible to me and I went ahead with the ceremony and have never regretted that decision. However, at the same time I decided to not sew a rakusu; it seemed way too much trouble, and I have had mixed feelings about that decision ever since.

On the one hand, though I feel dedicated to the study and practice of the dharma, I am unsure that I can accurately call myself a Buddhist. The terms Buddhism and Buddhist are only a couple of hundred years old and of Western origin. There is no term like that found in any of the Asian traditions, much less in the early teachings of old Mr. Gotoma. It's a very generalized term that refers to such a wide spectrum of beliefs and practices as to almost lose any meaning for me. On the other hand, my formal practice over the years has always been grounded in the traditions of Soto Zen. I am a resident of a Soto Zen practice community. We regularly start our day with zazen and a morning service. More often than not, I have been the doan for that service, leading the chants and ringing the bells. Can I consider myself not to be a Buddhist when I am living out this dharma path I have chosen for myself? I may never resolve this seeming conflict and I'm good with that. Life is a koan to which I don't expect an answer.

In spite of all of that, over these last five years living and practicing at Hokyoji, I have felt an increasing awareness that I didn't have a rakusu to wear. I can't have failed to notice the care and respect other practitioners give to their rakusus and the wearing of them, and that I myself didn't have one to which I could show that care and respect. I'm not sure why this mattered to me; it's just another koan.

Some years back I remember reading about a prominent woman Buddhist teacher in the West who sewed her rakusu out of colorful cast-off material. It looked nothing like a traditional one. I liked this idea; it goes back to the earliest days, though that early sangha stuck to earth tones for their robes. But it occurred to me that I had an old piece of material that would hold meaning for me if it was used for a rakusu. I had my old class A's hanging in my closet, my dress green uniform from when I was an officer in the Army.

I had been an infantry platoon leader in Viet Nam in 1968 and '69. When I returned from overseas, I spent my last summer in the military as a Survivors Assistance Officer. One of our jobs was arranging military funerals. I was the guy in charge of the firing squad that offered the traditional three-gun salute, and it was I who accepted the folded flag from the coffin and presented it to the next of kin. I was always wearing my dress greens.

My wife Susan and our good friend Rosemary are both Zen priests and have both done quite a bit of Zen sewing over the years. I mentioned to them my idea about turning my old uniform into a rakusu. The uniform material is wool and considerably heavier than the cotton usually used in the West for a rakusu. They both thought it might be too heavy to work with.

Two years ago another Zen priest, Hoko, became a resident here at Hokyoji. At some time I noticed her sewing on a rakusu. I asked her about it; she said it was to be a birthday gift for the abbot of the temple at which she had trained in Japan and that she had sewn quite a few rakusus over the years. I told her about my idea for my old uniform and showed her the material. She was interested, thought it might work, and gave it a try. She cut out the pieces and picked up some tan material for the back that was a close match to the dress shirts that went with our dress greens. She did much of the initial work on the kagami, the main body of the rakusu, and then Rosemary and Susan picked up the project. They found that the material wasn't that hard to work with and recommended that I spend some time on it myself. In the West one usually sews one's own rakusu, but somehow I never found the time or opportunity to work on it. I do have to admit I never made it a high priority; I always had something more pressing.

It wasn't that long before they finished the sewing, all except the final pine stitch on the rear neck tab called the maneki. They left that piece for me. They had used the wide black stripes of material that went down the out-seam of an officer's trousers for the neck straps. My rakusu was an army green kagami with black straps and a tan back, my military colors. I had the almost-finished rakusu for some weeks before I finally made myself take the time to put in the pine stitch, which represents pine needles. I was given a nice contrasting green embroidery thread, and after a few botched attempts I had an adequate stitch in place.

It's a little simplistic to compare the transformation of my military uniform into a representation of a Buddhist monk's robe with my own transformation over the years from a young military leader in combat to a dedicated student and practitioner of the Buddha-dharma, but the parallels are there. It seems these parallels, both conscious and subconscious, were the genesis of my idea to turn my old uniform into a buddha-robe.

Soon I'll be chanting the verse of the robe and wearing my rakusu during practice. All three of the priests who did the sewing have signed it, and Dokai, as the teacher with whom I now practice, will also sign it and make the presentation. Another good friend, also named Susan, gave me a beautiful hand-stitched case for it. I am quite looking forward to this. I am not sure why, but it has taken on more meaning than I had imagined. My deep gratitude to those who have made it possible.