Nine-Headed Dragon River: Zen Journals 1969-1982

by Peter Matthiessen

In
August 1968, naturalist-explorer Peter Matthiessen returned from Africa to his
home in Sagaponack, Long Island, to find three Zen masters in his
driveway—guests of his wife, a new student of Zen. Thirteen years later,
Matthiessen was ordained a Buddhist monk. Written in the same format as his
best-selling
The
Snow Leopard,

Nine-Headed
Dragon River

reveals Matthiessen's most daring adventure of all: the quest for his spiritual
roots.

Genres: Buddhism, Zen, Religion, Nonfiction, Spirituality, Memoir, Philosophy

304 pages, Kindle Edition

First published January 1, 1986

About the author

Peter Matthiessen is the author of more than thirty books and the only writer to win the National Book Award for both non-fiction (The Snow Leopard, in two categories, in 1979 and 1980) and fiction (Shadow Country, in 2008). A co-founder of The Paris Review and a world-renowned naturalist, explorer and activist, he died in April 2014.

Reviews

[William2 · Rating 4 out of 5]

I usually read translations of Buddhist sutras or the lessons of this or that great teacher: Pema Chödrön, John Daido Lorri, Shunryu Suzuki et al. This is the first book I’ve read by a student of Zen Buddhism. It’s about how that student came to adopt his new discipline and describes some of his growing pains on the Way. It’s unbelievably emotional in the early going as Matthiessen tells the detailed story of the death of his wife, Deborah Love, who brought him into the Zen fold in the early 1970s.

There is a scandal of some kind at Dai Bosatsu on Beecher Lake in upstate New York where the Rinzai school of Zen has built its new temple. It’s not clear but there has been some improper “conduct” (probably untoward advances to one or more of the female students) by one of the roshis. Matthiessen finds, sadly, after years of regular practice of zazen there, that he must move on and disconnect from his problematic teacher. During 1973 he turns his attention to his Zen diaries on a trip to Nepal. This was at the time he was doing research for The Snow Leopard. In fact two chapters from that book are reprinted here. He writes about his practice and I do not think I have ever read a more moving account of simple happiness. Of course, that is not his goal; he knows not to expect attainment but at the same time simply to practice zazen resolutely. “Expect nothing,” one teacher tells him. As he walks through the Himalayan landscape he discusses some of the teachings engaging him and the astonishing flora and fauna: accipitrine hawks and the great Lammergeier with its “nine foot blade sweeping down out of the north.”

Matthiessen goes to great lengths to tell the story, not only of his own spiritual awakening, but to detail the history of the Rinzai and Soto schools of Zen he is studying. Some classic dharma is related. We follow him to the historic Zen sites in Japan, which he visits in 1973 and 1982. It’s kind of a Buddhist monk’s Stations of the Cross, for by 1982 Matthiessen is a Soto monk. Starting at Kamakura, where sits the famous bronze Buddha of the Boundless Light, cast in 1252, he visits the Rinzai head monastery, the Engaku-ji, a huge compound of temples built into the evergreens in a ravine on a high hill north of the town.

Here at Engaku, one moonlit night, the nun Chiyono, hauling water, attained enlightenment when her wood bucket collapsed and water splashed onto the ground. In gratitude, she wrote the poem: In this way and that I tried to save the old pail / Since the bamboo strip was weakening, about to break / Until at last the bottom fell out. / No more water in the pail! / No more moon in the water!(p. 143)

Then it’s on to Mishima under Mount Fuji, and Ryutaku temple in the foothills, where he and his fellow monks meet after zazen with Soen-roshi, Matthiessen’s former teacher, for green tea, sake and lemon wine, and to blow bamboo whistles and triton horns. Soen-roshi then sends them off to Nara and Kyoto with his kind monk Ho-San. As Nara draws near, Matthiessen sees the jutting roofs of Horyu-ji, with its great outlying temples that came into existence about 600 CE, about the same time the Mahayana teachings arrived from China. Horyu-ji is the first seat of Japanese Buddhism, a seminary of the Hossu sect. Here we learn the particulars about how Zen came to primitive Japan, and how it had to placate the Shinto Sun Goddess at Ise before its advocates could build their big Buddha.

It is when Matthiessen goes to Kyoto that a brief overview of the vicissitudes of the shogunate and Buddhism generally is given. Key texts are quoted. The enormous violence of the period and the corruption of Buddhism disheartens the reader. The reformer was a Tendai priest called Eisai. Eisai’s reforms were backed by the second Minamoto shogun and under his aegis the construction of Kennin Temple in Kyoto was begun. This brings us up to the 12th century. It wasn’t until I got to this part of the book that I realized that the writing of it may for Matthiessen have been a way of teaching himself the complicated lineages, history and topography of Zen. It’s quite a story.

The city of Kyoto—which was spared from bombing during World War II—is one of the most precious in the world. When I came here as a Rinzai student in June 1973, I stayed at a student boarding house near high-peaked, dark Daitoku-ji, perhaps the mightiest in aspect of all Zen temples in Japan. Wandering the city day after day, I paid my respects at Myoshin-ji (the mother temple of Ryutaku-ji, with its Taizo-in temple rock garden and waterfall, its magnificent bird screen portraits of geese and falcons) and Tofuku-ji (which became the seat of Rinzai Zen a few years after Eisai’s death, and remains the largest Rinzai monastery in Japan.) One morning I had the marvelous luck to find myself alone for fifteen minutes on the wood platform that overlooks the austere, disturbing stone garden at Ryoan-ji, where the old earth wall is as beautiful as the composition of the large stones.... Every day for ten years, it is said, one may see a different temple without exhausting the temples of Kyoto. (p. 159)

And that’s not counting the temples of nearby Nara. However, Buddhism in Japan is now in decline. It died out in China during the reign of Tang Emperor Wuzong—who in 845 CE ordered the irreparable destruction of 4,600 Buddhist monasteries and 40,000 temples—so now it has for many years been in retreat in Japan, though from more benign causes. The first signs of decline can be traced to the 16th century. It is the state that today maintains the massive monasteries as a cultural legacy, for there are few monks, and those who do exist are largely in the business of observing final rites at funerals. Seventy million Japanese still consider themselves Buddhists, according the Pew Research Center, and no doubt many practitioners of Zen remain, but most are laymen and secular. The Japanese tend to visit their rich cultural legacy twice a year, in spring for the cherry blossoms, and to view the fall foliage. These are now architectural and historical sites, largely devoid of religious programming.

An exception is Eihei-ji in Fukui near the Nine-Headed Dragon River of the title; this is in the mountainous northern snow country so memorably written about by Nobel laureate Kawabata. Here Matthiessen is on the ancient trail of the genius of Soto Zen, the author of the Shobogenzo, Dōgen. There were not only novice monks training at Eihei-ji at the time of Matthiessen’s visit, but zazen was offered, as well as a special 3:00 am mountainside zazen at a spot Dōgen (d. 1253) preferred. Another exception is Hosshin-ji near the town of Obama on the northwest coast, southwest of Eihei-ji. It is here, Matthiessen writes, that “the Soto and Rinzai traditions have been merged in a fresh new manifestation of the new Dharma.” It is here that the Dōgen’s vision of shikantaza is being reanimated with the insights provided by new translations of Shobogenzo—English title, Treasury of the True Dharma Eye—into modern Japanese.

[John North · Rating 5 out of 5]

Timeless, and revered for just that quality.

Just about two years ago, I was invited to burn an object in a ceremonial fire. I woke up that morning, before traveling to camp, knowing that I needed to choose something personal to fulfill the request. The nature of such a ceremony, of course, is that whatever goes into the fire is not a trivial thing. The ceremony is not about kleenex and waste paper. I lost my breath as I looked from my bed to my shelf, and saw "Nine-Headed Dragon River." I'd lost this copy once, stolen out my car lost. And it came back. I'd had the book for nearly 20 years. It was heavily marked, and easily opened to interesting passages. Familiar. I could always find a soft, forgiving place in this book. It's gone now, though. And I want the soft place back.

[David Guy · Rating 3 out of 5]

I believer I've read this book three times, and as with many Zen books, it's a different book each time. Matthiessen is a wonderful writer, but much of this book is about his early years as a Zen student, when he seemed to be convinced there was something (called kensho) to be accomplished, and he tried mightily to do so. He actually kept notebooks about his sesshins (?). In the third section of the book, he travels with his teacher Bernie Glassman to Japan, and he gives us a brief history of Zen, focusing especially on Eihei Dogen, the Japanese founder of Soto Zen. But even in writing about Dogen he seems slightly to miss the point, and there's something horribly pompous about this whole enterprise. His portraits of contemporary masters are more interesting, especially the enigmatic Soen Roshi, who at one point tells him to be "more ordinary." I would second that suggestion.

One thing I've never understood is the fact that Matthiessen, in recovering from his wife's death from cancer, traveled to the Himalayas to search for the snow leopard (a journey which he writes about in this book as well as in The Snow Leopard), but in so doing, left his eight year old son back in the states. How could he leave an eight year old boy whose mother had just died?

[Sean · Rating 4 out of 5]

This book was of pivotal importance to me in my own spiritual search, but I can't say it's for everyone. It's intended for the reader who is seriously interested in the contemporary practice of Zen in the West and if that sounds like you, this book is an essential read. For the more casual reader, start with The Snow Leopard, which covers some of the same ground in a more accessible framework.

[Chadwick · Rating 3 out of 5]

It's hard to fairly review this book, as it's a beautifully written account of a selfish man of privilege's globetrotting quest for spiritual fulfillment. Matthiessen writes elegantly, and the subjects covered - Zen in the West, his trip to the Himalaya mountains to explore the ancient roots of Tibetan Buddhism, his pilgrimage to Japan to visit sites foundational to the history of Zen - are fascinating. His knowledge of the history of Zen is deep and searching, and he was very much a serious practitioner.

But at the same time, one cannot help but be aware of how lacking in compassion his children must have found his haring off from retreat to Asian trip to tony Upstate New York sesshin in the wake of his wife's death after a protracted battle with cancer. There is certainly a thread in Buddhism that values individual enlightenment even at the price of the suffering of a few people, a viewpoint that Matthiesen is happy to share in his potted history of Dogen's trip to China. This may sit better with you than with me. But when coupled with his ego driven approach to sitting, to koan study, and to the attainment of kensho, the result is that this book seems the result of the labors of a half-smart, selfish child.

For Matthiesen, no matter how often he gives lip service to the idea that practice, that just sitting, is the bones of Zen, he seems to always hold in his pocket the desire for the little adrenaline bump of the enlightenment experience. Sitting is described like the frenzied exertions of a mountaineer, koan study like the attainment-based structure of a classic arcade game. I'm sure that this practice was important to him, but to me it seems fundamentally lacking in real understanding. This is the work of a man who collected religious experiences the way some do first editions or unboxed action figures: to savor the ownership, but never to read or play with them.

It's a fascinating book, and very well written. But ultimately, the most interesting part might be the tragedy that the author is completely unaware of: in his quest for a more authentic life, he has completely lost touch with his own.

[Janice · Rating 5 out of 5]

I'm re-reading this after many years ... feeling the need to cast off the "burdensome armor of ego"

Matthiessen dedicates this book to "my excellent teacher and kind friend Bernard Tetsugen Glassman-sensei, with admiration, gratitude, and deep affection." I met Glassman Roshi when he came to visit my teacher Aitken Roshi in Hawaii. A giant of a man, physically and spiritually.

I thought I had The Snow Leopard on my bookshelf, but not there. I try to pass on as many books as I'm able to let go of ... then a few weeks, months, years later I look for it and it's gone.

[Lynda · Rating 5 out of 5]

Another great book for anyone interested in Zen in America. Matthiessen is a great writer. It gave me much to think about. It was a joy to read. It is non-fiction

[David Frazier · Rating 4 out of 5]

If you are literary-minded and Zen-curious, you will find this fantastic. Matthiessen, an extraordinary writer and naturalist, here tells his personal journey into zen, beginning from a group of Japanese Zen masters showing up on his Long Island driveway one day in 1968 to the untimely loss of his wife and his personal grief even as his own practice of meditation develops. Parallel to this personal story, he also traces Zen's history from its roots in India of more than 2000 years and Tang Dynasty China to its arrival in Japan in the 8th century, its subsequent coalescence into what we now understand to be Zen, and finally its more recent migration to America. By sharing his own thoughts on Zen meditation practice and its challenges (taming the ego, aspiring to perpetual "now-ness," etc) he dispels much of Zen's cryptic mystification and offers a highly approachable spiritual journey. Throughout, he relies especially on the teachings of 13th century monk Eihei Dogen, founder of the Soto Zen school. He also frequently quotes the Japanese poet Basho and many others.

[matthew harding · Rating 4 out of 5]

I read this book fresh off the heels of Ambivalent Zen by Lawrence Shainberg and what struck me most was how Bernard Glassman was portrayed so differently by these two writers. I know, that's not the warp and woof of Matthiessen's book, but still, it's what stuck out for me. Glassman and Matthiessen shared the same Roshi, but unlike Matthiessen it's Glassman who receives dharma transmission, but then Matthiessen is the new guy.

Glassman is a central figure in both books but he comes across more as a caricature in Shainberg's book and this may have to do with the fact that Shainberg often feels exhausted by what he sees as Glassman's antics. Not so Matthiessen, who sees Glassman as the real deal.

Matthiessen's book is divided into three sections: the first covers his Rinzai period-- where he begins practicing with a Sangha that focuses on the koan tradition; the middle documents the time in the Himalayas that will lead to his book, The Snow Leopard; and the final section, while subtitled as his time in the Soto school of Zen, documents his travels as Glassman-roshi's official secretary in Japan and it's here that Glassman is shown in a more or less positive light.
The book itself wasn't so much a biography than a part travelogue, part history lesson. The biographical section would be found in the Rinzai days as it's here that Matthiessen is introduced to Zen and also loses his second wife to cancer.

The second section, for me, seemed to act as a link between the first and second sections--I don't know if it could stand alone as a sort of book in itself because it felt like it could have been taken from what didn't make it into The Snow Leopard.

The final section, although concerned with revisiting the personalities that shaped Matthiessen's ideas about Zen, was more focused on presenting a biographical sketch of Soto Zen's founder, Eihei Dogen.

What holds the book together is Matthiessen himself because it's through his memories that everything congeals into something solid, but like everything solid, it all melts into air.

Unlike Shainberg, who spends much of the length of his book recounting the personalities that he came into contact with during his decades of practice, Matthiessen steps back out of the picture and away from the scrum to give the reader a sense of the historical flow of Zen through the various cultures that it impacts and that ultimately shape it.

What I liked about Matthiessen's book is that he dedicates attention not only to the landscapes and interiors that he passes through, but just as importantly he shows the human behind the various roles that people play within the scenes he writes about. It may seem like a small thing, but in zen there is this tendency to deify the Roshi and Matthiessen manages not to do that while also not dishing dirt either.

What I did not care for in Matthiessen's book was the constant zen machismo, which is not really zen at all.

I had a Quigong teacher who was focused on the "yin" or "soft" aspect of the practice, which was quite refreshing having grown up in a society that sees the masculine as strong and hard and unyielding. Matthiessen's "quest" for kensho seemed more like some kind of hero's journey on steroids, but then I considered the writer and the times; like Matthiessen, Shainberg is also on his own hero's journey except that he gets caught up in his own thinking whereas Matthiessen, at least in this book, just bolts right into the existential vortex, spurs and all.

Throughout the book the reader begins to see what appeals to Matthiessen, not so much regarding zen practice but rather his preferences for the kinds of people that he values. Like, for four years he avoided zen practice because it wasn't his thing-- it was his wife's thing and that wasn't his thing, ever. But when his wife is dying he suddenly sees her practice in an entirely new light, but he still approaches it through his own ideas of masculinity, which is true for all of us.

Look, the guy absolutely refuses to sit in a chair even through his knee pain is beyond excruciating and the only reason he gives is that he thinks that he has to overcome this physical pain if he is ever to achieve kensho and I guess Matthiessen believes that you won't ever find kensho by wimping out sitting in a chair. I don't know about that (edit: lol, actually I do know about that) but I know enough to know that zen comes with no strings; there is a certain exertion required, but it is an effortless effort that you have to come to find on your own.Sit in a chair, sit lotus, whatever, but just sit with the forms.

I'm assuming that much in these views shifted for him over the decades because sitting on the cushion has a way of rusting out this contraption called the self, along with its ideas and its preferences. Bur who knows. Maybe he stayed all hardcore about his practice?

There was this one scene where Matthiessen and company are visiting his first Roshi who has gone into retirement. Roshi steps out from some screens wearing a Noh theater type demon mask which he takes off in their presence. "There," he says, "I have taken off my mask, now you take off yours."
It's about as honest a book that you will read on zen without telling you what zen is. What you will get instead is one man's effort to make some sense of what he has been apprehended by and therefore seeks to apprehend.

What Matthiessen has given us isn't so much his personal account of his zen training or a biography of zen personalities. Of course all of this makes up the book, but I get the sense that there is another book inside this one. Instead, the personal accounts are more of an effort to trace the outlines of a mask that goes by the name of Zen, and unlike (or just like) the Roshi's mask, when removed it reveals nothing beneath it.

[Arend · Rating 2 out of 5]

A disappointment. The first part feels like an addict's search for a fix--desperately, aggressively searching for the next kensho. The second part is an excerpt from Snow Leopard (a book I loved) that I found a disservice to the original work. The final part felt like "looking for a Yoda" D&D style, with its discussions of lineages, dharma battles, discipline, strength, the comparisons between Zen masters, and searches for authenticity. Lots of poetic language, but I didn't perceive much poetry.

Definitely experienced a wall of words built to keep me away from Zen. (I think I'd rather peel potatoes with Dogen's cook.)

[Kristine · Rating 5 out of 5]

My first Peter Matthiesen book and I was struck by the vividness of his imagery. Beautiful. It reminded me of the few sesshins I attended and appreciating every moment. Rigorous but beautiful practice.

[Michael]

I only read about 50 pages. Boring. It is like a who's-who of 1970s Zen America.

[Cheryl · Rating 2 out of 5]

This is a book taking a wider and deeper look into American Zen, adding to and amplifying the Snow Leopard. Actually, including a lot of journal material that ended up in the Snow Leopard. I am just not a fan of organized religion, even if it is Zen Buddhism and has the organization of chaos and not-knowing, meaning no organization at all. It recalls his own journey in Zen and his trials and struggles, and also details this teacher's methods, and this teacher's rejection, and this teacher's schism, etc. A history of Zen Buddhism in America. As I understand it, it can't be quantified pinned down, it just is, and will be, inscrutable and felt with the heart and mind.

Zen has been called the "religion before religion," which is to say that anyone can practice, including those committed to another faith. And that phrase evokes that natural religion of our early childhood, when heaven and a splendorous earth were one. But soon the child's clear eye is clouded over by ideas and opinions, preconceptions and abstractions. Not until years later does an instinct come that a vital sense of mystery has been withdrawn. The sun glints through the pines, and the heart is pierced in a moment of beauty and strange pain, like a memory of paradise. After that day, at the bottom of each breath, there is a hollow place filled with longing. We become seekers without knowing that we seek, and at first, we long for something "greater" than ourselves, something apart and far away. It is not a return to childhood, for childhood is not a truly enlightened state. Yet to seek one's own true nature is "a way to lead you to your long lost home." To practice Zen means to realize one's existence moment after moment, rather than letting life unravel in regret of the past and daydreaming of the future. To "rest in the present" is a state of magical simplicity...out of the emptiness can come a true insight into our natural harmony all creation. To travel this path, one need not be a 'Zen Buddhist', which is only another idea to be discarded like 'enlightenment,' and like 'the Buddha' and like 'God.'

[Ommiolgi · Rating 3 out of 5]

first book of the new year. Not at all what I expected, but a very enjoyable book a few slow points, but the ground that was covered is extensive from Peter's own awakening to Zen practice, a sort of travelogue of trekking in the Tibetan high country, and then a description of traveling in Japan, which also contained a fairly detailed history of Zen Buddhism from the Buddha through China to Japan and how it seeds were planted in the United States. Fascinating from many angles perhaps the most useful were his common language, descriptions of Zen, philosophy and practice.
I would recommend this book to those who were familiar with Buddhism and especially the Zen sect and they are struggling to maintain a commitment to their own practice.

[Pat · Rating 5 out of 5]

If you have a meditation practice, and you like, for example, The Snow Leopard, or Matthiessen's non-fiction, this book is for you. If you've read In the Spirit of Crazy Horse (it's worth it) you'll take the import of the moment where he suggests that if he had met a Native American teacher, rather than the Buddhist roshis he met, he might have gone in that direction.

Matthiessen alludes to, but does not go deeply into the misbehavior of several of the teachers he met in the book. I'm not certain how that will be read by people, partly because I'm not sure what exactly he knew when he publiched the book. The first time I read this, I wasn't aware of the exact nature of the abuse they dealt out, and you won't get a sense of its gravity from the text. This time, I lost lots of respect for the roshis whose behavior harmed human beings, the sangha and Buddhist practice, but I didn't lose respect for Matthiessen. Your opinion my be different.

[Mike · Rating 5 out of 5]

Passionately and lyrically, Peter Matthiessen labors to express that which the Zen tradition says is inexpressible—the essence of Buddha nature. I’m not sure how much I actually “learned” about Zen. That’s not why I read the book. I read the book because I love Matthiessen’s prose. I love losing myself in the lushness of his language, and, paradoxically enough, losing one’s self is, from what little I understand about Zen, the path to enlightenment…whatever that means.

[Karl Nehring · Rating 4 out of 5]

I liked this book, as it told an interesting story, but because its form seems a bit scattered, and because it sometimes bogged down in travelog, I cannot quite say I was crazy about it. Those readers without an interest in Buddhism would probably not get much from it. My rating is 3.5 stars, rounded up.

[Don Groves · Rating 4 out of 5]

I've been on a Matthiessen kick lately. This one tells how he came to study Zen. The first section, Rinzai Journals, that includes his wife Deborah's death had the greatest emotional impact on me but then the final section Soto Journals, which gives a bit of a look at Zen history in Japan, pointed me toward writing to seek.

[I Pringle · Rating 4 out of 5]

It starts out as Matthiessen at his best--A very intimate telling of his own experiences and emotions. About half-way in, it starts to be more about the history of Japanese buddhism. The Japanese history portions are very informative but very dry. It's worth the price of the book for just the first half though.

[Nirbhay Singh · Rating 4 out of 5]

Loved the book, with its crisp description of places, people, and the author's own emotional state. His insight into the Zen teachings of the masters is priceless, and his discussion of the thoughts, feelings and teachings of one of his teachers (Tetsugen sensei) is superb.

[2pay · Rating 3 out of 5]

I loved The Snow Leopard, but this one was a bit over my head. Too tough for

[Tim · Rating 3 out of 5]

Very good insight into Zen traditions, history. Naturally excellent Mathiessen style and perspective on little seen parts of life.

[Emma]

zen dagboeken

[Paul · Rating 5 out of 5]

Great book. I read it within a year of reading The Snow Leopard. Matthiessen has a power of observation that creates a sacred place of what may otherwise appear mundane.

[Dwan Dawson-Tape · Rating 4 out of 5]

Not an easy read, by any means, and probably best enjoyed by a serious student of Zen. Honest (sometimes almost painfully so). Convoluted but occasionally lyrical writing.

[Spout Press · Rating 4 out of 5]

Editor John favored this book this year.

[stephanie cassidy]

Quiet and intensely present, even after all these years. Dedicated and honest, Matthiessen's style is Zen...

[J · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is one of my favorite spirtual memoirs. I rarely read a book twice, but I've read this one three times.

[C · Rating 4 out of 5]

Gorgeous writing, fascinating life

[Algernon · Rating 3 out of 5]

This is the standard against which other personal memoirs of Zen practice are measured.