There are stories about people who come to Buddhist practice through contact with the robe, or kesa (袈裟, Skt. kasaya)–they take just one look at it, and something about it awakens the will to investigate the truth. One ancient story tells of a prostitute who puts on the robe as a joke, saying, “Look at me, I’m a monk!” She’s trying to make fun of it, but by touching it, by putting it over her shoulder, something inside of her shifts, and she turns toward practice. It’s all very magical.

But I’ve actually met people like this. I sometimes attend fukudenkai (gatherings of people sewing robes), and I meet person after person who, though they were born into a Buddhist culture, did not find any point of contact with Buddhism until stumbling upon the tradition of the robe (in particular, the nyohō-e, or traditional handmade robe). I can’t explain why; I doubt they can either. There’s just something about it. I have theories, but for now, I’ll just say that I think it taps into our intuitive feeling for what is authentic. And we like that.

There’s a lot to say about the nyohō-e–it is, in many ways, the face of the nyohō tradition. I’ll write more about it, but those details can wait. Right now, I want to investigate this in more basic terms.

If we entertain, just for fun, the idea that an article of clothing can be an invitation to practice compassion, or wisdom, or just commitment to this moment–if we imagine that it is possible to dress for that purpose, then how might we dress? What does that look like?

Or, to scale it back a little, imagine that there is an atmosphere that can have such an effect (perhaps easier to believe), and that our clothing can be one small component of that atmosphere. What would you wear? And if you knew about that effect, would you choose to dress in that way?

For simplicity, let’s reduce this to pants (as I’m writing this, I know it might sound silly, but please humor me). I think it’s asking too much of a pair of pants to expect them to inspire some sort of spiritual aspiration on their own. But again, if we see this pair of pants as part of a space, part of an environment, it doesn’t seem too crazy. After all, it’s easy to picture a pair of pants so gaudy, so ill fitting, or just so visually overwhelming (for good or bad) that they dominate the room. So pants can have a kind of power. We just need to ask them to do something more subtle.

What do these pants look like? The nyohō tradition provides some hints, some things to look for:

• Natural materials.
• Broken, subdued color. “Broken” means that it’s not too perfect, that it has variations and texture. We see broken color in cloth that has been rubbed thin over time, or washed over and over. We see it in lots of weaves that, on close inspection, are actually made of threads of different colors (though it looks, at a glance, like a single color). Cloth that is perfectly red, perfectly black, etc. doesn’t have this effect. And it’s no accident that a lot of synthetic materials are less likely than natural ones to take on that broken look. “Subdued” just means not glaring, not too bright. If someone wears a hot pink shirt, you can’t help but think, at least for a second, “Wow, that’s really pink.” And that’s not the point.
• Simplicity of design. If the pants call attention to themselves, that’s probably not it. Likewise, if they’re covered with pockets that have no function, or zippers that have no function, or whatever it is, that’s also not what we’re talking about. Nyohō is practicality, at heart.
• Fit appropriate to your body. Not too baggy, not too tight. Just right for you, so that you can have a natural, undistracted relationship with your own environment, with your own actions.
• The absence of intense or distracting patterns (or text).

(I’ll add that we also need, in this age, to consider how/where/by whom the pants were made. This was not such an issue 1000 years ago, but it is today, and it’s a line of inquiry that fits with the tradition.)

Most of this is just a way of saying that the pants would be (a) comfortable for the wearer, and (b) not distracting for someone else. The value of being comfortable for the wearer is that the wearer, then, is allowed to be natural in his or her movements, to place attention on what is right there, in that moment. That naturalness is an invitation–an opportunity–for anyone around to have that same experience. If you’re bothered by how tight your pants are, that will affect everything–subtly, but surely–about how you interact with others. The issue of distraction is simply that, even though I keep talking about pants, this is not about pants. It’s about pants not being in the way of something else. One of my teachers is fond of saying that “if it’s not about you, it’s probably nyohō.” So if these pants are serving a function, it’s a secret one, an invisible one.

There’s talk in the nyohō world of “not arousing desire.” When we hear talk of desire, I think we naturally assume there’s some puritanical agenda at work, but we have to remember that in Buddhism, desire means any kind of desire, any sense that something is lacking. It’s the basic source of dissatisfaction. So, no, really sexy pants might not work in this context, but it’s not because of some notion of sin–it’s because wanting something we don’t have takes us out of the fullness of where we already are. Pants with a fancy designer label present exactly the same difficulties. We are not responsible for other people’s desires–that’s a burden that no one needs or deserves, and imagining otherwise is a dangerous road, in lots of ways. But for the purposes of this conversation, we’re trying to establish a certain kind of atmosphere, a possibility for a particular type of encounter. It’s like interior design; we’re just some of the furniture.

I’m describing this as if it’s all very calculated, but I think that the reason this teaching has resonated with so many people through history is that the list of criteria above is actually a recipe for things that people naturally like. We might go our whole lives without ever defining for ourselves how we feel about simple blue jeans–what is there to question? They’re practical, we think. What else is there? But in this world of space-age fibers and multi-function designs and nifty little secret compartments and quick-dry, instant washability, the fact is, there are lots of pants out there more practical than jeans. Lots. Jeans can’t compete. But we keep buying them. Why?

I think that jeans (I’m not limiting this to jeans, but I think it’s the easiest example), like the traditional robes, feel authentic. They feel honest. There’s probably a better word, but I can’t find it. We can say that’s because they match everything on that little list, or we can say it’s something less definable than that, something just felt. But in them, we can relax, and not just physically. We can also let go of our own stories a little, of our ideas of who we are and how we need to express that to others. And when we can let go in that way, the people around us can sense that, and they can do it too. It’s all invisible–I’m not thinking about the jeans I’m wearing, and neither are you. And that’s the point. It’s something that’s just out of the way.

There’s more to this. And it’s not all quite as simple or effortless as putting on a pair of jeans. There are occasions when jeans are the right expression; there are other times when wearing jeans has the opposite effect. Jeans might say, “Look at me!” Context can be complicated. If a Zen priest chooses to wear jeans, that can be a way of hiding from one’s public role, of withholding something important. In that case, even if the clothes meet the criteria, they still don’t fit the bill. We have to look carefully, with each step.

Is there a way to dress that creates a space of possibility for others? A way to walk? A way to sit? Are there foods that are more or less conducive to that atmosphere, that way of being? Is there a way of speaking that opens up the moment to those around us?

When we go to the store and pick out a shirt, is it reasonable to imagine that we’re not really shopping for ourselves, but for everyone else?

If any of this is even a possibility, then what could be more interesting to explore?