Zen has a LOT of forms.
In the zendo, “forms” is the word we use to encompass all the rituals, postures, and patterns we use during practice. In a way, the forms are our practice. There is essentially a form for everything we do in the zendo. There are forms for entering and leaving the zendo, a posture for sitting zazen, an way of walking kinhin, and the service is punctuated by bells and clackers that signal when to stand, bow, and take our seats again. There is even a form for holding chant cards or books. In a Zen monastery, every ritual in the zendo is carefully and beautifully choreographed. Teachers and student volunteers take responsibility for leading the forms during our service. Teachers perform the incense offerings, and student volunteers signal the beginning and end of zazen with a bell, lead kinhin, and start chants.
When I first came to the zendo, I learned the basic forms for bowing into the zendo, sitting, and kinhin. My teacher, Sensei Bob, is far from strict. He comes to the zendo in bluejeans and a rumpled rakusu — if he remembers it — and I’ve never seen him put his hands in the traditional Soto cosmic mudra during zazen. He just sits. Bob isn’t inclined to correct students on forms. He leaves people free to ask, follow examples, or research on their own if they want to deepen their form practice. I was initially struggling with pretty bad back pain during zazen so I was grateful for his kindness about shifting positions or relaxing my posture for a bit during a sit. After I’d hung around the zendo for a few months though, I started to learn the service roles and my viewpoint of the forms changed.
Tangled Kinhin
There really isn’t much to mentally cling to in a zendo. We sit zazen, chant sutras, and our teachers give brief dharma talks and offer interviews. The zendo is very simple, with rows of black cushions and a small Buddha altar. As a student who was determined to “get enlightened” I was looking for the special sauce in this new type of Buddhism I’d taken up. Everything else was familiar, so logic dictated that the magic in Zen must be in the unfamiliar forms. I made the same mistake so many other new Zen students make, infusing the forms with significance.
After a few months Rebecca offered me the opportunity to lead kinhin. I had been around long enough to know the hand positions and bows. I also knew everyone was supposed to end up at their cushions at the end, but I had been paying attention to walking rather than the exact path we took in the zendo. After the bells, I signaled the bow, lead the line out of the zendo, did the slow and fast walks, and remembered the clack for gassho at the zendo entrance. Yay me! Then I lead the line back to the cushions, only the path we used to walk was counterintuitive. We came back from kinhin at the altar end of the cushions instead of the far end where you bow in. I didn’t know the trick so I naturally went to where we bow in, walked us in a circle to get everyone inside the rows of cushions, and realized nobody was in the right place when I was back to my seat. It didn’t occur to me to lead the line back outside the cushions and turn us around so I just stopped in confusion. Everyone realized what happened so they politely went to their cushions and I signaled the bow. As he took his seat Sensei Bob solemnly quipped, “Don’t worry. The crops won’t fail.” The zendo dissolved into giggles.
I’ve never lived that mistake down, nor would I ever want to. It was one of those memorable moments when silence suddenly gives way to shared, spontaneous laughter. I took Bob’s assurance about the health of the crops as a kind and humorous way to put me at ease. Bob’s comment was so unexpected it stuck with me though.
The Forms are Empty
I went on to learn to lead chants and to sit with the clock and bell as jikido. The first day I did chant practice I spent the entire hour leading up to it sitting with my heart pounding nervously and my thoughts swirling. Which chant? What if I screw up again? I quickly learned that all I needed to do was announce and start the chant. The zendo joins in and we chant as one. As far as jikido my big challenge was getting a consistent volume and tone from the bell. It’s easy to strike too hard or too soft, and many people don’t appreciate being startled by a hard strike after a zazen period. (Sorry, not sorry?)
I kept working on perfecting the forms, thinking there must be something in them. After all, they’ve been a thing for 1000+ years and what else is there that differentiates Zen? Then, abruptly, rituals went empty. Zen forms and rituals are not intended to have any particular outcome. Sensei Bob’s quip about crop failure suddenly made sense. A group of dancers trying to make it rain believe there could be consequences for mistakes. The rain might not fall. On the other hand, a messed up kinhin line is nothing other than that.
Why do Forms?
Once I understood the forms are empty, I spent some time just going through the motions. I started framing them through the lens of folk music or dancing, where the performers learn and maintain the traditions of their ancestors. I coined the phrase, “Japanese folk sitting.” People look at me as if I’m daft when I say that, but there are a lot of parallels. Folk dancers learn the traditions from other people in the community, and once they learn they pass them on. Folk dance is participatory and serves to builds unity within a community, and I see a parallel in Zen forms. Both folk dances and Zen forms are also embodied and impermanent. You can only participate within the moment they are happening, and only if you’re paying attention. Once the form is done, it’s gone.
As well using the forms as a focus for attention, I learned to be mindful of my reactions to them. I try my best to get them right, but the inevitable mistakes creep in anyway. Sometimes I let them go, but other times a mistake sets of a mental clatter of embarrassment, self-flagellation, or worries about another mistake. My last big one was launching into the Morning Bell Chant in the evening. It happened because I was grappling with intense brain fog and fatigue so I worked with acceptance of ill health. I can also practice around liking or disliking aspects of the forms, worrying about how others are doing the forms, taking pride in getting them right, or my reaction when one of our teachers unexpectedly changes them.
Once I settled into practicing with the forms, I got curious and started asking teachers what they see in the forms. Seicho Sensei of Clare Sangha is a priest and does even more forms than lay students. He said he does them to honor the ancestors. Sensei Rebecca views the forms as a way to create a shared space for practice. Sensei Bob said they help him return to not-knowing and bearing witness.
I’m sure my views of the forms will continue to change over time, as will the viewpoint of people around me. Emptiness is like that. However, I no longer labor under the delusions that the forms, rituals, incense, bells, or chants are going to magically take me somewhere I’m not, or that my honest mistakes are anything other than that.
Mistakes
Grouse said, “I feel very nervous when I lead our recitation of the sutras.”
Raven said, “Mistakes are part of the ritual.— Zen Master Raven, by Robert Aitken Roshi
As an aside, I’m writing this article to organize my thoughts for a brief talk on Zen forms. As I struggled to get the talk to take shape, I asked Sensei Bob how I was supposed to talk about emptiness. He said, “talk about forms.” Ask a Zen teacher a question and you get a koan. Sigh.
