Like the Flowing River: Thoughts and Reflections (10 page)

W
hen I wrote
Veronika Decides to Die
, a book about madness, I was forced to ask myself how many of the things we do are really necessary, and how many are simply absurd. Why do we wear ties? Why do clocks move clockwise? If we live with a decimal system, why does the day have 24 hours of 60 minutes each?

The fact is that many of the rules we obey nowadays have no real foundation. Nevertheless, if we choose to behave differently, we are considered ‘mad’ or ‘immature’.

As long as this goes on, society will continue to create systems that, with the passing of time, will cease to make any sense, but will continue imposing their rules on us. An interesting Japanese story illustrates my point.

A great Zen master, in charge of the monastery of Mayu Kagi, owned a cat, who was the real love of his life. During meditation classes, he always kept the cat by his side, in order to enjoy its company as much as possible.

One morning, the master, who was already quite old, was found dead. The oldest disciple took his place.

‘What shall we do with the cat?’ asked the other monks.

In homage to the memory of his former teacher, the new
master decided to allow the cat to continue attending the classes on Zen Buddhism.

Some disciples from neighbouring monasteries, who travelled widely in the region, discovered that, in one of the most famous temples in the area, a cat took part in the meditations. The story began to spread.

Many years passed. The cat died, but the students at the monastery were so used to its presence that they acquired another cat. Meanwhile, other temples began introducing cats into their meditation classes; they believed that the cat was the one actually responsible for Mayu Kagi’s fame, and for the quality of its teaching, forgetting what an excellent teacher the former master had been.

A generation passed, and technical treatises on the importance of the cat in Zen meditation began to be published. A university professor developed a thesis, accepted by the academic community, that the cat had the ability to increase human concentration and to eliminate negative energy.

And thus, for a century, the cat was considered to be an essential part of the study of Zen Buddhism in that region.

Then a master arrived who was allergic to cat hair, and he decided to remove the cat from his daily practices with the students.

Everyone protested, but the master insisted. Since he was a gifted teacher, the students continued to make progress, despite the cat’s absence.

Gradually, monasteries – always in search of new ideas and weary of having to feed so many cats – began to remove cats from the classroom. Over the next twenty
years, revolutionary new theses were written, bearing persuasive titles like ‘The Importance of Meditating Without a Cat’ or ‘Balancing the Zen Universe by the Power of One’s Mind Alone and Without the Aid of Animals’.

Another century passed, and the cat vanished completely from the Zen meditation ritual in that region. But it took two hundred years for everything to return to normal, and all because, during that time, no one thought to ask why the cat was there.

How many of us, in our own lives, ever dare to ask: why do I behave in such and such a way? In what we do, how far are we, too, using futile ‘cats’ that we do not have the courage to get rid of because we were told that the ‘cats’ were important in order to keep everything running smoothly?

Why do we not find a different way of behaving?

N
ear Olite, in Spain, there is a ruined castle. I decide to visit the place and, as I am standing there before it, a man at the door says:

‘You can’t come in.’

My intuition tells me that he is saying this purely for the pleasure of saying ‘No’. I explain that I’ve come a long way; I try offering him a tip; I try being nice; I point out that this is, after all, a ruined castle. Suddenly, going into that castle has become very important to me.

‘You can’t come in,’ the man says again.

There is only one alternative: to carry on and see if he will physically prevent me from going in. I walk towards the door. He looks at me, but does nothing.

As I am leaving, two other tourists arrive and they, too, walk in. The old man does not try to stop them. I feel as if, thanks to my resistance, the old man has decided to stop inventing ridiculous rules. Sometimes the world asks us to fight for things we do not understand, and whose significance we will never discover.

1 We are all different, and should do what we can to remain so.

2 Each human being was given two possibilities: action and contemplation. Both lead to the same place.

3 Each human being was given two qualities: power and the gift. Power directs us towards our destiny; the gift obliges us to share with others what is best in us.

4 Each human being was given a virtue: the ability to choose. Anyone who fails to use this virtue transforms it into a curse, and others will choose for them.

5 Each human being has his or her own sexual identity and should be able to exercise that identity without guilt as long as they do not force that sexual identity on others.

6 Every human being has a personal legend to be fulfilled, and this is our reason for being in the world. This personal legend manifests itself in our enthusiasm for the task.

7 One can abandon one’s personal legend for a time, as long as one does not forget about it entirely and returns to it as soon as possible. 8 Every man has a feminine side, and every woman a masculine side. It is important to use discipline with intuition, and to use intuition with objectivity.

9 Every human being should know two languages: the language of society and the language of signs. One serves to communicate with other people, the other serves to understand God’s messages.

10 Every human being has the right to search for happiness, and by ‘happiness’ is meant something that makes that individual feel content, not necessarily something that makes other people feel content.

11 Every human being should keep alive within them the sacred flame of madness, but should behave as a normal person.

12 Only the following items should be considered to be grave faults: not respecting another’s rights; allowing oneself to be paralysed by fear; feeling guilty; believing that one does not deserve the good or ill that happens in one’s life; being a coward.

We will love our enemies, but not make alliances with them. They were placed in our path in order to test our sword, and we should, out of respect for them, struggle against them.

We will choose our enemies.

13 All religions lead to the same God, and all deserve the same respect.

Anyone who chooses a religion is also choosing a collective way of worshipping and sharing the mysteries. Nevertheless, that person is the only one responsible for his or her actions along the way and has no right to
shift responsibility for any personal decisions on to that religion.

14 It is hereby decreed that the wall separating the sacred and the profane be torn down. From now on, everything is sacred.

15 Everything that is done in the present affects the future in the form of consequence and affects the past in the form of redemption.

16 All statutes to the contrary are revoked.

I
am invited to go to Guncan-Gima, the site of a Zen Buddhist temple. When I get there, I’m surprised to see that the extraordinarily beautiful building, which is situated in the middle of a vast forest, is right next to a huge piece of waste ground.

I ask what the waste ground is for and the man in charge explains:

‘That is where we will build the next temple. Every twenty years, we destroy the temple you see before you now and rebuild it again on the site next to it. This means that the monks who have trained as carpenters, stonemasons, and architects are always using their practical skills and passing them on to their apprentices. It also shows them that nothing in this life is eternal, and that even temples are in need of constant improvement.’

H
enry James compares experience to a kind of huge spider’s web suspended in the chamber of consciousness and capable of trapping not only what is necessary, but every air-borne particle as well.

Often what we call ‘experience’ is merely the sum of our defeats. Thus we look ahead with the fear of someone who has already made a lot of mistakes in life and we lack the courage to take the next step.

At such moments, it is good to remember the words of Lord Salisbury: ‘If you believe the doctors, nothing is wholesome: if you believe the theologians, nothing is innocent: if you believe the soldiers, nothing is safe.’

It is important to accept one’s passions, and not to lose one’s enthusiasm for conquests. They are part of life, and bring joy to all who participate in them. The warrior of light never loses sight of what endures, nor of bonds forged over time. He knows how to distinguish between the transient and the enduring. There comes a moment, however, when his passions suddenly disappear. Despite all his knowledge, he allows himself to be overwhelmed by despair: from one moment to the next, his faith is not what it was, things do not happen as he dreamed they
would, tragedies occur in unfair and unexpected ways, and he begins to believe that his prayers are not being heeded. He continues to pray and to attend religious services, but he cannot deceive himself; his heart does not respond as it once did, and the words seem meaningless.

At such a moment, there is only one possible path to follow: keep practising. Say your prayers out of duty or fear, or for some other reason, but keep praying. Keep on, even if all seems in vain.

The angel in charge of receiving your words, and who is also responsible for the joy of faith, has wandered off somewhere. However, he will soon be back and will only know where to find you if he or she hears a prayer or a request from your lips.

According to legend, after an exhausting morning session of prayer in the monastery of Piedra, the novice asked the abbot if prayers brought God closer to mankind.

‘I’m going to reply with another question,’ said the abbot. ‘Will all the prayers you say make the sun rise tomorrow?’

‘Of course not! The sun rises in obedience to a universal law.’

‘Well, there’s the answer to your question. God is close to us regardless of how much we pray.’

The novice was shocked.

‘Are you saying that our prayers are useless?’

‘Absolutely not. If you don’t wake up early enough, you will never get to see the sunrise. And although God is always close, if you don’t pray, you will never manage to feel His presence.’

Watch and pray: that should be the warrior of light’s motto. If he only watches, he will start to see ghosts where they don’t exist. If he only prays, he will not have time to carry out the work that the world so desperately needs. According to another legend, this time from the
Verba Seniorum
, the abbot pastor used to say that Abbot John had prayed so much that he need no longer worry – all his passions had been vanquished.

The abbot pastor’s words reached the ears of one of the wise men in the Monastery of Sceta. He called together the novices after supper.

‘You may have heard it said that Abbot John has no more temptations to conquer,’ he said. ‘However, a lack of struggle weakens the soul. Let us ask the Lord to send Abbot John a great temptation, and if he manages to conquer it, let us ask the Lord to send him another, and another. And when he is once more struggling against temptations, let us pray that he may never say: “Lord, remove this demon from me.” Let us pray that he asks: “Lord, give me strength to confront evil.”’

‘S
ometimes, people get so used to what they see in films that they end up forgetting the real story,’ says a friend, as we stand together looking out over Miami harbour. ‘Do you remember
The Ten Commandments
?’

‘Of course I do. At one point, Moses – Charlton Heston – lifts up his rod, the waters part, and the children of Israel cross over.’

‘In the Bible it’s different,’ says my friend. ‘There, God says to Moses: “Speak unto the children of Israel, that they go forward.” And only afterwards does he tell Moses to lift up his rod, and then the Red Sea parts. It is only courage on the path itself that makes the path appear.’

F
ather Zeca, from the Church of the Resurrection in Copacabana, tells of how, when he was travelling once on a bus, he suddenly heard a voice telling him to get up and preach the word of Christ right there and then.

Zeca started talking to the voice: ‘They’ll think I’m ridiculous. This isn’t the place for a sermon,’ he said. But something inside him insisted that he speak. ‘I’m too shy, please don’t ask me to do this,’ he begged.

The inner impulse insisted.

Then he remembered his promise – to surrender himself to all Christ’s purposes. He got up, cringing with embarrassment, and began to talk about the Gospel. Everyone listened in silence. He looked at each passenger in turn, and very few looked away. He said everything that was in his heart, ended his sermon, and sat down again.

He still does not know what task he fulfilled that day, but he is absolutely certain that he did fulfil a task.