20,000 Ways Not To Play The Han

by Zoe Kaufman

All of the names have been changed to protect those who wish to remain anonymous.

One day, just before an evening sitting, Sensei marches up to me and says, “From now on you are the Han Player. Simon will show you how.” Sensei turns around and marches away “But, Sensei,” I call out to his retreating figure, “I don’t want to play the Han.” It’s true I want to know HOW to play the Han, but I do not want to actually PLAY the Han. Not for a real sitting. I’m shy. And I hate performing. Besides, sitting is already hard enough. But it’s too late. Sensei is gone.

“Well,” I console myself, “how hard can it be? It’s just a hammer and a block of wood.” After all, I’m not altogether unmusical. At times in my life I have mastered Bach partitas, Chopin preludes and Beethoven sonatas. I have learned to cantillate ancient Hebrew according to Rabbinic trope. I guess I can hit a piece of wood with a stick.

After the sitting Simon explains the Han ‘riff’: One loud strike, two soft. Then, one loud, one soft; one loud, one soft. Repeat several times. End with two soft, one loud. “Piece of cake,” I say, immediately forgetting everything Simon has just told me. Was it loud soft soft or loud loud soft? “No,” says Simon, who patiently explains the riff again. “Play as loud as you can. Make the soft an echo. Then pause.” How long is the pause? “Count all the states between Mexico and New England,” says Simon.

Count all the states? I don’t even know the states next to MY state. “Does it have to be states?” I ask.

I try it again. Simon is kind enough not to overtly humiliate me, but my louds are not loud and my softs are not soft. Perplexed, I look at the mallet. “Hold the mallet loosely,” says Simon. “Hold it farther down the handle.”

I try again. Now the louds are soft and the softs are inaudible. “Practice!” says Simon.

At home, my husband is bewildered by the sounds of hammering coming from the kitchen chopping board. But practice is useless. A chopping board and a hammer are not after all the same as a Han. There is something about a Han.

One day I arrive at the Center and am astounded to learn that I am playing the Han for TONIGHT’S SITTING. “Me?” I ask Simon in true bewilderment. I say I’m not ready. Simon is sympathetic but there’s no way out. I run through the other chores of the Han player: I check the house. I make sure no one is arriving late and that the front door is locked. I turn off the phones. I arrive in the Zendo, stand at the Han and wait for the signal from the monitor.

“Loud soft soft” I remind myself. I strike the Han. That was too soft. I strike again. Too loud. I strike again. Not enough pause. “Texas, Tennessee, Arkansas, Illinois. And Kentucky,” I add. No, that’s too far south. I decide to forget about counting states.

I am now officially the Han player every time I come to an evening sitting, which is at least once, sometimes twice a week. Months go by. I have played the Han perhaps 50 times, and every time I have found a different way to play it wrong. The complexity of the thing is baffling. The variations in its sound are endless and there is no discernible way to control it.

I am assigned to play the Han for a six day sesshin. In sesshin the Han is played several times a day, so by the third morning the mallet feels more friendly in my hand. I strike the Han. That’s IT. At last, mastery!

But during kinhin, Winston, the monitor, draws me aside and whispers, “You are playing the Han TOO LOUD.” I am shocked. Did Winston not hear my confident, round, and resonant Han strokes in the morning sitting? I am bewildered. I resolve to play the Han more softly.

I finish sesshin, and resume my normal duties playing the Han for evening sittings. Each time I play the Han I renew my resolve. My softs will be exquisite and almost inaudible. My pauses will luxuriate, my rhythm will be smooth and even. And my louds will not be loud! But the Han is my foe. It stares at me with its smooth, simple surface as I continue to find new, incorrect ways to play it. One night Simon takes me aside. “Zoe,” he says, “You are playing the Han too softly.” What?!!? “Hit it hard!”he says. “Louds should be loud. Softs should be soft.”

Loud louds, I say. Soft softs.

I go back to playing loudly but now my softs are wildly unpredictable. Some are soft, it’s true, but some are medium and some are loud. I am horrified at my incapacity. A year has gone by and I can’t hit a piece of wood with a hammer correctly three times in a row. I would like to walk away from it, but I’ve been in Zen long enough to know there’s no way out. This Playing Of The Han is my existential predicament. I am the Han Player. I have to play the Han.

More months go by and I am again standing at the Han. “This time I’m gonna do it right!” I resolve. I strike the Han. Once, twice, three times. Loud, soft soft. “Wow, that’s it!” My louds are loud and my softs are soft. I am exultant.

After the sitting, Winston, who is in attendance, takes me aside. “Zoe, you are playing the Han too loud,” he says. “Play it SOFTLY.” “GRRRR,” I say to myself.

Now fear grips me every time I face the Han. There are a limitless number of ways to play this thing wrong, I realize, as I confront it again. It is the first day of another long sesshin. I play the first loud. Too soft. I play the two softs. Too loud. And uneven. And too fast.

The next time I am at the Han I jump when the mallet is suddenly snatched from my hand. I whirl around and see Sensei standing with the mallet in his hand and a gleam in his eye. I take my seat and listen carefully.

Loud soft soft, says the Han. Loud soft. Loud soft. Soft soft loud. “Oh,” I say. Because no one plays the Han louder than Sensei. Wham. Echo. Gorgeous. Very, very loud. Very loud. I resolve to ignore Winston and play like Sensei at the very next opportunity.

Soon enough I am at the Han again. "Play like Sensei," I say to myself. I hit the Han. LOUD, soft soft. Zen IN ACTION. Wham. Echo. Gorgeous!!

After the sitting Sensei takes me aside. “Zoe,” he says. “You are playing the Han too loud.” Now my head is spinning and I am speechless. I am about to argue with him, but instead I remain silent. I recognize this spinning feeling, this utter bewilderment, and I know simply that I do not know and that I will never understand.

I continue to play the Han. More weeks go by, and months. I wonder why in the world Sensei chose ME to be the Han player. I play the Han both too loud and too soft. My playing is both sluggish and too fast; my repetitions both too many and not enough, my pauses both too short and too long. I hold the mallet too tight and too loose, too high up on the handle and too low. When I finish playing I walk to my seat both too slowly and too fast, and too loudly. (And, I forget to turn the phone off as well as on.) I decide I have flunked out at this very, very complex thing, this piece of wood and a stick. I am sure I am the worst Han player since the Patriarch crossed the China sea.

Every once in a while Winston takes me aside and tells me to play softer. Simon tells me to play louder. We now have a new Chant Leader, who tells me to lengthen my pauses. He then demonstrates by playing very short pauses.

And so time passes.

One day when I arrive at the Zendo, Sensei says to me, “I’ll play the Han today.” He takes the mallet and plays the Han. On this day, I hear. This is how Sensei plays the Han: First he plays the Han. Then he stops. Then he sits down.

It’s true there are an infinite number of wrong ways to play the Han. But now that I have heard, I know: there IS one right way to play the Han. This is how you do it:

First play the Han. Then when you are done, stop. Then, sit down.

How complicated can it be?