By Kurahashi Yōdō I (1909-1980)
A shakuhachi is a single length of bamboo. We often refer to it simply by the word “bamboo”—which consists of nothing more than a piece of bamboo. There is a book by Haku Raku Ten called “A history of the Cultivation of Bamboo” from which the following is taken:
The essence of bamboo is firmness; by means of this firmness, virtue is established.
The character of bamboo is honesty; by means of this honesty, fortune is established.
The heart of bamboo is hollow; by means of this emptiness, the path is maintained.
The joints of bamboo are fidelity; by means of this fidelity, ambition is established.
The form of the bamboo is that of a straight trunk marked by rings or joints; its substance is at once both firm and yielding, hard yet pliant; its color does not change with the seasons, being green all year round. The tall, noble bamboo is the sole material from which the shakuhachi is made. When the pure qualities of the bamboo become infused with the breath of a living soul—Heaven and Earth become one—a tone rich in the essence of nature flows forth.
When I was yet a novice, I was fascinated by the sound of the shakuhachi and the image of the notes drifting out from a hut deep in a pine forest on a quiet moonlight night. Completely enthralled by that tone quality when each note seems to directly touch the heart, and wanting somehow to capture for my own, I soon became intensely absorbed in study. After a time, when I had proudly begun to obtain a slight degree of skill—I think it was in the fall during the early years of Showa [1926]—a small recital of teachers and older students was held. An unknown player, who had happened to drop by the recital hall unexpectedly, was invited at the last minute to join the program and play a piece. In an almost desultory frame of mind I leisurely waited to hear how he would play, having not the slightest expectation or anticipation.
In the next instant I was jolted awake by an intense shock of excitement—a shattering blow that pierced through to the very core of my being. With a superior transcendence of pitch and rhythm, with a tremendous, frightening strength, with the driving force of a cascading waterfall—it was as if I had been ushered into a fascinating land by the devilish melody. Like thunder out of a clear blue sky, my pride at my small prowess was struck down. My blood recoiled, the current reversed and flowed back on itself, and in this fearful condition my whole body froze as if turned to stone. Immobilized by blank amazement, I reached the highest imaginable peaks of excitement and stimulation. I had the sensation of looking up from below to see a towering precipice that had risen before my very eyes. Is it possible that sound waves could produce such a deep impression of
shock on the single listener, sounds created by only one shakuhachi? In that one instant, by that precarious chance encounter I had met the man who was to be my teacher for life; the late Jin Nyodo—and not only that, were it not for this occasion I might never have heard honkyoku.
Honkyoku is Zen-oriented shakuhachi music; it exists on quite a different plane from the average music performed at concerts. The name itself (shakuhachi hondo no kyoku) refers to that music which is the original or true path of the shakuhachi. To explain further, the shakuhachi was in fact used as a tool for enlightenment and for a deep examination of the self or ego—the Zen phrase is “See your true self, become Buddha” (ken-sei jo-butsu). Thus, another name for these special pieces is “Original Self Music” (honnin-kyoku). Classical honkyoku, as a generic term, refers to the music used in Zen training by the fuke Sect (Fuke-shu), which employed the shakuhachi (Fuke shakuhachi) as a means with which to achieve Boddhisattvahood. Were such a goal to be reached, the music would become a vehicle for the propagation of the divine miracles of Kannon, the Goddess of Mercy, and thus assure the final salvation of all living beings. As opposed to this, there is the music ordinarily heard in concert together with the koto and shamisen, which is generally referred to as gaikyoku [“outside” or “other music”].
So, the sound which had taken me so firmly in its grip, in the experience I described above, was actually tempting me to enter the path to becoming a boddhisattva. In fact, it is still constantly reverberating inside me and flowing through my veins. Even to this day it has yet to fade or diminish. With all my strength I am seeking Boddhisattvahood; the struggle to reach the state of enlightenment (chimpaku ki ichi) has become my life’s daily bread. To aim for a distant mountain summit, when you are only seeing it from so utterly far away and wanting to reach it, seems like such a hopeless task. But by taking only one step forward—even at such a slow pace, provided that you throw your whole self into that step—you discover a special sensation, a slight feeling or hint of zanmai.
Although the shakuhachi was known to be in existence in Japan even earlier, 1200 years ago it was used in gagaku (the music of the Imperial Court) and it had 6 finger holes instead of the present 5. Over 700 years ago, the monk Hoto Kokuji (a deshi or student of the Chinese monk Fuke Zenji), who was the founder of Kokokuji Temple in Kishu (Wakayama Ken), brought back the piece called “Kyorei” from China. (“Kyorei” is known as a suizen piece [“blowing Zen” as opposed to zazen or “sitting Zen”]). It was from this point on that the shakuhachi became the special meditation tool of the Fuke Sect, and this can be considered the origin of our modern shakuhachi. The Fuke sect was founded by Kochiku Zenji, and it rose and began to flourish in the latter years of the Muromachi period [about mid-16th century], until by the beginning of the Edo period [1600>] there totaled 18 separate sub-sect and some 140 temples. Under the patronage of the Tokugawa Shogunate, the founder of the sect was assured in an edict issued during the reign of the Emperor Keicho [1596-(1611)]: “In the matter of the Zen Sect known as Fuke, it shall be henceforth be the refuge and facility of the samurai, and the ronin shall therein find protection and a way of life…” On the strength of this proclamation the Fuke Sect was raised to the status of special religious order. Although exercising a strict self- discipline among its ranks, it had gained the right of extraterritoriality for all of its members, and it continued to enjoy this special favor up until the Meiji Restoration. However, in October, in the 4th year of Meiji [1871], the Fuke Sect was abolished by ministerial proclamation and all of its temples throughout the country were abandoned—here the history of this Zen sect comes to a close.
At that time, commoners, or those who were not Fuke priests, were forbidden to play the shakuhachi. As a result of this ban, the shakuhachi almost died out. Because it had become homeless and there was no successor to the tradition, it seems probable to me that many famous pieces of shakuhachi music were irretrievably lost in this period. Later, the ban was lifted in the middle of the Meiji period [about 1890], and the shakuhachi experienced a revival. It became a concert instrument together with the koto and shamisen, and according to the individual performer or playing group, many new and original tunings were devised. In addition, there were many reforms and improvements made. For the first time, lacquer was applied to the inside of the shakuhachi, and in doing so, slight undulations were made to smooth the path of the sound through the bamboo tube. The inside diameter thus being regulated, rapid strides were made in the improvement of tone quality and pitch. Today, the beginner is given the piece “Rokudan” to wrestle with as the easiest or the first lesson; in those days, “Rokudan: was considered one of the most difficult pieces reserved only for those well initiated in the secrets of the shakuhachi. It touches me deeply to recall how much has been changed.
But, properly speaking, shakuhachi music originated from Zen; to be consistent with its tradition, it ought to be played in solitude [and not performed for an audience]. In the old days, the komuso traveled the length and breadth of Japan on foot, as a self-discipline or “blowing Zen.” Bearing in mind that a single sound can bring enlightenment (ichi on jo butsu), believing in the satori of the 4 strokes (shi da [representing the 4 directions or distractions in the world that entice one to stray from the path: light (elation?), darkness (despair?), outside influence (materialism?), influence from the sky (spiritualism?); all of which are symbolically dispelled by 4 strokes of the bell or 4 claps of the hands in religious services, or by blowing on 4 holes in the shakuhachi, thus clearing the way for an awakening satori experience; desiring the peace of mind that comes from fusion with the boundless universe, they walked.
It is a widely held opinion that the present age is one in which our very humanity has come to be denied or disregarded. The all-powerful machine—speed—instant everything—pollution—it seems that, without the least opposition, the natural world is being destroyed and with that the spirit of man is being needlessly transformed; we are being driven down a path that leads to destruction. Well, in times of this sort, it happens that young people desiring to master classical shakuhachi music are on the increase. What can this mean? There is even a kind of longing among young people from foreign countries, who, cherishing their hopes, come all the way to Japan to frequent the dojo (places of learning in the classical arts, and not only the martial arts.) Sitting for long hours in the correct posture while the sweat is pouring down; trying to endure the agony and not pay it any attention; bringing all one’s efforts to bear in patient concentration on this uncomfortable instrument; filling it with all of one’s breath; and somehow in the process, trying to reach a state of perfect freedom and release—what could possibly tempt these shakuhachi players into following such a course? Is it fascination with the vision of the solitary shakuhachi player entering a state of oneness or fusion with the universe (ten chi jin ichinyo [literally the oneness of Heaven, Earth and man])? Or is it possibly the desire to expend oneself to the ultimate limits of one’s breath, since in this era of the denial of humanity, it is said that we have to go back to the sensual experiences of the body as our starting point? Modern composers have written new works for the shakuhachi wherein pitch, rhythm, and such things have been transcended. Isn’t this precisely because we have been shown the way to reach that condition in which the line or seam separating the universe and this world is dissolved?
However you look at it, I think, it is the shakuhachi—that instrument which consists of nothing more than a stick of bamboo—that can surely satisfy the restless spirits of today’s young people, and indeed all people. To the question: “What sort of person are you, really, inside and what lies concealed there?”—the shakuhachi will undoubtedly supply the answer.
