He kneels quietly, his eyes closed in meditation. The tools of his craft lie before him: short-haired brushes of various sizes; an ink stone; a long strip of thin paper. He unfolds his hand and slowly traces the air with a finger.

And, just like that, he is ready.

He opens his eyes and selects the largest brush. He pats it gently on the stone until its hairs glisten with black ink. Then, with broad strokes, he carefully--yet quickly--traces Chinese characters.

His name is Fukushima Keido Roshi, and he practices an ancient art: "shodo". Calligraphy.

In Japanese, "roshi" means Zen master, and that is exactly what Fukushima Keido is. The chief abbot of the Tofukuji sect of Rinzai Zen Buddhism, Fukushima Roshi recently traveled from his Kyoto temple to Penn to discuss his faith and demonstrate his calligraphy skill. The exhibition was held in the Chinese Rotunda of the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology .

Before the demonstration, Fukushima Roshi spoke to the crowd: a mixture of Penn students, faculty, schoolchildren, media and museum visitors. Through a translator, he said that the rotunda, the home of the museum's Buddhist collection would inspire his are--for his art, itself, is a manifestation of Zen.

Fukushima Roshi uses calligraphy to express his Zen mind, or "mushin." Mushin literally translates as "no mind" or "empty mind." But, as G. Cameron Hurst explained, this interpretation doesn't capture the true essence of Zen, making the religion sound nihilistic. A better translation would be "free mind" or "clear mind."

"When you have reached the Zen mind, you have no illusions," Hurst said. And when you have no illusions, you can react spontaneously. You truly live in the moment.

Hurst, an expert in Japanese and Korean history, came to the University last semester to head the new Center for East Asian Studies. In a sense, he brought Fukushima Roshi with him.

Hurst first met Fukushima Roshi during a trip to Japan in 1990. They've been friends ever since, keeping in touch through correspondence and phone calls.

As part of his efforts to teach Americans about Zen and Japanese culture, Fukushima Roshi travels to the United States annually. And every time he arrives in America, he pays a visit to Hurst.

"I mentioned that I was at Penn, and he offered to come," Hurst said. "He is exceedingly loyal."

Fukushima Roshi confirmed this loyalty during the demonstration. "I came here because of Dr. Hurst," he said. "I would also travel to Africa if he was teaching there."

When asked to describe Fukushima Roshi, Hurst answered with one word: humorous. This might come as a surprise to people who assume that Zen masters are serious sorts who never laugh. This is a common misconception, according to Hurst. He explained that Zen monks don't dwell in stoic, silent solitude on mountaintops. They love life and live accordingly. Their spontaneity makes them lighthearted. Hurst did point out, however, that Fukushima Roshi jokes more than the average Zen master.

This is easy to believe. The roshi's wrinkled face seems more accustomed to smiles than frowns. He grinned constantly during his exhibition. His expression only turned serious when he performed his calligraphy.

Fukushima Roshi wrote "koans" (questions that assist in meditation), fragments of poetry, and quotes from famous Zen masters. After Fukushima Roshi finished a piece, one of his disciples raised it for the crowd to see. Another disciple translated.

"Hey you, throw it away," read one work. In other words, throw away your illusions. "Every day is a fine day," read another. Fukushima Roshi also commonly used circles--the symbol for "satori," or enlightenment--in his calligraphy.

Fukushima Roshi claimed to reach a level of "unconscious awareness" as he worked: losing himself in the moment, yet becoming the moment, as well. "When I take the brush, I become the brush," he said. "I see the paper, I become the paper."

Those in attendance were full of questions. And Fukushima Roshi was full of answers--although some were briefer than others. When asked if he ever made mistakes in his calligraphy, for example, he simply replied, "No."

One woman wanted to know what caught Fukushima Roshi's eye as he wrote. "What are you more aware of," she asked, "the white paper or the black ink?"

"I am aware of both," Fukushima Roshi answered softly, "and unaware of both."

He added that mushin allows you to deal with everything freely. This is important in calligraphy, because you must blend ink and paper perfectly. "White space has its own beauty," he noted.

When Fukushima Roshi wasn't taking questions or doing calligraphy, he entertained the audience with his anecdotes. Although not a professional calligrapher--which is why he never gives demonstrations in Japan--he is nonetheless flooded with requests for his work. Shortly before his trip to America, he tried to make a mental list of all the people waiting for his calligraphy. "I counted to 3,000," he said, "then I stopped."

Make that 3,001. As Fukushima Roshi was preparing for his journey, he received a frantic call from a good friend who wanted two pieces of calligraphy by the next morning. Not only was this request impolite, it was impossible. Still, Fukushima Roshi responded to the situation with cheer. "OK," he told his friend jokingly, "I'll fax them to you."

After his demonstration at the museum, Fukushima Roshi went to the Annenberg School for Communication to give a lecture on Zen Buddhism. Even though it was a Friday evening, people packed a classroom to listen to the master speak.

Fukushima Roshi also drew a large crowd the previous evening. On Thursday night, the roshi led Penn students in two 15-minute meditation sessions in Williams Hall.

"We vastly underestimated the number of people who might show up," Hurst said. "We had about 75, and we expected about 30. So the room became overflowing. We had people out in the hallway. We apologized to the students.

"Next time, we'll have a far bigger room."

Next time will be next year. Hurst has always been part of the roshi's annual trip. Now, Penn will be part of it, too. The roshi plans to return to the University in March of 1997. In the meantime, Hurst will keep in touch with his friend as he always has: by writing letters and talking over the phone.

Before he departed, Fukushima Roshi presented Hurst with a gift: a fan bearing his calligraphy. The words come from an old Zen poem: "Mountains and rivers and the great Earth all manifest completely the body of the Buddha." Hurst displays the fan in his office; it serves as a reminder that Philadelphia and Kyoto are not so distant, after all.

Return to Compass Features for March 26, 1996