Mark Albin
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My wife and I recently took a magnificent walk in the mountains. The feeling of content known to many after climbing a steep path and arriving at a clear lake was mine as well on this day. The grandeur and majestic stillness of the powerful Alpstein massifs elevated my spirit. I felt easily connected to my breath and to the earth. At the same time, I felt a fondness for all the living beings on it, especially the mountain toads who continually popped their eyes above the surface of the water as if hoping for a conversation.
I drank a bowl of matcha with my wife that day at the shore of the Fählensee (a lake up among the peaks of Appenzell where we live) which enhanced my heart and senses with even more fresh energy. A power within sunk down with the green tea into the water of the lake. My eyes seemed to expand beyond the margins of my physical body, absorbing the powerful emanations from the snow-capped peaks lined by the feathery clouds in the April sky. What a fantastic space to and inhale and absorb this magnificent existence!
I mentioned in my first writing of this blog that helping others was important to me. I also ask myself, what really helps? How do we really help others? I can enjoy this moment by the lake very much, but when I leave, can I really help anyone in this complex world?
I found myself a ‘helper’ very young, as an attendant to my older brother Michael, who was afflicted with Duschenne muscular dystrophy. Pushing his wheelchair, massaging his legs, and carrying his weakened body to a toilet or to a bed were jobs that became very natural to me by the age of 12. In this intimate realm of brotherhood, I felt very useful and connected to someone I loved.
It wasn’t always fun to be the helper. As children and teenagers, my brother and I were constantly arguing. But I never wanted him to suffer. While carrying him, I may have unintentionally banged his foot on a doorway or twisted his ankle a bit hard to get a shoe off. But we both preserved the realm of trust. My hold was gentle but very firm, and Michael never complained about my work. He often thanked me.
When I first heard of Michael’s diagnosis, I wanted to save him. His disease was fatal. He would die between 14 – 20 years-old. I thought I could do something to change or improve the situation. I think this is the root of my search, my desire to help human beings transcend the grim prospects of illness and death.
It is easy now to for me to see how Buddhism appeared in my life. I also see what a tremendous support the teachings and practices have been. The Buddha saw the human condition as suffering unless this transcendence of attachment to the body and its end was consciously experienced. That is the path of the Bodhisattva in Mahayana Buddhism, one who longs to improve the human condition through awareness and realization, and wants to share it. There is more to existence than life and death, and this awareness can transform our being from being completely self-centered, to living more and more in a heart-connection to all that lives.
When I reflect on those moments of intimacy and mutual support during my childhood as Michael’s assistant, I see that they were short, quiet meditations, focused rhythmic dances that imbued both of us with a larger confidence in the significance of life. We loved and we trusted. That is how I felt at the lake with my wife and the frogs.
It wasn’t easy to find that sense of connection to myself or another person since those years with my brother. And yet, something has shifted over time and good things have happened. The longing for transcendence is no longer something I expect to satisfy through reading a book or attending a workshop, by traveling to another country, or by meeting another person. Transcendence arises from within, pacifying the brain’s tendency to worry, solve, fix, and compensate. I experience anger, tears, and pain, but a light continues to connect me to those I miss, those I have lost.
Michael left this world in 1985. He was an extremely intelligent and generous person, but he was not able to avoid the viciousness of his disease, dying at the age of 24. During his life, I think there was healing. I sense Michael’s presence now as a ray of light that shines through my own person. I would like to write more about Michael soon.
My family story probably caused me to have a ‘helper-syndrome’. But with some real help from others who know transcendence very profoundly, I can embrace the ‘helper’ – path that brought me to this moment in these glorious mountains by the lake with my lovely wife and the curious frogs. It is a moment like those trusting, intimate moments I knew from childhood with my brother Michael. The chance to share such moments is very satisfying.
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I feel a lot of Spirit in the air here in the corner of Switzerland I call my new home. I feel something familiar, something like the Spirit of Zen. It is a good feeling and I will try to describe it.
What do I mean by Zen? A metaphoric comparison of Zen and Jodo Shinshu Buddhism is helpful. Jodo Shinshu attracts a much larger portion of devotees in Japan than Zen does. In Jodo Shinshu Buddhism, one should repeat the name of an important deity three time each day. If you manage that, when your body goes, you enter the Western Paradise. You are in; just say those words and have faith.
Zen takes another approach to reach spiritual heights. It also requires daily dedication, but the center of devotion is mindful living. And to induce mindfulness, the Zen training lifestyle is in many ways strenuous. It is like climbing the steep mountain, accepting the scratches, bruises, and blood, until you have a momentary view at the top that you have worked hard for, exhausted yourself for, sacrificed for. You breathe a deep breath and may even feel like you have become the mountain.
And then, the sound of a motor interrupts your haiku moment. A large bus appears. There is a paved road up the mountain, and a shuttle bus glides up to meet you at the peak. The vehicle is full of happy Jodo Shinshu people. They are waving out the window. When they exit the bus, they seem delighted to be up there. We share the view, the air, the mountain.
I don’t know what a Jodo Shinshu devotee knows, but the Zen practitioner full of mountain energy feels into the body and breath of Nature and senses a vital connection to life. You want to use the life-energy you feel to serve living beings. It feels like the only thing to do.
I studied religions and philosophies in college and went to Asia looking for spiritual understanding in 1985 with a desire to help make myself and the world better. That was forty years ago.
I found a powerful Zen Master in Okayama, Japan and stayed with him for a long time. I loved my life with Shodo Harada Roshi. Zen culture as embodied in the master has something that is hard to look away from, a vigilance that is subtle and quiet and at times harsh and dominant. It is like that strong mountain, a sight we are excited and even awe-struck to witness as it appears on the horizon. As we get closer, it calms and even straightens our minds. But, its authority demands our attention, almost against our will.
That is how it starts to feel here in Waldstatt. My wife and I moved here at the beginning of 2024, and the closer I get to the formidable Säntis Mountain, and the longer I stay, the more intensity I feel. Our surroundings are beautiful. The Apenzeller countryside is so picturesque one often thinks one lives inside a painting. Could this really be a possible longer landing spot for the next chapter of my life?
When I started my journey in 1985 on a one-way ticket to Japan, I had no idea what awaited me. I certainly never expected to live in a beautiful 300-year-old temple and become a Zen Buddhist monk. I shaved my head and wore robes. We worked hard and didn’t sleep much. When I ordained, I thought I had found my calling. My teacher named me DoYu, the one on the path of helping. I never imagined that I would leave temple life behind me.
I left for a pilgrimage to India with my robes in 2003 to ask questions. I had no ticket back to Japan. I ended up in a 300 year-old mill in the Bavarian countryside that became a support center for children and families. I tried to help everyone there too. I carried the robes, but never wore them. I slowly adapted to hair and lay outfits. Money and relationships were tremendous challenges.
I have come to Switzerland with my wife and I doubt we will leave soon. The energy of the Säntis mountain is so strong that it is impossible for me to sleep with my head facing it. The stick is used in a Zen temple to keep monks awake, and the mountain here seems to insist that I don't let my mind become vague.
Yes, our house is about 300 years old. Yes, I will look for ways to help people here, but don’t know what form my work will take. But I will start this period in Switzerland with a trust that has become stronger over the different chapters of my life. The Säntis mountain communicates to me like a formidable Zen Master. Its deep voice says, “Serve your wife and the people around you. Be awake, be intense, be yourself. I am here, and so are you. Come closer. Do you finally see that you and I are not different?”