What does it mean to wear a rakusu?
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from Hoko
To begin with, it's important to understand that making a rakusu is not an art project or any kind of personal expression. If you’re handy and you’re looking forward to making a Buddhist craft project, just put that idea away now. In some ways, if you have pre-existing skills, you’re at a disadvantage because you’re going to make assumptions about how things are done. Having no experience with sewing is actually a blessing; this is another chance to let go of ego that says I’m good at this and I’ll do well or I’ve never done this before and I’m terrified. Just like our chanting practice is not about being a wonderful singer, our sewing practice is not about being a fine tailor. The important thing is wholeheartedness and sincerity. There is nothing about this that’s about you. This isn’t your robe, it’s Buddha’s robe. When you wear it, that’s Buddha wearing Buddha’s robe, not you being somebody about whom you have ideas. Your karmic conditions will naturally be reflected in the sewing practice and the finished robe, but none of this is intentional. Like other kinds of ritual practice, there are prescribed ways in which the rakusu is constructed and worn. You don’t get to choose the color or pattern or style, and you can’t just sew however you want under whatever conditions you like. Echu Kyuma says in Great Robe of Liberation: The kesa is indeed a garment, but it is a garment of the Buddha—it is “Buddha’s robe.” It should not be viewed not as mere clothing but rather as “Buddha’s body” and “Buddha’s mind.” In other words, it is buddhadharma itself. The kesa, therefore, should not be changed out of expedient reasons or secular views. This is why it’s important to undertake the practice of sewing a robe with a teacher and a sangha, and not just to find some instructions online somewhere and make it up yourself as you go. Having said that, your attitude, commitment and practice will not change the rakusu. The moment you start sewing, that pile of cloth becomes a robe. This is why we treat even the pieces the same way we treat a rakusu, even before it’s done. This process might change you, the way you handle and treat the rakusu might change you, but it won’t change the robe, because the robe and dharma are one. The robe is a complete expression of thusness, no matter what you do to it. The sewing is a practice of this moment, and this moment, and this moment, and yet, your mindstate at the time of sewing is going to be recorded in a certain way and worn on your body for everyone to see. Thus the challenge is to do your best and also to not be overly attached to outcomes. If you tend toward perfectionism, resist the temptation to rip out and rip out because your ego is attached to what people will think of your work. If you tend toward going for closure and “just getting it done,” resist the temptation to rush and hurry. That hurry scurry slapdash energy will be forever enshrined in your rakusu. I’ve seen people on both ends of this spectrum, and I don’t recommend either one. We need to understand a sewing retreat not as a quilting bee or communal work practice but as a ritual. The rakusu isn’t just something to get done, a project or a task that needs to be completed on the way to receiving the precepts. The sewing itself is a ritual practice. You will be doing bows when you start sewing every day and maintaining silence to the degree possible so you can chant silently while you’re sewing and pay attention to what you’re doing. Ritual and form are directly connected to a central tenet of Soto Zen, which is igi soku buppō, sahō kore shūshi, which we can summarize as the way we carry ourselves is the buddha-dharma and the way we do things is the essential principle. Igi soku buppo is one of the main themes of Dogen’s teachings. This carries over not only to the forms of a retreat but to anytime you’re wearing Buddha’s robe. On the one hand, receiving a rakusu doesn’t make you a teacher or elevate you in any way. You’re not special when you wear a rakusu; it simply shows that you’ve made a public commitment to the precepts. At the same time, folks will look to you as an example of practice. They may not understand the commitment, but nonetheless they get the sense that you’re established and living in a particular way. Thus as role models we need to bear in mind igisoku buppo. What are we carrying into the world? How are we representing practice and the Three Treasures? There’s sort of an ambassadorial thing going on. Just as you’re not special when you wear a rakusu, you’re also not special when you’re sewing a rakusu. Folks can get precious and sentimental about rakusu sewing and start writing gee-whiz blog posts about how they were weeping with gratitude over the realizations they had while they were sewing. None of that is necessary; you’re not doing this to have a peak experience. If you do come to some understanding, that’s nice, but it’s not important and it doesn’t make you anybody. Any realization you have has been had by thousands of people before you; it’s nothing new. Here’s an story that Okumura Roshi has told related to North Americans' perception of the rakusu. One of Suzuki Roshi’s longtime students, who eventually became a transmitted teacher himself, described how they sat zazen every morning and did the robe chant in Japanese. The Americans didn't understand the words, and one day he asked Suzuki Roshi what the chant meant. Suzuki Roshi pointed to his heart and said “Love.” What a nice story. The rakusu is all about love. Forty years later, there was a conference at Stanford University in honor of Dogen’s 800th birthday. This student, now a teacher, told the story, and in the audience was a professor who was a Dogen expert and had known Suzuki Roshi very well. He turned to Okumura Roshi and asked, “How do Japanese people pronounce ‘robe’?” "Robe" and "love" sound very similar with a Japanese pronunciation. Probably the story had nothing to do with love. The chant was simply about the robe. As for the rakusu itself: what is it? Briefly: we can think of it as a 5-panel robe like the okesa. Ordained sangha wear rakusu when wearing okesa would be cumbersome or inappropriate, or the okesa might be damaged. We don’t really know the origin of the rakusu; it’s not mentioned in the vinaya, the early Buddhist monastic codes. There’s one line of thought that says it developed during a period of Buddhist persecution; a rakusu is small enough to wear secretly inside your clothes. Another argument says it was developed when work became a significant form of practice in China and wearing okesa wouldn’t work well. All we know is it first shows up in Japan during the Kamakura period, which is roughly Dogen’s time. The legitimacy of the rakusu as a robe was a source of contention between Eiheiji and Sojiji in the 1800s, though ultimately a compromise was reached that allowed the clergy to wear it in place of a five-panel okesa. The color of the rakusu says something about our practice position: blue is worn by laypeople in North America, black by novices and brown by transmitted teachers. The patched square or kagami represents a rice field, with five rows of two pieces each. The five-panel robe is known as an antarvasa robe in Sanskrit; the meaning is something spiritual that’s deep within or inside, with a sense of connection or intersection between the physical and the divine. We still call the rakusu an antarvasa robe in the novice ordination ceremony: May all Bodhisattva-Mahasattvas vow with me! I, _____________, a disciple of Buddha, receive this Antarvasa robe made of five strips, each with one long piece and one short piece. I will wear it and keep its sacred meaning. There's also an outside border and four joro at the corners. The maneki at the center back of the straps has long stitches making a symbol for pine needles. (Rinzai rakusu show a mountain-shaped triangle, while Ōbaku rakusu show a 6-pointed star.) On the white fabric at the back of the kagami, the preceptor typically writes the robe verse, ceremony date, temple name, kaishi (preceptor) name, kaitei (recipient) name, plus seals. Those of us in Sawaki Roshi's lineage don't wear rakusu with a ring; our straps are simple strips of fabric. Unlike the nyoho okesa, the rakusu is a standard size with straps long enough that the kagami covers your hands in shashu We wear robes whenever we’re doing some kind of formal practice: zazen, dharma talks, liturgy, formal meals, classes, dharma discussions, and some kinds of meetings. We don't wear robes in the bathroom, while doing work that would soil or damage them, or when they would get in the way of that work. We also don't wear them under outdoor clothing; in other words, don’t put your rakusu on at home, put on your coat, and drive to Sanshin; put it on after you arrive. It's important to keep the rakusu at the highest level; don't stack things on top of it, chuck it into a drawer at home or pack it in the bottom of your suitcase. Don't leave it casually on a shelf unit filled with dirty shoes or tuck it under your arm while you carry handfuls of other things. Carry it with two hands, preferably at shoulder level or eye level. Occasionally I remind someone that I know has a rakusu to go put it on. Recently, someone was helping in the kitchen before the start of sesshin, and he came to the zendo for opening remarks wearing a soiled apron and no rakusu. It was perfectly right not to wear the rakusu while cooking, but not optimal to be in the zendo for something as formal as sesshin wearing work clothes and no robe. Sometimes people seem surprised that I think it’s important for them to wear the rakusu, but my position is that their practice is important and the robe, if they have one, is important for the practice, not just for them, but for what they’re representing to the sangha as a whole. |
Read more about the robe reform movement, including the debate over the ring
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