Please let my book be a huge best seller so I can pay for the new roof. Please let my book be of help to others who suffer like I did. Their mouths were as tiny as pinholes and their throats were as thin as a thread, so they could never consume enough to satisfy.
Aikon, who had dusted each of her arms and heads, felt very close to her, and as she sat at her teacher’s side, writing late into the night, she would gaze up at Senju Kannon and think about the Hungry Ghosts, with their great, big bellies that were always empty and their insatiable appetites and never-ending desire for more. She was very beautiful, sitting on her lotus, the manifestation of the Bodhisattva of Compassion, whose job it was to watch over the Realm of the Hungry Ghosts. And all the while, the Senju Kannon watched over them. Sometimes he pressed his palms together over his heart. Sometimes while she was chanting, his lips would move. Every morning, noon, and evening, she performed services in the abbot’s quarters, lighting incense at the altar, chanting sutras, and making prostrations.
She knew he didn’t have much time left, and she wanted to finish the book so that his spirit would be at peace when he died, knowing his temple was safe. In the months that followed, she had watched over him, working feverishly on her book and listening to the sound of his labored breathing. That was the last time he had sat upright. She remembered how dull his eyes were then, all the brightness gone out of them, and how his head drooped like an old camellia blossom on a wilting stem. If you think your book will help a few people, you should write it, he said. When, bubbling with excitement, she had told him her idea about writing a book, he’d sat there with his eyes closed, patiently listening as she explained how tidying was very trendy, and the magazine she used to work for published many lifestyle articles about clutter, and books on the subject had even become international best sellers, and when she was finally done, he just sighed. She’d never known whether her teacher had believed in her or not. She touched the stick of incense to her forehead, but before she made the offering, she paused and looked at him, meeting his gaze and holding it-something she had never done while he was alive. He gazed at her from the frame, and even though his mouth was stern, his eyes were smiling, as if at some private joke, one that he expected her to share. He was dressed in his finest ceremonial robe, the one she’d mended so often because he could not afford a new one. A framed portrait of her teacher rested beside the Senju Kannon. At the altar, she lit candles and a stick of incense. She stood up slowly, stretching her legs, and then changed into a more formal robe. The rest of the emails would have to wait. The temple was doing well, but sadly, her teacher had not lived long enough to see this. A few of the women, refugees like Aikon from the corporate world, asked to stay, to be ordained and live there as her students, so now there were three nuns in residence, too. Some came once or twice out of curiosity, but others, mostly office workers from nearby companies, had started coming regularly to sit zazen, listen to her dharma talks, and attend daylong retreats. Aikon could hear people arriving, taking off their shoes and heading toward the zendo.Įver since her book hit the bestseller lists in Japan, people had been showing up to the little temple. The timekeeper, a novice who had just taken her vows, stood on the walkway, holding her wooden mallet, getting ready to strike the wooden plaque again to signal time for zazen and evening service. “Kenchoji Temple in the Rain” by Kawase Hasui.Ī sharp clack echoed through the garden, and she looked up.
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