Inner Life Of Solitude

On the one hand, it is so incredibly hard to imagine what was going through Kūkai's mind as he worked his way back to Shikoku after dropping out of the university.

He had just dropped out of school, abandoned his career, disappointed to no end the man who had taken him under his wing and tutored him so that he could pass the university's entrance exams, and left his parents and family unimaginably let down. He left the capital with nothing but the clothes on his back; no money, no food, no support, no idea of what to expect, no back-up plans, no way back, no nothing. He was completely and irrevocably alone — mentally and emotionally.

On the other hand, it is easy to see what was going through his mind as he worked his way back to the island. He may have had nothing by most people's standards, but he did have something — potential.

I imagine Kūkai struggled mightily in the year leading up to that departure. Not a "should i or shouldn't i" struggle, but a struggle of did he have the right to let all those other people who were counting on him down. However, on that day when the decision was made, i don't think he actually "made" a decision at all; i think it was nothing more or less than a simple recognition that it was time to go. It wasn't a recognition that he even had to think about, it was just, all of the sudden, and with no warning, clear that it was time to leave. Which he then did.

And as he left, because he left everything material behind, because he left expectations behind, because he left promises behind, because he left thoughts of right and wrong behind, because he left hopes behind — he left with infinite potential and zero limitations ahead. Then, while wandering the hills and valleys of Shikoku, he let it begin to refill that potential. With each new day he let himself expand into that potential and let himself become that potential.

He lived each moment of this new life under the watch of the Heart Sutra's ze sho hō kū sō; fu shō fu metsu; fu ku fu jō; fu zō fu gen (these are the characteristics of the emptiness of all dharmas; they neither arise nor cease, are neither defiled nor pure, neither increase nor decrease.)

For the next several years, Kūkai lived those words. No, it would be more accurate to say, those words existed in the being we have known as Kūkai. He ate when hungry and when he could find something to eat, he slept when he needed to, he meditated throughout the day. He did nothing but be. He let his life drain into beingness just as a small narrow stream drains into the ocean — without fight, without hope, without thought.

Nothing was defined for him and he didn't live his life by definitions. He just was. There was no yesterday, today, or tomorrow. He just was. There was no here, there, me, other, hungry, full, hot, cold, happy, sad, hopeful, distraught, excited, or bored. There was no Kūkai and no dharma. There was no meditating, sleeping, walking, or sitting. There was no being or not being. There just was. There was no Kūkai, no time, no space. There just was.

And when Kūkai just was long enough, another realization bubbled to the surface. This one came to the surface while sitting in a cave on the southeast coast of the island on Cape Muroto.

As night was fading early one morning, it became clear that he was no different from that potential he came to the island with. It became clear that he was that potential. And when that happened, he stood up again, gave himself the name Kūkai, declared that the purpose of his life was to save all others, and walked away. Again.