SHAVE ICE
February 4, 2009By TOM STEVENS, For The Maui News
The flowers continued to fall as Shakyatnuni gave his last lesson, and he closed his eyes for the very last time, leaving for Nirvana.
— Nirvana Day scripture, Mantokuji Soto Zen Mission
Here on Maui, Super Bowl Sunday has always seemed a good day to do something else.
The weather is often stunningly beautiful; the traffic so light it feels weirdly like the 1970s again. This year was no exception.
Because the game doesn’t really kick off here until early afternoon, forgoing the prebowl whoopdee-doo opens up several hours for totally unrelated activities.
In past years, I always tried to get out into the surf before the Super Bowl, but the croup kept me ashore this year. Still it seemed a shame to waste all that sparsely traveled roadway. So when the phone rang with an invitation to Paia, I managed to rally.
“You sure you can go? How do you feel?”
“I’m much better,” I said heartily. “Shoot, if there were any surf today. I’d be out there right now.”
“Bringing on a relapse!”
“OK. I’m not totally seaworthy. But I can still do something contemplative on land. There’s no dancing involved, is there?”
“O-bon season is pau. This is more like a memorial service,” Irene explained. Then tilting her head oddly, she gave me an appraising look. “Come to think of it, you’d better come along. Your health might benefit.”
An hour later, we were seated with about 40 others on gray metal folding chairs in the aily main temple of the Manokuji Mission in Paia. The day was so mild, several of the big sash windows stood open, admitting slants of morning sun and the faint salt breath of the sea.
Sunday’s service combined two events: the traditional February observance of Buddha’s departure from this world, and a sort of communal healing regime called “0-juzu mawashi.” An Asian New Year’s party afterwards promised lunch, bingo, bon dancing, taiko drumming, lucky numbers and karaoke singing, but I only got to read about that.
I showed Irene the pink tri-fold program. “Look,” I whispered excitedly. “Karaoke! Lucky I came! I’ll open my set with ‘She’s Not There’ by The Zombies, then Roger Miller’s ‘King of the Road.’ I’ll end with Hank Williams Junior, ‘Are You Ready for Some Football?’ What do you think?”
She shook her head. “Shhh, the service is starting.”
The repeated chime of the bronze starting bell ushered in the genial, tabi-clad Rev. Kenji Oyama. He led a meditation and the chanting of sutras before joining the sangha members in three stately bows of respect.
Standing at a simple but elegant podium fashioned from golden koa planks, emcee Eric Moto then invited the congregants to file forward by twos and drop pinches of incense into boxes of hot sand. Soon a faint, spicy smoke perfumed the air.
Three more bows followed, then a hymn and a short responsive reading. Next the Rev. Oyama briefly related the story of Buddha’s last day on earth, traditionally marked on Feb. 15 but celebrated throughout the preceding fortnight.
Pointing to a beautifully printed scroll he had borrowed from the Rinzai-Zen Temple for the occasion, the Rev. Oyarna recalled that Shakyamuni Buddha lay at rest on a platform. Surrounded by weeping devotees, the Buddha delivered his final eight-point lesson as he passed from the world.
The point that caught my ear was an admonition to rein in one’s passionate greed for personal glory and to be content with a more modest simplicity. “I’ve decided not to be greedy about the karaoke,” I whispered.
“Good! Now try the next cure.”
Rearranging the folding chairs, the mission members and guests sat in a big circle surrounding three Women who chanted and struck beats using a gourd drum and a small hammer and gong. As the women kept the rhythm of the chant, an oversized mala (rosary) made up of hundreds of cue-ball-size wooden beads started passing from hand-to-hand around the circle.
The big beads felt pleasantly smooth and massy as the rosary rotated through 40 sets of hands and across 40 seated laps. As the rope on which they were strung rocked up and down, the beads clacked with their own soft rhythm. The sounds, the group motion, and the unison chanting produced a sort of gently mesmeric bliss.
At length I saw that a sort of weighty straw or fabric bundle swung from one length of the rosary. As it progressed around the circle, I watched each congregant press the bundle to some body part.
“It makes you well,” Irene explained.
When it reached me, I clapped the bundle to my chest.
Then I was ready for some football.