Symbolic Action

     The third condition is ritual. Ritual in Buddhism is attaining kannō dōkō, which means “the interacting communion of appeals and response.” Ritual is constantly painting a portrait of our life, setting in motion the interactive communion between us and the universe, not between us and something small, between us and the universe. Without ritual we cannot do anything. The poem “To Paint the Portrait of the Bird,”1 by Jacques Prévert [1. Jacques Prévert, To Paint the Portrait of the Bird, trans. Lawrence Ferlinghetti (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1971). Copyright 1949 Editions Gallimard.], is a good example of the interacting communion of appeal and response that is ritual or the essential nature of repentance:

First paint a cage
with an open door.
Then paint
something pretty
something simple
something beautiful
something useful
for the bird.
Then place the canvas against a tree
in a garden
in a wood
or in a forest.
Hide behind the tree
without speaking
without moving . . .
Sometimes the bird comes quickly
but he may take long years
before deciding.
Don’t get discouraged.
Wait.
Wait years if necessary.
How fast or how slowly the bird comes
has nothing to do with the success
of the picture.
When the bird comes
if he comes
observe the most profound silence
till the bird enters the cage
and when he has entered
gently close the door with a brush.
Then
erase all the bars one by one
taking care not to touch any of the bird’s feathers.
Then paint the portrait of the tree
choosing the most beautiful of the branches
for the bird.
Paint also the green foliage and the wind’s freshness
the dust of the sun
and the noise of the creatures in the grass in the summer heat.
And then wait for the bird to decide to sing.
If the bird doesn’t sing
it’s a bad sign,
a sign that the painting is bad.
But if he sings it’s a good sign,
a sign that you can sign.
So, then, so very gently, you pull out
one of the bird’s feathers
and you write your name in a corner of the picture.

     The cage, in the first line, means our whole body — the six senses, six sense organs, six sense objects and the five skandhas. This is what the whole world consists of; this is our cage. Everyone has an individual cage. We are nothing but the cage. The poet says, “First paint a cage with an open door.” “Open door” means we should accept the vastness of existence. Usually we don’t open the door. We make the cage and then shut ourselves off. But, if we do this, how can we attract the bird? “Bird” means the Truth, the same and one ground. How can we attract the truth if we close the door? So the poet tells us to paint a cage with the door open.
     Next he says, “Then paint/something pretty/something simple/something beautiful/something useful/for the bird.” We have to paint something pretty, simple and beautiful, not for ourselves, not for the cage, but for the bird. “Something beautiful, something simple” means something beyond our intellectual sense. It means we have to see ourselves and also the vastness of space in which all sentient beings exist. This is our practice, constantly. Even if we don’t understand it, paint it, paint something pretty. Even if we don’t believe it is something beautiful, that’s all right, we are following the Buddha’s teaching and we should see the total picture. We should put ourselves in this position. This is to paint something beautiful.
     “Then place the canvas against a tree/in a garden/in a wood/or in a forest./Hide behind the tree/without speaking/without moving . . ./Sometimes the bird comes quickly.” When we paint something beautiful, we shouldn’t attach to it. Leave the painting in the wood, in the forest and then hide ourselves. This is to practice the truth. When we do gassho, we have to practice samādhi. Samādhi is really silence. We must be behind the gassho, but we cannot move. If we move, even a little, immediately our intellect comes up and argues. That’s why the poet says. “Hide behind the tree/without speaking/without moving . . .”
     Then the poet says, “Sometimes the bird comes quickly,” but strictly speaking, the bird is always there. The bird is there, but because we don’t always experience enlightenment through zazen we say “sometimes” it comes. However, Buddha’s compassion is open to everyone; there is always a bird whether we realize it or not. We don’t know when it will come. But according to this poet it doesn’t matter when it comes or how long it takes. How fast or how slowly the bird comes doesn’t matter, because that has nothing to do with the success of our life. Real success is just to put ourselves in zazen when we do zazen, to put ourselves in gassho when we do gassho, because compassion is open to everyone. “When the bird comes . . ./observe the most profound silence/till the bird enters the cage/and when he has entered/gently close the door with a brush.” Not with our hand, please, close the door with a brush. “Then”—and this practice is very important—“erase all the bars one by one/taking care not to touch any of the bird’s feathers.” This is egolessness, the practice of egolessness. How beautiful it is. If we want to paint the portrait of a bird we have to practice egolessness.
     “Then paint the portrait of the tree/choosing the most beautiful of its branches/for the bird./Paint also the green foliage and the wind’s freshness/the dust of the sun.” When we do this, all things become alive. We can make our lives come alive. But without this practice, we cannot paint the autumn, the air, “the dust of the sun” or “the noise of the creatures in the grass in the summer heat.” We cannot.
     “And then wait for the bird to decide to sing./If the bird doesn’t sing/it’s a bad sign,/a sign that the painting is bad.” This means that perhaps enlightenment is attained, or a Ph.D. degree or the degree of medical doctor, but our life doesn’t work. When it doesn’t work, we need to pay more attention to what that degree means or we have to pay attention to our own experience, until the bird starts to sing. When the bird starts to sing that is our experience, our life, so we can sign the painting. But don’t sign with arrogance. The poet says to sign your name in the corner of the picture. We shouldn’t show off, because the whole of life, the whole world is alive. We are just a corner, that’s enough. We are the whole world; the whole world is working. “One of the bird’s feathers” means take Buddha. Take one of the ideas of the universe that we believe, for instance, “the universe is the same and one ground,” and use that feather. With that feather we can write our name, not in the middle of the canvas, but in the corner of the picture. This is the poem, a very beautiful one. Throughout this poem we can see ritual in action.
— Dainin Katagiri, Return to Silence: Zen Practice in Daily Life, pp. 75-78.