At long last, Master Bodhidharma, great Patriarch of Zen, the greatest discipline in the lineage of Mahakasyapa, the foremost student of the Buddha, keeper of the Flower Sermon which was unprofaned by human language, teacher of the Wordless Way, he who stared at the cave wall for over a decade and perceived no delusion except what was truly there, he who took on a disciple only after that student sacrificed his own arm to demonstrate his desire to the Buddhadharma and his desire to know the truth even if it meant his mortal life, he who spoke to gods and Emperors as equals, he who was almost equal to those students of Shakyamuni himself who had attained enlightenment under the Buddha’s own tutelage…
He who alone throughout a lifetime of war and boredom, love and hatred, harmony and destruction, kept and preserved the truth of the Great Vehicle, the Mahayana, that peerless conveyance which brings truth and compassion to numberless beings, but which is in the end itself but a delusion that itself must be overcome, he whose only lover and intimate was the goddess of compassion Kuan Yin, later known as Kanzeon, who once compared the act of compassion, even the saving of a Buddha from death, to be like adjusting a pillow in the nighttime for a neck that has grown uncomfortable, he who felt and mastered all his emotions and never once profaned the Three Treasures or fell under the sway of Mara…
At long last, after completing his morning meditation upon his peerless mountain throne, a hermit again, far beyond the reaches of any mortal, hunted after in vain by Emperors and Khans, forgotten even by his own foremost student and fellow Patriarchs, content to become a myth and a legend, surveying all that occurred throughout the Ten Dimensions and seeing that all events were occurring as they only could, content that he had done his utmost to preserve the Buddhadharma even knowing that one day, in kalpas distant but not eternally far, it would become the most potent delusion and favorite weapon of Mara herself…
At long last, the First Patriarch, he who as a young man through hazardous waters and through countless setbacks carried the Dharma away from its origins in India and away from his homeland to lands that were then foreign, strange, and hostile to the Buddha’s teachings, deep into the heart of the Middle Kingdom itself, he who had wept as he left family and teachers behind but who had later understood that all of this had to be, and that it could not have been otherwise – at last, Bodhidharma, resting perfectly upon his zafu of stone and his zabuton of dirt – allowed himself to pass away. He felt his mind travel through the swirling eddies of time and space, he felt it enter the stream of Life & Death, he felt it approach the final Dharma Gate, he felt that he had accomplished supreme complete enlightenment despite spurning the idea his entire life, he knew that he would not have to return to the mortal realm and could rest in peace – and as he had been taught since a young boy, as he had been practicing his whole life, as he had foreseen, as he knew he must do, as he still had feared and struggled against, as he still did not understand but trusted – he let go.
Some time passed.
Smells, at first. Jasmine, gingko, cherry blossom. Then sounds – the rushing of a river brook, the calls of monkeys and birds, the wind in the trees. The feeling of warmth returning to his old, tired skin. The taste of blood and cool water. Finally, his sight. A small clearing in the forest, the remains of a fire, a bare camp. A man sitting nearby, sipping calmly on a cup of tea. Not Chinese – not Indian or Sri Lankan or Burmese either – a man from the south? From Vietnam? He looked closer. No, the man was from a distant country called Thailand, where they practiced a corruption of the Buddha’s teachings, and preoccupied themselves endlessly with words and precepts. But not a contemplative – his features were too rough, his manner too alert to his senses. A forest monk of some kind. The effort finally strained him. He began to slip back into the void between worlds.
What was this devilry? Was this Maitreya’s Pure Land that some fanatics had spoken of, the heaven that he had dared to dream of as a young man but had discarded as a delusive fantasy? Was it the underworld? Was it one final trick of Mara, a trap prepared just for him, a net that had been woven in the darkness to use all of his wisdom and compassion against him? To keep him within the endless cycles of birth and rebirth, convince him to waste his human life, and imprison him once again as a beast or a Hungry Ghost? He had ceased to believe even in karma and the realms many years ago, but he decided that this must be the case. It was the only logical conclusion. He steadied his alarm and surprise, his weariness and his desire to have this whole charade be done with and to cease to exist and be finally at peace. He spoke up, his voice low but steady, betraying only a hint of fear and distrust, feeling his way slowly and unsteadily along the syllables and tones of the Thai language that he had learned years back and thought he had forgotten long ago.
“Well done, Mara. I congratulate you. My respect for you only grows. I thought I had defeated you long ago. Now I see that I was a fool. Very well, you old master of demons, Queen of Delusion, tempter of gods and sovereign of all devils and delusions. You have one last lesson for me, then. You think you will tempt me to your cause, and you may be right. But even in your realms of darkness my bones are weak, and my mind is tired. Be short, then - let me hear your offer, and I shall respond. There is no need for combat or tricks of the mind. For once, let us speak openly, with respect for each other, if not as equals. One last time, and I will listen to your words without fear or contempt, and then I shall either be your servant for eternity or you shall let me die at last”.
The man regarded him quizzically, and then burst out laughing. His laughter rang out through the forest, deep and resounding, startling the animals. He laughed until he choked, snorted, spat out his tea, fell off his rock chair, yelped in pain, and belched. He laughed a while longer, and Bodhidharma steeled himself for the final confrontation, until finally the demon spoke in a soft and sonorous voice.
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To be continued! Thanks for reading. This is Part 1 of a 3 part story/joke about Bodhidharma. Actually, I have already written the rest, but I broke it up like this on Reddit to make it easier to read. Please upvote if you enjoyed - I will post the rest soon if people are interested.
No disrespect to any past ancestors and patriarchs, schools of practice, or Buddhist historians - I know very little about history or doctrine, and I'm not a monk or a teacher. Just a Zen student and an amateur writer, trying to amuse myself and others in these strange times.
Gassho!
Submitted August 14, 2020 at 06:59AM by mousekeeping https://ift.tt/2PRD2LO
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