The Nüwa Newsletter, Edition 3
Thought Pieces, Cultural Journalism and Extracts exploring Buddhism, Daoism and their Intersection with Western Culture.
Hello! I hope this edition of the Nüwa finds you happy and well. Firstly, I want to apologise for the late hour that this is being sent out — I’m still establishing a writing rhythm!
I want to share a thought with you — could it be that the relationship between spiritual and artistic practice is something like a koan? Seemingly impossible to pin down using conventional thought, but with a hidden answer that has the potential to change the way we think about everything? My thoughts have been orbiting this question like a fly around a bowl of ripe fruit. Unfortunately, the bowl is covered by an opaque, fabric netting. Out of sight, yet perhaps there’s another way in? I hope you’ll continue to explore this shifting landscape with me, and that together we can find out where the path may lead.
The Microcosmic Orbit — A Sweet Spring Bubbles
The Chart of Inner Pathways (Neijing Tu) is a late 19th century chart of internal alchemy (neidan), that depicts the human body as a mountain. In this lower section of the chart, the sea of vital essence (jing) at the base of the body is being stirred into motion, and flows up through the spine. The gateway through which the water flows is the tip of the coccyx. The man ploughing with an ox indicates that this is a process of cultivation and requires effort to accomplish. Although difficult to see in the black and white version, the four Taiji symbols represent the lower dantian, which is being heated by a fire below. This is the alchemical furnace and cauldron.
In truth, the process of consolidating the lower dantian and opening the Microcosmic Orbit is more simple than the esoteric nature of the Neijing Tu may lead us believe. One simply needs to receive the correct methods in the correct order. First, qi is drawn into the lower dantian. There are many methods that seek to force qi into the lower dantian by building an artificial container — these are incorrect. When qi is properly drawn into the lower dantian, it will begin to consolidate and fill up naturally. Once the lower dantian is sufficiently full, qi begins spilling into the meridian system and opening the channels. One should not use specific methods for opening the channels — it happens as a natural by-product of building the lower dantian correctly. When qi does start spilling into the meridian system, it first flows up the governing channel in the back, and thus the Microcosmic Orbit begins to open.
Are you a Buddhist?
I absolutely love The Empty Mirror — I first read this memoir of training in a Japanese Zen monastery when I was still at school and it inspired me to make a number of similar trips several years later. Here’s a short introduction about its author from another brilliant book, Adventures With the Buddha: A Buddhism Reader (2005):
“When Janwillem van de Wetering (b.1931) knocked on the door of a Zen monastery in Kyoto in 1958, he knew no one who had been to a Zen monastery, and he had no idea what was in store for him. Speaking no Japanese, van de Wetering pointed to his suitcase, to indicate he wanted to stay at the monastery. Witnessing European life at a critical impasse had prompted him to make this journey in the dark. During World War II, the bombs had rained continuously down near his childhood home in the Netherlands, and of his classmates (most of whom were Jewish) not one survived the war.
After the war van de Wetering became part of a new, restless generation, eventionally moving to ten countries, whilst being truly at home in none of them. In London, he studied philosophy in order to discern the purpose of life. The philosopher A.J. Ayer informed him that philosophy did not teach anything remotely like that, and suggested that Buddhism might address the basic questions troubling him. For two years at the Kyoto monastery, at the bargain price of two English points per month for room and board, van de Wetering lived the routines of a (lay) Buddhist monk.”
In the following extract, van de Wetering expresses to his master that he would like to formally become a Buddhist. This seems like a rather straightforward and reasonable proposal, if it weren’t for the fact that it were Zen.
The master has finished his meal and looked at me.
“I hear you want to become a Buddhist.”
“Yes,” I said. “I have been your disciple for some time now, but I have never entered the faith, or the church, or whatever I should call it. I should like to do so now.”
“It can be done,” the master said. “We have a special ceremony for this purpose. Quite an impressive ceremony really. All our monks, and also all priests connected with the monastery in one way or another, will come. They will all dress in their best robes. I’ll wear the garb which you’ll have seen me in before, at New Year for instance; the robe is uncomfortable because brocade is heavy, but it looks well. Sutras will be chanted and you’ll have to come forward and kneel down and I’ll ask you some questions to which you’ll have to answer ‘yes’. You’ll have to declare that you are seeking refuge in Buddha, in the Teaching, and in the Brotherhood of Buddhists. You’ll also have to confirm that you will refuse to enter Nirvana till all living beings are ready to become part of the ultimate reality. Then I’ll wave my horsehair brush and the sutra chanting will begin again and Gi-san will play his drum and the head monk and Ke-san will strike their gong and after that there will be a feast for monks and guests. It can be organised. I’ll have to ask the head monk to find a suitable date for the ceremony.”
He looked at me. I didn’t know what to say. It seemed a very acceptable proposition. But it seemed that the master was expecting something.
“All right then,” I said in the end. “Many thanks for your trouble.”
He nodded and I thought the interview had ended, bowed and got up. When I was near the door the master called me back.
“There’s something I wanted to ask. Why do you want this ceremony to take place? Do you think it will do something for you?”
I had to admit that I didn’t think so.
“Do you think that, by becoming a Buddhist, you’ll get closer to solving your koan?”
No, I didn’t think so.
“Hmm,” the master said and turned away. The interview was now really at an end and I left the room.
In the garden I looked for Han-san and found him loading cucumbers into a wheelbarrow.
“Are you a Buddhist?” I asked.
Han-san might be a simple country lad but he was quick on the uptake.
“I?” he said innocently. “I study Zen Buddhism”.
“Yes,” I said impatiently, “I know. But are you a Buddhist?”
“You know,” Han-san said, “that ‘I’ don’t exist. I change all the time. Every moment I am different. I exist in the way a cloud exists. A cloud is a Buddhist, too. You call me ‘Han-san’ and pretend that I was yesterday what I shall be today. But that’s your business. In reality there is no Han-san. And how can an unreal Han-san be a Buddhist?|
“Don’t be so intricate,” I said. “All I ask you is whether or not you are a member of the Buddhist brotherhood.”
“Is a cloud a member of the sky?” Han-san asked.
I gave up. The ceremony was never mentioned again.
— Janwillem van de Wetering, The Empty Mirror: Experiences in a Japanese Zen Monastery (1971).
The Intellect in Spiritual & Artistic Practice
Within art history, there’s a fundamental debate about the role of the intellect in the appreciation of visual art. Last night, I was speaking about this with a friend who believes that the intellect is completely unnecessary, even elitist and exclusionary. Instead, great art should speak directly and without the need for words. Think, Monet’s Water Lilies. Interestingly, this attitude towards art is commonly found within Buddhism and Daoism towards spiritual practice — all we need to do is release, diminish that which obscures, surrender to that which is higher. Such ideas in both artistic and spiritual practice are often associated with the cultivation of authenticity; by stripping ourselves of pretence and ego, we approach something verging on purity. Ironically, I find this anti-intellectual view to be conceptually very beautiful — its simplicity, certainty and vision of tangible transcendence is extremely appealing. However, I think the truth is somewhat more complex. I have no doubt that I will return to the role of the intellect in future editions of the Nüwa, but in the meantime I want to share with you some related thoughts about three 20th century chapels. They have in common that fact that they serve a spiritual function, yet they are also imbued with the imprint of a single, great artist. I’ve attached links to each picture, so that you can find out more about each building if you’re interested.
In each of these buildings, there seems to be a beauty and human spirit that reaches beyond the mundane. However, each one is also clearly imprinted with the cultural context in which it was created. For example, each one is connected with a certain artistic movement. In other words, it’s possible to see the interplay between culture and transcendence in these works. Returning to the question of intellect vs. release & surrender in artistic and spiritual practice, these chapels demonstrate that the two must go hand in hand. Release into absolute nothingness is unrealistic — until we die (and even then…) the ball simply keeps on rolling. The spark of creation, the constant transformation of yin and yang.
Perhaps we can look at it this way — release & surrender are like the lotus that flowers from the mud of culture, intellect, form & structure of some sort. Without the mud there is no surrender and there is no transcendence.
That’s all folks! As always, if you have any feedback about this edition of the Nüwa, please drop me a message or write a comment below. The Nüwa has some really great content lined up for the coming weeks, including interviews with figures I think you guys will be interested to hear from.
Peace & Love,
Oscar
Thanks, have bought a copy of The Empty Mirror, looking forward to reading it.