“We, on the other hand, have not been raised in the luxury of an artificial paradise; we have always known the misery and conflicts of the world. We grew up knowing that even if we had a roof over our heads, there were many others in this world who didn’t and that every time we had food to eat, there were millions of children going hungry. We were raised among egoists, old people, sick people, dying people — yet we were still able to celebrate the dawning of every new day! Would we have agreed to don the garments of corpses? Never! This kesa of yours is not for us, because we do not want to escape life! Even if we see life as an endless cycle of reincarnation, why should we want to free ourselves from this sacred cycle? We shall return again and again. Little by little, we will make the world a bit better, we will alter the cruel laws of the cosmos, because we are the consciousness, the best aspect of the Creator. We must develop this consciousness from life to life by communicating it and multiplying it. Ejo, we are here in this life with an immense responsibility: We cannot cease to exist as long as we have not perfected this universe, as long as beings still kill and destroy each other. We must return again and again until everything is joy and the love of light is in perfect harmony with the love of darkness. .”
At this point, I broke into tears and had to stop speaking. Ejo held me gently in his arms until my sobbing ceased. Delicately, he helped me out of the robe. He stretched out the kesa on the ground, folded it elaborately, like an origami design, as he had learned in the monastery, until it was reduced to a rectangle. Then he told me, calmly:
“My friend, it is easy for you to say that traditional sutras and teachings are lies, because they are only words. Yet these words propose experiences that can plunge us into a deeper reality. The foundational myths are necessary, because we cannot construct a society without them. It would be dangerous to try to destroy them, for such destruction would undermine the foundations on which human relationships are based and replace them with nothing. On the other hand, it is very useful to reinterpret them in a way that is in accord with what we both value. If you feel this interpretation, you will experience it.
“As for this kesa, it is now like an old, worn-out skin. Thanks to many generous hands, it has acquired its current form and served as a recipient for consciousness. It is like a caterpillar’s cocoon, and now the butterfly is ready to spread its wings. It would be stupid to continue to live in the boat that has served to help you cross the river to the other shore.
“The reason I revere the memory of Shakyamuni is because of what his figure has given the world — unlike you, I don’t bother about whether he was historically this or that or whether his deeds were mythic or real.
“Yet your poet’s point of view has shown me something that my monk’s imagination was unable to see: The patriarch gathered a bunch of funeral rags, sewed them together with care and respect, and made himself a robe. This amounts to an artistic creation, but for centuries, we have been merely imitating this creative act. Hence this kesa is not a creation of my own soul; it is ultimately an imitation of the work of Shakyamuni. It actually belongs to him, not to me. Times have changed, and we are not living in India or Tibet. Still less are we practicing the original Chinese Ch’an Buddhism. Zen must adapt itself to each country according to the customs of its people. Otherwise, it will become a form of religious imperialism. It is not Mexico that needs Japanese Zen, it is Japanese Zen that needs Mexico. The Tarahumaras weave a type of pure, simple, white linen cloth. It is a bit of luxury in their misery, symbolizing the desire for a cleaner and better life. I shall weave my own kesa with that cloth.”
Ejo arose, gathered some dry branches, and lit a fire. Upon it he placed his carefully folded old robe. With great tenderness, he watched it burn; he wore the kind of expression of loving farewell to a friend who will never return. His eyes full of tears, he turned his back and took the path that led out of the woods and back to the city.
Very soon, I returned to France without seeing him again.
Five years passed. This time, I returned to Mexico wearing the hat of a therapist promoting my new book. As usual, the publishers had arranged a lecture at the Julio Castillo Theater.
It had been two weeks since my son Teo died, and I was broken by this terrible loss. When the accident happened, I was in the midst of a flurry of obligations, courses, conferences, interviews, therapy sessions, and preparations for this trip to Mexico. Nothing made sense to me any more, but I forced myself to respect my obligations, knowing that if I abandoned them now, I would never take them up again. When I arrived in Mexico City, I felt as though a secret weight was pressing me down into the earth. I had to call upon all my experience as an actor to put on a good face before the eager audience of readers and students and somehow transmit my message of the joy of life — but in the middle of my presentation, it was as if a spring snapped inside my throat. I lost my voice. A desperate sob was down there, trying to open up a passage. I gritted my teeth and hid my face, pretending to use my handkerchief. I felt as though I could not continue.
At that exact instant, Ejo Takata came up onto the stage. He unfolded a Mexican version of a tatami mat and sat down to meditate. Instead of a kesa, he wore white linen pants and a simple shirt of the same material, like the Indians of the Sierra.
Here was my master, indeed — authentic as ever, solid as a mountain, his knees grounded in the earth and his head pushing against the heavens, at the very center of eternal time and space. His presence gave me the strength to continue. At the end, as on the last such occasion, he took advantage of the applause to disappear. I ran out, looking for him, but this time I could not find him at all. I needed his consolation, but I no longer had his address. I felt very sad. Jacqueline, a beautiful dwarf, came up to me and said, with great warmth: “I am a disciple of Ejo. He knows you need to see him. He told me to take you to where he is living, outside the city.”
After two hours in a beat-up old taxi, we arrived in a poor suburb where Takata lived like an Indian, teaching his Tarahumara disciples to meditate. Discreetly, Jacqueline waited for me in the old car. As I related at the beginning of this book, the master consoled me with a single word: duele, “it hurts.”