MATSU
(Mazu Daoyi 馬祖道 708 - 788)
Cabbages
Walking upriver along the Gan, I was struck by the industriousness of the women of Nanchang. Just past dawn, already too hot for sleep, I came upon scores of women in the upper fields planting cabbage seeds. So I was told. The field had already been plowed and fertilized, and the agile women were stooped digging shallow holes with quick fingers, poking and planting. The old boy by the cart of seedlings went on with his explanation or story or whatever for several minutes, but his Gan dialect was quite different from Beijing Mandarin and I was missing a lot of words. Plant now, fall harvest, I heard him say. Big balls of cabbage come fall.
I thanked the man with much smiling and nodding, kowtowing I would have called it, and did; but the man didn’t know the word and with good reason. It was a Cantonese expression from the early 19th century. Simple Confucian respect was all it was. All of China was imbued with the thoughts of Kongzi (孔子, 551 - 479 BCE), which simply means "Master Kong". His thoughts, first gathered and published as The Analects in 497 BCE by the man’s students, had already become prescripts long before the Tang Dynasty. And the crux of the matter was respect which manifested itself in both ritual and filial propriety.
Youmin Temple on banks of Nan Lake
Unfortunately, the area is not what it was. As with most of China's scenic historic places, capitalism in the 21st century has brought a lust for tourist dollars and this urban lake and its environs have become of late a theme park; nicely done, of course, but still a theme park.
Sic transit gloria mundi.
Hungry, I trudged back to the temple. The bridge across little Nan Lake provided stone benches for the elderly and sedentary to sit and enjoy the views across the sparkle of blue water, the temple grounds there on the eastern shore, and, in the far distance, Poyang, the largest freshwater lake in China.
I had been surprised to learn that in 2020 the Chinese government had implemented a ten-year fishing ban on both the Yangtze River just to the north and Poyang Lake. The goal was to enhance water and habitat quality in the saucer-shaped lake in order to maintain it as a refuge for wintering waterbirds.
After a short respite, I went on. The breakfast bell was ringing for the adherents of the Tiantai sect whose daily rituals were much different than Matsu’s disciples. Chan monks, before they established their own temples, often resided at the temples of other sects; and, once established, they were quick to return the favor when the need arose.
Chan monks, however, seemed to come and go as they pleased while the two dozen Tiantai monks were strictly regimented. Up at 4 AM when a gong was sounded exactly 108 times, these fellows then meditated for an hour or two, and then recited—sounded like chanting, to me—sutras until around 8 AM. Then breakfast. Then chores. No part of their day was not accounted for, even how they went to the toilet was prescribed. The Chan monks might join them for their sutras or meditation, but most did not.
I returned just at the breakfast gong, but waited in my small room until the others were filing out. Went in for a bowl of rice, gruel really; then went off to keep my appointment with Matsu for the morning interview.
A room off the main hall served as the master’s place to hold his one-on-one sessions with his disciples, and we met there. He sat, his injured leg extended, carefully drawing characters on a scroll of rice paper.
Without looking up, he said, “What now?”
“The cabbages are prospering,” I answered.
I had been coached on the proper way to hold a conversation with Matsu by Liang when he showed me around the temple upon my arrival. Sometimes you are the guest and he is the host, Liang explained. Sometimes you are the host and he is the guest. Sometimes both, sometimes neither. You must be quick witted. Do you understand?
Fortunately, Liang had come to the master from Beijing, and his Chinese was easy to follow.
“Cabbages?” Matsu snapped. Out came his tongue, then a hardy laugh. “Sit,” he said.
He pushed the scroll aside, covered his ink bowl, slurped tea.
“So you are priggish about sitting, I hear.” His eyes were hard upon me.
Host or guest? No clue. He had used ‘dhyana,’ the Indian term for ‘sitting’ which carried many denotations. Commonly, it was used to mean meditation. And he had me there. I had become rather fond of sitting quietly, doing nothing. Perhaps too fond.
“Huaihai liked to flatten his hams, too. Cured him of that finally. You know that story?”
He had changed his tone from interrogatory to didactic, now become the host.
I had read of his encounter with Huaihai, but said, “I would very much like to hear about that, Master.”
“Humpf. The fool spent his days sitting, meditating,” and Matsu struck a pose, back straight, eyes partially closed, hands folded in lap, palms up, forming the samadhi mudra which represented a blissful state. He was the perfect picture of the meditating monk.
“Bah, what nonsense,” slumping to his usual, casual pose. “I said to him, what is it you’re doing there? He said, meditating. I wish to become enlightened, a true man with no title.” I would have kicked him, thought better of it. Went out into the work shed, gathered up a brick and a large stone. Went back to Huaihai. Stood there over the ignorant fellow and began scraping the brick with the stone.”
Matsu chuckled. His thick tongue moistened his lips.
“Huaihai looked up at me, annoyed, but curious. Finally, he asked, and what is it you’re doing, Master Ma? Making a mirror, I told him.” Raising a finger, the Master said, “I could see it in his face. He knew I’d trapped him. Couldn’t escape. Had to ask, but how can you make a mirror by scraping a brick with a stone?” Matsu's finger began wagging. “I leaned over him and said, And how can you become a Buddha by sitting on your arse?”
I laughed as much at Matsu’s delivery as at the story.
“Tea,” he said. “Pots just there. Pour us some. All that gab has dried my mouth.”
