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D.T. Suzuki

AN INTRODUCTION TO ZEN BUDDHISM

Edited by Ch.Humphreys, with a Foreword by C.G.Jung

Rider & Company
London 1949 (1969)
 

  Contents

  Editor's Foreword
* Author's Preface
  Foreword by C.G.Jung
  I    Preliminary
* II   What is Zen?
  III  Is Zen Nihilistic?
  IV   Illogical Zen
  V    Zen: A Higher Affirmation
* VI   Practical Zen
* VII  **Satori**, or Acquiring a New Viewpoint
  VIII The Koan
  IX   The Meditation Hall and the Monk's Life
  Index
 

Preface

The articles collected here were written for the "New East",
which was published in Japan during the 1914 War under the
editorship of Mr.Robertson Scott. The editor suggested
publishing them in book-form, but I did not feel like doing it
so at that time. Later, they were made the basis of the First
Series of my "Zen Essays" (1927), which, therefore, naturally
cover more or less the same ground.

Recently, the idea came to me that the old papers might be after
all reprinted in book-form. The reason is that my "Zen Essays"
are too heavy for those who wish to have just a little
preliminary knowledge of Zen. Will not, therefore, what may be
regarded as an introductory work be welcomed by some of my
foreign friends?

With this in view, I have gone over the entire MS., and whatever
inaccuracies I have come across in regard to diction as well as
the material used have been corrected. While there are quite a
few points I would like to see now expressed somewhat
differently, I have left them as they stand, because their
revision inevitably involves the recasting of the entire
context. So long as they are not misrepresenting, they may
remain as they were written.

If the book really serves as a sort of introduction to Zen
Buddhism, and leads the reader up to the study of my other
works, the object is attained. No claim is made here for a
scholarly treatment of the subject-matter.

The companion book, "Manual of Zen Buddhism", is recommended to
be used with this "Introduction".

D.T.S.

Kamakura, August 1934
 
 

Chapter 2

What is Zen?

Before preceding to expound the teaching of Zen at some length in
the following pages, let me answer some of the questions which
are frequently raised by critics concerning the real nature of
Zen.

Is Zen a system of philosophy, highly intellectual and profoundly
metaphysical, as most Buddhist teachings are?

I have already stated that we find in Zen all the philosophy of
the East crystallized, but this ought not to be taken as meaning
that Zen is a philosophy in the ordinary application of the term.
Zen is decidedly not a system founded upon logic and analysis. If
anything, it is the antipode to logic, by which I mean the
dualistic mode of thinking. There may be an intellectual element
in Zen, for Zen is the whole mind, and in it we find a great many
things; but the mind is not a composite thing that is to be
divided into so many faculties, leaving nothing behind when a
dissection is over. Zen has nothing to teach us in the way of
intellectual analysis; nor has it any set doctrines which are
imposed on its followers for acceptance. In this respect Zen is
quite chaotic if you choose to say so. Probably Zen followers may
have sets of doctrines, but they have them on their own account,
and for their own benefit; they do not owe the fact to Zen.
Therefore, there are in Zen no sacred books or dogmatic tenets,
nor are there any symbolic formulae through which an access
might be gained into the signification of Zen. If I am asked,
then, what Zen teaches, I would answer, Zen teaches nothing.
Whatever teachings there are in Zen, they come out of one's own
mind. We teach ourselves; Zen merely points the way. Unless this
pointing is teaching, there is certainly nothing in Zen purposely
set up as its cardinal doctrines or its fundamental philosophy.

Zen claims to be Buddhism, but all the Buddhist teachings as
propounded in the sutras and shastras are treated by Zen as mere
waste paper whose utility consists in wiping off the dirt of
intellect and nothing more. Do not imagine, however, that Zen is
nihilism. All nihilism is self-destructive, it ends nowhere.
Negativism is sound as method, but the highest truth is an
affirmation. When it is said that Zen has no philosophy, that it
denies all doctrinal authority, that is casts aside all so-called
sacred literature as rubbish, we must not forget that Zen is
holding up in this very act of negation something quite positive
and eternally affirmative. This will become clearer as we
proceed.

Is Zen a religion? It is not a religion in the sense that the
term is popularly understood; for Zen has no God to worship, no
ceremonial rites to observe, no future abode to which the dead
are destined, and, last of all, Zen has no soul whose welfare is
to be looked after by somebody else and whose immortality is a
matter of intense concern with some people. Zen is free from all
these dogmatic and "religious" encumbrances.

When I say there is no God in Zen, the pious reader may be
shocked, but this does not mean that Zen denies the existence of
God; neither denial nor affirmation concerns Zen. When a thing is
denied, the very denial involves something not denied. The same
can be said of affirmation. This is inevitable in logic. Zen
wants to rise above logic, Zen wants to find a higher affirmation
where there is no antitheses. Therefore, in Zen, God is neither
denied nor insisted upon; only there is in Zen no such God as
has been conceived by Jewish and Christian minds. For the same
reason that Zen is not a philosophy, Zen is not a religion.

As to all those images of various Buddhas and Bodhisattvas and
Devas and other beings that one comes across in Zen temples, they
are like so many pieces of wood or stone or metal; they are like
a camellias, azalias, or stone lanterns in my garden. Make
obeisance to the camellia now in full bloom, and worship it if you
like, Zen would say. There is as much religion in so doing as in
bowing to the various Buddhist gods, or as sprinkling holy water,
or as participating in the Lord's Supper. All those pious deeds
considered to be meritorious or sanctifying by most so-called
religiously minded people are artificialities in the eyes of Zen.
It boldly declares that "the immaculate Yogins do not enter
Nirvana and the precept-violating monks do not go to hell". This,
to ordinary minds, is a contradiction of the common law of moral
life, but herein lies the truth and the life of Zen. Zen is the
spirit of a man. Zen believes in its inner purity and goodness.
Whatever is superadded or violently torn away, injures the
wholesomeness of the spirit. Zen, therefore, is emphatically
against all religious conventionalism.

Its irreligion, however, is merely apparent. Those who are truly
religious will be surprised to find that after all there is so
much of religion in the barbarous declaration of Zen. But to say
that Zen is religion, in the sense that Christianity and
Mohammedanism is, would be a mistake. To make my point clearer, I
quote the following. When Sakyamuni was born, it is said that he
lifted one hand toward the heavens and pointed to the earth with
the other, exclaiming, "Above the heavens and below the heavens, I
alone am the Honoured One!" Ummon, founder of the Ummon School of
Zen, comments on this by saying, "If I had been with him at the
moment of his uttering this, I would surely have struck him dead
with one blow and thrown the corpse into the maw of a hungry
dog". What unbelievers would ever think of making such raving
remarks over a spiritual leader? Yet one of the Zen masters
following Ummon says: "Indeed, this is the way Ummon desires to
serve the world, sacrificing everything he has, body and mind!
How grateful he must have felt for the love of Buddha!"

Zen is not to be confounded with a form of meditation as
practised by "New Thought" people, or Christian Scientists, or
Hindu Sannyasins, or some Buddhists. Dhyana, as it is understood
by Zen, does not correspond to the practice as carried on in Zen.
A man may meditate on a religious or philosophical subject while
disciplining himself in Zen, but that is only incidental; the
essence of Zen is not there at all. Zen purposes to discipline
the mind itself, to make it its own master, through an insight
into its proper nature. This getting into the real nature of
one's own mind or soul is the fundamental object of Zen Buddhism.
Zen, therefore, is more than meditation and Dhyana in its
ordinary sense. The discipline of Zen consists in opening the
mental eye in order to look into the very reason of existence.

To meditate, a man has to fix his thought on something; for
instance, on the oneness of God, or his infinite love, or on the
impermanence of things. But this is the very thing Zen desires to
avoid. If there is anything Zen strongly emphasizes it is the
attainment of freedom; that is, freedom from all unnatural
encumbrances. Meditation is something artificially put on; it does
not belong to the native activity of the mind. Upon what do the
fowls of the air meditate? Upon what do the fish in the water
meditate? They fly; they swim. Is not that enough? Who wants to
fix his mind on the unity of God and man, or on the nothingness
of life? Who wants to be arrested in the daily manifestations of
his life-activity by such meditations as the goodness of a divine
being or the everlasting fire of hell?

We may say that Christianity is monotheistic, and the Vedanta
pantheistic; but we cannot make a similar assertion about Zen.
Zen is neither monotheistic nor pantheistic; Zen defies all such
designations. Hence there is no object in Zen upon which to fix
the thought. Zen is the wafting cloud in the sky. No screw
fastens it, no string holds it; it moves as it lists. No amount
of meditation will keep Zen in one place. Meditation is not Zen.
Neither pantheism nor monotheism provides Zen with its subjects
of concentration. If Zen is monotheistic, it may tell its
followers to meditate on the oneness of things where all the
differences and inequalities, enveloped in the all-illuminating
brightness of the divine light, are obliterated. If Zen were
pantheistic, it will tell us that every meanest flower in the
field reflects the glory of God. But what Zen says is "After all
things are reduced to oneness, where would that One be reduced?"
Zen wants to have one's mind free and unobstructed; even the
idea of oneness or allness is a stumbling block and a strangling
snare which threatens the original freedom of the spirit.

Zen, therefore, does not ask us to concentrate our thought on the
idea that dog is God, or that three pounds of flax are divine.
When Zen does this it commits itself to a definite system of
philosophy, and there is no more Zen. Zen just feels fire warm
and ice cold, because when it freezes we shiver and welcome fire.
The feeling is all in all, as Faust declares; all our
theorization fails to touch reality. But "the feeling" here must
be understood in its deepest sense or in its purest form. Even to
say that "This is the feeling" means that Zen is no more there.
Zen defies all concept-making. That is why Zen is difficult to
grasp.

Whatever meditation Zen may propose, then, will be to take things
as they are, to consider snow white and the raven black. When we
speak of meditation we in most cases refer to its abstract
character; that is, meditation is known to be the  concentration
of the mind on some highly generalized proposition, which is, in
the nature of things, not always closely and directly connected
with the concrete affairs of life. Zen perceives and feels, and
does not abstract and meditate. Zen penetrates and is finally
lost in the immersion. Meditation, on the other hand, is
outspokenly dualistic and consequently inevitably superficial.

One critic (Arthur Lloyd, "Wheat Among the Tares", p.53)
regards Zen as "the Buddhist counterpart of 'Spiritual
Exercises' of St. Ignatius Loyola". The critic shows a great
inclination to find Christian analogies for things Buddhist, and
this is one of such instances. Those who have at all a clear
understanding of Zen will at once see how wide of the mark this
comparison is. Even superficially speaking, there is not a
shadow of similitude between the exercises of Zen and those
proposed by the founder of the Society of Jesus. The
contemplations and prayers of St. Ignatius are, from the Zen
point of view, merely so many fabrications of the imagination
elaborately woven for the benefit of the piously minded; and in
reality this is like piling tiles upon tiles on one's head, and
there is no true gain in the life of the spirit. We can say
this, however, that those "Spiritual Exercises" in some way
resemble certain meditations of Hinayana Buddhism, such as the
Five Mind-quieting Methods, or the Nine Thoughts on Impurity, or
the Six or Ten Subjects of Memory.

Zen is sometimes made to mean "mind-murder and the curse of
idle reverie". This is the statement of Griffis, the well-known
author of "Religions of Japan" (p.255). By "mind-murder" I do
not know what he really means, but does he mean that Zen kills
the activities of the mind by making one's thought fix on one
thing, or by inducing sleep? Mr. Reischauer in his book "Studies
of Buddhism in Japan" (p.118) almost endorses this view of
Griffis by asserting that Zen is "mystical self-intoxication".
Does that mean that Zen is intoxicated in the "Greater Self" so
called, as Spinoza was intoxicated in God? Though Mr. Reischauer
is not quite clear as to the meaning of "intoxication", he may
think that Zen is unduly absorbed in the thought of the "Greater
Self" as the final reality in this world of particulars. It is
amazing to see how superficial some of the uncritical observers
of Zen are! In point of fact, Zen has no "mind" to murder;
therefore, there is no "mind-murdering" in Zen. Zen has no "self"
as something to which we can cling as a refuge; therefore, in Zen
again there is no "self" by which we may become intoxicated.

The truth is, Zen is extremely elusive as far as its outward
aspects are concerned; when you think you have caught a glimpse
of it, it is no more there; from afar it looks so approachable,
but as soon as you come near it you see it even further away from
you than before. Unless, therefore, you devote some years of
earnest study to the understanding of its primary principles, it
is not to be expected that you will begin to have a fair grasp of
Zen.

"The way to ascend unto God is to descend into one's self"; --
these are Hugo's words. "If thou wishest to search out the deep
things of God, search out the depths of thine own spirit"; --
this comes from Richard of St. Victor. When all these deep things
are searched out there is after all no "self" where you can
descend, there is no "spirit", no "God" whose depths are to be
fathomed. Why? Because Zen is a bottomless abyss. Zen declares,
though in somewhat different manner: "Nothing really exists
throughout the triple world; where do you wish to see the mind
(or spirit, *hsin*)? The four elements are all empty in their
ultimate nature; where could the Buddha's abode be? -- but lo!
the truth is unfolding itself right before your eye. This is all
there is to it -- and indeed nothing more!" A minute's hesitation
and Zen is irrevocably lost. All the Buddhas of the past,
present, and future may try to make you catch it once more, and
yet it is a thousand miles away. "Mind-murder" and
"self-intoxication", forsooth! Zen has no time to bother itself
with such criticisms.

The critics may mean that the mind is hypnotized by Zen to a
state of unconsciousness, and that when this obtains, the
favourite Buddhist doctrine of emptiness (*sunyata*) is realized,
where the subject is not conscious of an objective world or of
himself, being lost in one vast emptiness, whatever this may be.
This interpretation again fails to hit Zen aright. It is true
that there are some such expressions in Zen as might suggest this
kind of interpretation, but to understand Zen we must take a leap
here. The "vast emptiness" must be traversed. The subject must
be awakened from a state of unconsciousness if he does not wish
to be buried alive. Zen is attained only when
"self-intoxication" is abandoned and the "drunkard" is really
awakened to his deeper self. If the mind is ever to be
"murdered", leave the work in the hand of Zen; for it is Zen that
will restore the murdered and lifeless one into the state of
eternal life. "Be born again, be awakened from the dream, rise
from the death, O ye drunkards!" Zen would exclaim. Do not try,
therefore, to see Zen with the eyes bandaged; and your hands are
too unsteady to take hold of it. And remember I am not indulging
in figures of speech.

I might multiply many such criticisms if it were necessary but I
hope that the above have sufficiently prepared the reader's mind
for the following more positive statements concerning Zen. The
basic idea of Zen is to come in touch with the inner workings of
our being, and to do so in the most direct way possible, without
resorting to anything external or superadded. Therefore, anything
that has the semblance of an external authority is rejected by
Zen. Absolute faith is placed in a man's own inner being. For
whatever authority there is in Zen, all comes from within. This
is true in the strictest sense of the word. Even the reasoning
faculty is not considered final or absolute. On the contrary, it
hinders the mind from coming into the directest communication
with itself. The intellect accomplishes its mission when it works
as an intermediary, and Zen has nothing to do with the
intermediary except when it desires to communicate itself to
others. For this reason all the scriptures are merely tentative
and provisory; there is in them no finality. The central fact of
life as it is lived is what Zen aims to grasp, and this in the
most direct and most vital manner. Zen professes itself to be the
spirit of Buddhism, but in fact it is the spirit of all religions
and philosophies. When Zen is thoroughly understood, absolute
peace of mind is attained, and a man lives as he ought to live.
What more may we hope?

Some say that as Zen is admittedly a form of mysticism it
cannot claim to be unique in the history of religion. Perhaps so;
but Zen is a mysticism of its own order. It is mystical in the
sense that the sun shines, that the flower blooms, that I hear at
this moment somebody beating the drum in the street. If these are
mystical facts, Zen is brim-full of them. When a Zen master was
once asked what Zen was, he replied, "Your everyday thought". Is
this not plain and straightforward? It has nothing to do with any
sectarian spirit. Christians as well as Buddhists can practise
Zen just as big fish and small fish are both contentedly living
in the same ocean. Zen is the ocean, Zen is the air, Zen is the
mountain, Zen is thunder and lightning, the spring flower, summer
heat, and winter snow; nay, more than that, Zen is the man. With
all the formalities, conventionalisms, and superadditions that
Zen has accumulated in its long history, its central fact is very
much alive. The special merit of Zen lies in this: that we are
still able to see into this ultimate fact without being biased by
anything.

As has been said before, what makes Zen unique as it is practised
in Japan is its systematic training of the mind. Ordinary
mysticism has been too erratic a product and apart from one's
ordinary life; this has Zen revolutionized. What was up in the
heavens, Zen has brought down to earth. With the development of
Zen, mysticism has ceased to be mystical; it is no more the
spasmodic product of an abnormally endowed mind. For Zen reveals
itself in the most uninteresting and uneventful life of a plain
man of the street, recognizing the fact of living in the midst of
life as it is lived. Zen systematically trains the mind to see
this; it opens a man's eye to the greatest mystery as it is
daily and hourly performed; it enlarges the heart to embrace
eternity of time and infinity of space in its every palpitation;
it makes us live in the world as if walking in the garden of
Eden; and all this spiritual feats are accomplished without
resorting to any doctrines but by simply asserting in the most
direct way the truth that lies in our inner being.

Whatever else Zen may be, it ia practical and commonplace and at
the same time most living. An ancient master, wishing to show
what Zen is, lifted one of his fingers, another kicked a ball,
and a third slapped the face of his questioner. If the inner
truth that lies deep in us is thus demonstrated, is not Zen the
most practical and direct method of spiritual training ever
resorted to by any religion? And is not this practical method
also a most original one? Indeed, Zen cannot be anything else but
original and creative because it refuses to deal with concepts
but deals with living facts of life. When conceptually
understood, the lifting of a finger is one of the most ordinary
incidents in everybody's life. But when it is viewed from the Zen
point of view it vibrates with the divine meaning and creative
vitality. So long as Zen can point out this truth in the midst of
our conventional and concept-bound existence we must say that it
has its reason of being.

The following quotation from a letter of Yengo (1566-1642) may
answer, to a certain extent, the question asked in the beginning
of this chapter, "What is Zen?"

"It is presented right to your face, and at this moment the whole
thing is handed over to you. For an intelligent fellow, one word
should suffice to convince him of the truth of it, but even then
error has crept in. Much more so when it is committed to paper and
ink, or given up to wordy demonstration or to logical quibble,
then it slips farther away from you. The great truth of Zen is
possessed by everybody. Look into your own being and seek it not
through others. Your own mind is above all forms; it is free and
quiet and sufficient; it eternally stamps itself in your six
senses and four elements. In its light all is absorbed. Hush the
dualism of subject and object, forget both, transcend the
intellect, sever yourself from the understanding, and directly
penetrate deep into the identity of the Buddha-mind; outside of
this there are no realities. Therefore, when Bodhidharma came
from the West, he simply declared, 'Directly pointing to one's
own soul, my doctrine is unique, and is not hampered by the
canonical teachings; it is the absolute transmission of the true
seal'. Zen has nothing to do with letters, words, or sutras. It
only requests you to grasp the point directly and therein to find
your peaceful abode. When the mind is disturbed, the
understanding is stirred, things are recognized, notions are
entertained, ghostly spirits are conjured, and prejudices grow
rampant. Zen will then forever be lost in the maze.

"The wise Sekiso (Shih-shuang) said, 'Stop all your hankerings;
let the mildew grow on your lips; make yourself like unto a
perfect piece of immaculate silk; let your one thought be
eternity; let yourself be like the dead ashes, cold and lifeless;
again let yourself be like an old censer in a deserted village
shrine!'

"Put your simple faith in this, discipline yourself accordingly;
let your body and mind be turned into an inanimate object of
nature like a stone or a piece of wood; when a state of perfect
motionlessness and unawareness is obtained all the signs of life
will depart and also every trace of limitation will vanish. Not a
single idea will disturb your consciousness, when lo! all of a
sudden you will come to realize the light abounding in full
gladness. It is like coming across the light in thick darkness;
it is like receiving treasure in poverty. The four elements and
the five aggregates are no more felt as burdens; so light, so
easy, so free you are. Your very existence has been delivered
from all limitations; you have become open, light, and
transparent. You gain an illuminating insight into the very
nature of things, which now appear to you as so many fairylike
flowers having no graspable realities. Here is manifested the
unsophisticated self which is the original face of your being;
here is shown all bare the most beautiful landscape of your
birthplace. There is but one straight passage open and
unobstructed through and through. This is so when you surrender
all -- your body, your life, and all that belongs to your inmost
self. This is where you gain peace, ease, non-doing, and
inexpressible delight. All the sutras and shastras are no more
than communications of this fact; all the sages, ancient as well
as modern, have exhausted their ingenuity and imagination to no
other purpose that to point the way to this. It is like
unlocking the door to a treasury; when the entrance is once
gained, every object coming into your view is yours, every
opportunity that presents itself is available for your use; for
are they not, however multitudinous, all possessions obtainable
within the original being of yourself? Every treasure there is
but waiting for your pleasure and utilization. This is what is
meant by 'Once gained, eternally gained, even unto the end of
time.' Yet really there is nothing gained; what you have gained
is no gain, yet there is something truly gained in this".
 
 

Chapter 6

Practical Zen

1

So far Zen has been discussed from the intellectual point of
view, in order to see that it is impossible to comprehend Zen
through this channel; in fact it is not doing justice to Zen to
treat it thus philosophically. Zen abhors media, even the
intellectual medium; it is primarily and ultimately a discipline
and an experience, which is dependent on no explanation; for an
explanation wastes time and energy and is never to the point; all
that you get out of it is a misunderstanding and a twisted view
of things. When Zen wants you to taste the sweetness of sugar, it
will put the required article right into your mouth and no further
words are said. The followers of Zen would say, "A finger is
needed to point at the moon, but what a calamity it would be if
one took the finger for the moon!" This seems improbable, but how
many times we are committing this form of error we do not know.
Ignorance alone often saves us from being disturbed in our
complacency. The business of a writer on Zen, however, cannot go
beyond the pointing at the moon, as this is the only means
permitted to him in the circumstances; and everything that is
within his power will be done to make the subject in hand as
thoroughly comprehensible as it is capable of being so made. When
Zen is metaphysically treated, the reader may get somewhat
discouraged about its being at all intelligible, since most
people are not generally addicted to speculation or introspection.
Let me approach it from quite a different point, which is perhaps
more genuinely Zen-like.

When Joshu was asked what the Tao (or the truth of Zen) was, he
answered, "Your everyday life, that is the Tao". In other words,
a quiet, self-confident, and trustful existence of your own --
this is the truth of Zen, and what I mean when I say that Zen is
pre-eminently practical. It appeals directly to life, not even
making reference to a soul or to God, or to anything that
interferes with or disturbs the ordinary course of living. The
idea of Zen is to catch life as it flows. There is nothing
extraordinary or mysterious about Zen. I raise my hand; I take a
book from the other side of this desk; I hear the boys playing
ball outside my window; I see the clouds blown away beyond the
neighbouring wood: -- in all these I am practising Zen, I am
living Zen. No wordy discussions is necessary, nor any
explanation. I do not know why -- and there is no need of
explaining, but when the sun rises the whole world dances with
joy and everybody's heart is filled with bliss. If Zen is at all
conceivable, it must be taken hold of here.

Therefore, when Bodhidharma was asked who he was, he said, "I do
not know". This was not because he could not explain himself, nor
was it because he wanted to avoid any verbal controversy, but
just because he did not know what or who he was, save that he was
what he was and could not be anything else. The reason was simple
enough. When Nangaku was approaching the Sixth Patriarch, and
was questioned, "What is it that thus walks toward me?" he did
not know what to answer. For eight long years he pondered the
question, when one day it dawned upon him, and he exclaimed, "Even
to say it is something does not hit the mark". This is the same
as saying, "I do not know".

Sekito once asked his disciple, Yakusan, "What are you doing
here?" "I am not doing anything", answered the latter. "If so
you are idling your time away". "Is not idling away the time
doing something?" was Yakusan's response. Sekiso still pursued
him. "You say you are not doing anything; who then is this one
who is doing nothing?" Yakusan's reply was the same as that of
Bodhidharma, "Even the wisest knows it not". There is no
agnosticism in it, nor mysticism either, if this is understood
in the sense of mystification. A plain fact is stated here in
plain language. If it does not seem so to the reader, it is
because he has not attained to this state of mind which enabled
Bodhidharma or Sekito to make the statement.

The Emperor Wu of the Liang dynasty requested Fu Daishi (497-569)
to discourse on a Buddhist sutra. The Daishi taking the chair sat
solemnly in it but uttered not a word. The Emperor said, "I
asked you to give a discourse, and why do you not begin to
speak?" Shih, one of the Emperor's attendants, said, "The Daishi
has finished discoursing". What kind of a sermon did this silent
Buddhist philosopher deliver? Later on, a Zen master commenting
on the above says, "What an eloquent sermon it was!" Vimalakirti,
the hero of the sutra bearing his name, had the same way of
answering the question, "What is the absolute doctrine of
non-duality?" Someone remarked, "Thundering, indeed, is this
silence of Vimalakirti". Was this keeping the mouth closed
really deafening? If so, I hold my tongue now, and the whole
universe, with all its hullabaloo and hurly-burly, is at once
absorbed in this absolute silence. But mimicry does not turn a
frog into a green leaf. Where there is no creative originality
there is no Zen. I must say: "Too late, too late! The arrow has
gone off the string".

A monk asked Yeno, the Sixth Patriarch, "Who has inherited the
spirit of the Fifth Patriarch?"

Answered Yeno, "One who understands Buddhism".

"Have you then inherited it?"

"No", replied Yeno, "I have not".

"Why have you not?" was naturally the next question of the monk.

"Because I do not understand Buddhism", Yeno reasoned.

How hard, then, and yet how easy it is to understand Zen! Hard
because to understand it is not to understand it; easy because
not to understand it is to understand it. A master declares that
even Buddha Sakyamuni and Bodhisattva Maitreya do not understand
it, where simple-minded knaves do understand it.

We can mow see why Zen shuns abstractions, representations, and
figures of speech. No real value is attached to such words as God,
Buddha, the soul, the Infinite, the One, the suchlike words. They
are, after all, only words and ideas, and as such are not
conducive to the real understanding of Zen. On the contrary, they
often falsify and play at cross purposes. We are thus compelled
always to be on our guard. Said a Zen master, "Cleanse the mouth
thoroughly when you utter the word Buddha". Or, "There is one
word I do not like to hear; that is, Buddha". Or, "Pass quickly
on where there is no Buddha, nor stay where he is". Why are the
followers of Zen so antagonistic toward Buddha? Is not Buddha
their Lord? Is he not the highest reality of Buddhism? He cannot
be such a hateful or unclean thing as to be avoided by Zen
adherents. What they do not like is not the Buddha himself, but
the odium attached to the word.

The answers given by Zen masters to the question "Who or what is
the Buddhas?" are full of varieties; and why so? One reason at
least is that they thus desire to free our minds from all
possible entanglements and attachment such as words, ideas,
desires, etc., which are put up against us from the outside. Some
of the answers are, then, as follows:

    "One made of clay and decorated with gold".
    "Even the finest artist cannot paint him".
    "The one enshrined in the Buddha Hall".
    "He is no Buddha".
    "Your name is Yecho".
    "The dirt-scraper all dried up".
    "See the eastern mountains moving over the waves".
    "No nonsense here".
    "Surrounded by the mountains are we here".
    "The bamboo grove at the foot of Chiang-lin hill".
    "Three pound of flax".
    "The mouth is the gate of woe".
    "Lo, the waves are rolling over the plateau".
    "See the tree-legged donkey go trotting along".
    "A reed has grown piercing through the leg".
    "Here goes a man with the chest exposed
        and the legs all naked".

These are culled at random from a few books I am using for the
purpose. When a thorough systematic search is made in the entire
body of Zen literature we get quite a collection of strange
statements ever made concerning such a simple question as, "Who
is the Buddha?" Some of the answers given above are altogether
irrelevant; they are, indeed, far from being appropriate so far
as we judge them from our ordinary standard of reasoning. The
other seem to be making sport of the question or of the
questioner himself. Can the Zen masters who make such remarks be
considered to be in earnest and really desiring the enlightenment
of their followers? But the point is to have our minds work in
complete union with the state of mind in which the masters
uttered these strange words. When this is done, every one of
these answers appears in an altogether new light and becomes
wonderfully transparent.

Being practical and directly to the point, Zen never wastes time
or words in explanation. Its answers are always curt and pithy;
there is nothing circumlocutory in Zen; the master's words come
out spontaneously and without a moment's delay. A gong is struck
and its vibrations instantly follow. If we are not on the alert
we fail to catch them; a mere winking and we miss the mark
forever. They justly compare Zen to lightning. The rapidity,
however, does not constitute Zen; its naturalness, its freedom
from artificialities, its being expressive of life itself, its
originality -- these are the essential characteristics of Zen.
Therefore, we have always to be on guard not to be carried away
by outward signs when we really desire to get into the core of
Zen. How difficult and misleading it would be to try and
understand Zen literally and logically, depending on those
statements which have been given above as answers to the question
"What is Buddha?" Of course, so far as they are given as answers
they are pointers by which we may know where to look for the
presence of the Buddha; but we must remember that the finger
pointing at the moon remains a finger and under no circumstances
can it be changed into the moon itself. Danger always lurks where
the intellect slyly creeps in and takes the index for the moon
itself.

Yet there are philosophers who, taking some of the above
utterances in their literary and logical sense, try to see
something of pantheism in them. For instance, when the master
says, "Three pounds of flax", or "A dirt-scraper", by this is
apparently meant, they would insist, to convey the pantheistic
idea. That is to say that those Zen masters consider the Buddha
to be manifesting himself in everything: in the flax, in the
piece of wood, in the running stream, in the towering mountains,
or in works of art. Mahayana Buddhism, especially Zen, seems to
indicate something of the spirit of pantheism, but nothing is in
fact farther from Zen than this representation. The masters from
the beginning have foreseen this dangerous tendency, and that is
why they make those apparently incoherent statements. Their
inclination is to set the minds of their disciples or of scholars
free from being oppressed by any fixed opinion or prejudices or
so-called logical interpretations. When Tozan answered, "Three
pounds of flax", to the question, "What is the Buddha?" -- which,
in the way, is the same thing as asking, "What is God?" -- he did
not mean that the flax he might have been handling at the time
was a visible manifestation of Buddha, that Buddha when seen with
an eye of intelligence could be met within every object. His
answer simply was, "Three pounds of flax". He did not imply
anything metaphysical in this plain matter-of-fact utterance.
These words came out of his inmost consciousness as the water
flows out of the spring, or as the bud bursts forth in the sun.
There was no premeditation or philosophy on his part. Therefore,
if we want to grasp the meaning of "Three pounds of flax", we
first have to penetrate into the inmost recess of Tozan's
consciousness and not to try to follow up his mouth. At another
time he may give an entirely different answer, which might
directly contradict the one already given. Logicians will
naturally be nonplussed; they may declare him altogether out of
mind. But the students of Zen will say, "It is raining so gently,
see how flesh and green the grass is,'" and they know well that
their answer is in full accord with Tozan's "Three pounds of
flax".

The following will perhaps show further that Zen is not a form of
pantheism, if we understand by this any philosophy that
identifies the visible universe with the highest reality, called
God, or Mind, or otherwise, and states that God cannot exist
independent of his manifestations. In fact, Zen is something more
than this. In Zen there is no place for time-wasting
philosophical discussion. But philosophy is also a manifestation
of life-activity, and therefore Zen does not necessarily shun it.
When a philosopher comes to be enlightened, the Zen master is
never loath to meet him on his own ground. The earlier Zen masters
were comparatively tolerant toward the so-called philosophers
and not so impatient as in the case of Rinzai (died 867) or
Tokusan, whose dealings with them were swift and most direct.
What follows is taken from a treatise by Daiju on some principles
of Zen compiled in the eighth (or ninth) century, when Zen had
begun to flourish in all its brilliance and with all its
uniqueness. A monk asked Daiju:

Q. Are words the Mind?

A. No, words are external conditions; they are not the Mind.

Q. Apart from external conditions, where is the Mind to be
sought?

A. There is no Mind independent of words. [That is to say, the
Mind is in the words, but is not to be identified with them.]

Q. If there is no Mind independent of words, what is the Mind?

A. The Mind is formless and imageless. The truth is, it is
neither independent of nor dependent upon words. It is eternally
serene and free in its activity. Says the Patriarch, 'When you
realize that the Mind is no Mind, you understand the Mind amd its
workings.'"

Daiju further writes: "That which produces all things is called
Dharma-nature, or Dharmakaya. By the so-called Dharma in meant
the Mind of all beings. When the Mind is stirred up, all things
are stirred up. When the Mind is not stirred up, there is no
stirring and there is no name. The confused do not understand
that the Dharmakaya, in itself formless, assumes individual forms
according to conditions. The confused take the green bamboo for
Dharmakaya itself, the yellow blooming tree for Prajna itself.
But if the tree were Prajna, Prajna would be identical with
non-sentient. If the bamboo were Dharmakaya, Dharmakaya would be
identical with a plant. But Dharmakaya exists, Prajna exists,
even when there is no blooming tree, no green bamboo. Otherwise,
when one eats a bamboo-shoot, this would be eating up Dharmakaya
itself. Such views as this are really not worth talking about".

2

Those who have only read the foregoing treatment of Zen as
illogical, or of Zen as a higher affirmation, may conclude that
Zen is something unapproachable, something far apart from our
ordinary life, something very alluring but very elusive; and we
cannot blame them for so thinking. Zen ought, therefore, be
presented also from its easy, familiar and approachable side.
Life is the basis of all things; apart from it nothing can
stand. With all our philosophy, with all our grand and enhancing
ideas, we cannot escape life as we live it. Star-gazers are still
walking on the solid earth.

What is Zen, then, when made accessible to everybody? Joshu once
asked a new monk:

"Have you ever been here before?"

The monk answered, "Yes, sir, I have".

Thereupon the master said, "Have a cup of tea".

Later on another monk came and he asked him the same question,
"Have you ever been here?"

This time the answer was quite opposite. "I have never been here,
sir".

The old master, however, answered just as before, "Have a cup of
tea".

Afterwards the Inju (the managing monk of the monastery) asked
the master, "Haw is it that you make the same offering of the cup
of tea no matter what a monk's reply is?"

The old master called out, "O Inju!" who at once replied, "Yes,
master". Whereupon Joshu said, "Have a cup of tea".

Joshu (778-897) was one of the most astute Zen masters during the
T'ang dynasty, and the development of Zen in China owes much to
him. He died in his one hundred and twentieth year. Whatever
utterances he made were like jewels that sparkled brightly. It
was said of him, "His Zen shined upon his lips". A monk who was
still a novice came to him and asked to be instructed in Zen.

Joshu said, "Have you had your breakfast yet?"

Replied the monk, "Yes, sir, I have had it already".

"If so, wash your dishes". This remark by the old master opened
the novice's eye to the truth of Zen.

One day Joshu was sweeping the ground when a monk asked him, "You
are such a wise and holy master; tell me how it is that dust ever
accumulates in your yard".

Said the master, "It comes from outside".

Another time he was asked, "Why does this holy place attracts
dust?" To which he replied, "There another particle of dust!"

There was a famous stone bridge at Joshu's monastery, which was
one of the sights there. A stranger monk inquired of him, "I
have for some time heard of your famous stone bridge, but I see
no such thing here, only a plank".

Said Joshu, "You see a plank and do not see a stone bridge".

"Where then is the stone bridge?"

"You have just crossed it", was the prompt reply.

At another time when Joshu was asked about this same stone
bridge, his answer was, "Horses pass it, people pass it,
everybody passes it".

In these dialogues do we only see trivial talks about ordinary
things of life and nature? Is there nothing spiritual, conductive
to the enlightenment of the religious soul? Is Zen, then, too
practical, too commonplace? Is it too abrupt a descent from the
height of transcendentalism to everyday things? Well, it all
depends on how you look at it. A stick of incense is burning on
my desk. Is this a trivial affair? An earthquake shakes the earth
and the Mt. Fuji topples over. Is this a great event? Yes, so
long as the conception of space remains. But are we really living
confined within the enclosure called space? Zen could answer at
once: "With the burning of the incense-stick the whole *triloka*
burns. Within the Joshu's cup of tea the mermaids are dancing".
So long as one is conscious of space and time, Zen will keep the
respectable distance from you; your holiday is ill-spent; your
sleep is disturbed, and your whole life is a failure.

Read the following dialogue between Yisan and Kyozan. At the end
of his summer's sojourn Kyozan paid a visit to Yisan, who said,
"I have not seen you this whole summer coming up this way; what
have you been doing down there?"

Replied Kyozan, "Down there I have been tilling a piece of
ground and finished sowing millet seeds".

Yisan said, "Then you have not wasted your summer".

It was now Kyozan's turn to ask Yisan as to his doings during the
last summer, and he asked, "How did you pass your summer?"

"One meal a day and a good sleep at night".

This brought out Kyozan comment, "Then you have not wasted your
summer".

A Confucian scholar writes, "They seek the truth too far away
from themselves, while it is right near them". The same thing may
be said of Zen. We look for its secrets where they are most
unlikely to be found, that is, in verbal abstractions and
metaphysical subtleties, whereas the truth of Zen really lies in
the concrete things of our daily life. A monk asked the master:
"It is some time since I came to you to be instructed in the holy
path of Buddha, but you have never given me even an inkling of
it. I pray you be more sympathetic". To this the following answer
was given: "What do you mean, my son? Every morning you salute
me, and do I not return it? When you bring me a cup of tea, do I
not accept it and enjoy drinking it? Besides this, what more
instructions do you desire from me?"

Is this Zen? Is this the kind of life-experience Zen wants us to
have? A Zen poet sings:

How wondrously strange, and how miraculous this!
I draw water, I carry fuel.

When Zen is said to be illogical and irrational, timid readers
are frightened and may wish to have nothing to do with it, but I
am confident that the present chapter devoted to practical
Zen will mitigate whatever harshness and uncouthness there may
have been in it when it was intellectually treated. In so far as
the truth of Zen is on its practical side and not in its
irrationality, we must not put too much emphasis on its
irrationality. This may tend only to make Zen more inaccessible to
ordinary intellects, but in order to show further what a simple
and matter-of-fact business Zen is, and at the same time to
emphasize the practical side of Zen, I will cite some more of
so-called "cases" is which appeal is made to the most naive
experience one may have in life. Naive they are, indeed, in the
sense of being free from conceptual demonstration or from
intellectual analysis. You see a stick raised, or you are asked
to pass a piece of household furniture, or are simply addressed by
your name. Such as these are the simplest incidents of life
occurring every day and being passed without any particular
notice, and yet Zen is there -- the Zen that is supposed to be so
full of irrationalities, or, if you like to put it so, so full of
the highest speculations that are possible to the human
understanding. The following are some more of these instances,
simple, direct, and practical, and yet pregnant with meaning.

Sekkyo asked one of his accomplished monks, "Can you take hold of
empty space?"

"Yes, sir", he replied.

"Show me how you do it".

The monk stretched out his arm and clutched at empty space.

Sekkyo said: "Is that the way? But after all you have not got
anything".

"What then", asked the monk, "is your way?"

The master straightway took hold of the monk's nose and gave it
a hard pull, which made the latter exclaim: "Oh, oh, how hard
you pull at my nose! You are hurting me terribly!"

"That is the way to have good hold of empty space", said the
master.

When Yenkwan, on of Ma-tsu's disciples, was asked by a monk who
the real Vairocana Buddha was, he told the monk to pass over a
water-pitcher which was nearby. The monk brought it to him as
requested, but Yenkwan now ordered it to be taken back to its
former place. After obediently following the order, the monk
again asked the master who the real Vairocana Buddha was. "The
venerable old Buddha is no more here", was the reply. Concerning
this incident another Zen master comments, "Yes, the venerable
old Buddha has long been here".

If these incidents are regarded as not entirely free from
intellectual complications, what would you think of the following
case of Chu (died 775), the national teacher of Nan-yang, who
used to call his attendant three times a day, saying, "O my
attendant, my attendant!" To this the attendant would respond
regularly, "Yes, master". Finally the master remarked, "I thought
I was in the wrong with you, but it is you that is in the wrong
with me". Is this not simple enough? -- just calling one by name?
Chu's last comment may not be so very intelligible from an
ordinary logical point of view, but one calling and other
responding is one of the commonest and most practical affairs of
life. Zen declares that the truth is precisely there, so we can
see what a matter-of-fact thing Zen is. There is no mystery in
it, the fact is open to all: I hail you, and you call back; one
"Hallo!" calls forth another "Hallo!" and this is all there is
to it.

Ryosui was studying Zen under Mayoku, a contemporary of Rinzai,
and when Mayoku called out, "O Ryosui!" he answered, "Yes!" Thus
called three times, he answered three times, when the master
remarked, "O you stupid fellow!" This brought Ryosui to his
senses; he now understood Zen and exclaimed: "O master, don't
deceive me any more. If I had not come to you I should have been
miserably led astray all my life by the sutras and shastras".
Later on Ryosui said to some of his fellow-monks who had been
spending their time in the mastery of Buddhist philosophy, "All
that you know, I know; but what I know, none of you know". Is it
not wonderful that Ryosui could make such an utterance just by
understanding the significance of his master's call?

Do these examples make the subject in hand any clearer or more
intelligible than before? I can multiply such instances
indefinitely, but those so far cited may suffice to show that Zen
is after all not a very complicated affair, or a study requiring
the highest faculty of abstraction and speculation. The truth and
power of Zen consists in its very simplicity, directness, and
utmost practicalness. "Good morning; how are you today?" "Thank
you, I am well" -- here is Zen. "Please have a cup of tea" --
this, again, is full of Zen. When a hungry monk at work heard the
dinner-gong he immediately dropped his work and showed himself in
the dining-room. The master, seeing him, laughed heartily, for
the monk had been acting Zen to its fullest extent. Nothing could
be more natural; the one thing needful is just to open one's eye
to the significance of it all.

But here is a dangerous loophole which the students of Zen ought
to be especially careful to avoid. Zen must never be confused
with naturalism or libertinism, which means to follow one's
natural bent without questioning its origin and value. There is a
great difference between human action and that of the animals,
which are lacking in moral intuition and religious consciousness.
The animals do not know anything about exerting themselves in
order to improve their conditions or to progress in the way to
higher virtues. Sekkyo was one day working in the kitchen when
Baso, his Zen teacher, came in and asked what he was doing. "I am
herding the cow", said the pupil. "How do you attend her?" "If
she goes out of the path even once, I pull her back straightway
by the nose; not a moment's delay is allowed". Said the master,
"You truly know how to tale care of her". This is not naturalism.
Here is the effort to do the right thing.

A distinguished teacher was once asked, "Do you ever make any
effort to get disciplined in the truth?"

"Yet, I do".

"How do you exercise yourself?"

"When I am hungry I eat; when tired I sleep".

"This is what everybody does; can they be said to be exercising
themselves in the same way as you do?"

"No".

"Why not?"

"Because when they eat they do not eat, but are thinking of
various other things, thereby allowing themselves to be
disturbed; when they sleep they do not sleep, but dream of a
thousand and one things. This is why they are not like myself".

If Zen is to be called a form of mysticism, then it is so with a
rigorous discipline at the back of it. It is in that sense, and
not as it is understood by libertines, that Zen may be designated
naturalism. The libertines have no freedom of will, they are
bound hands and feet by external agencies before which they are
utterly helpless. Zen, on the contrary, enjoys perfect freedom;
that is, it is master of itself. Zen has no "abiding place", to
use a favourite expression in the "Prajnaparamita Sutra". When a
thing has its fixed abode, it is fettered, it is no more
absolute. The following dialogue will very clearly explain this
point.

A monk asked, "Where is the abiding place for the mind?"

"The mind", answered the master, "abides where there is no
abiding".

"What is meant by 'there is no abiding'?"

"When the mind is not abiding in any particular object, we say
that it abides where there is no abiding".

"What is meant by not abiding in any particular object?"

"It means not to be abiding in the dualism of good and evil,
being and non-being, thought and matter; it means not to be
abiding in emptiness or in non-emptiness, neither in tranquillity
nor in non-tranquillity. Where there is no abiding place, there
is truly the abiding place for the mind".

Seppo (822-908) was one of the most earnest truth-seekers in the
history of Zen during the T'ang dynasty. He is said to have
carried a ladle throughout the long years of his disciplinary Zen
peregrinations. His idea was to serve in one of the most despised
and most difficult positions in the monastery life -- that is, as
cook -- and the ladle was his symbol. When he finally succeeded
Tokusan as Zen master a monk approached him and asked: "What is
that you have attained under Tokusan? How serene and
self-contained you are!" "Empty-handed I went away from home, and
empty-handed I returned". Is not this a practical explanation of
the doctrine of "no abiding place"? The monk wanted their master
Hyakujo to give a lecture on Zen. He said, "You attend to farming
and later on I will tell you about Zen". After they had finished
the work the master was requested to fulfil his promise,
whereupon he opened out both his arms, but said not a word. This
was his great sermon.
 
 
 

Chapter 7

*Satori*, or Acquiring a New Viewpoint
 

The object of Zen discipline consists in acquiring a new
viewpoint for looking into the essence of things. If you have
been in the habit of thinking logically according to the rules of
dualism, rid yourself of it and you may come around somewhat to
the viewpoint of Zen. You and I are supposedly living in the same
world, but who can tell that the thing we popularly call a stone
that is lying before my window is the same to both of us? You and
I sip a cup of tea. That act is apparently alike to us both, but
who can tell what a wide gap there is subjectively between your
drinking and my drinking? In your drinking there may be no Zen,
while my is brim-full of it. The reason for it is: you move in a
logical circle and I am out of it. Though there is in fact
nothing new in the so-called new viewpoint of Zen, the term "new"
is convenient to express the Zen way of viewing the world, but
its use here is a condescension on the part of Zen.

This acquiring of a new viewpoint in Zen is called *satori* (*wu*
in Chinese) and its verb form is *satoru*. Without it there is no
Zen, for the life of Zen begins with the "opening of *satori*".
*Satori* may be defined as intuitive looking-into, in
contradistinction to intellectual and logical understanding.
Whatever the definition, *satori* means the unfolding of a new
world hitherto unperceived in the confusion of the dualistic
mind. Whit this preliminary remark I wish the reader to ponder
the following *mondo* (literally, "asking and answering"), which I
hope will illustrate my statement.

A young monk asked Joshu to be instructed in the faith of Zen.
Said the master:

"Have you had your breakfast, or not?"

"Yes, master, I have", answered the monk.

"Go and get your bowls washed", was the immediate response. And
this suggestion at once opened the monk's mind to the truth of
Zen.

Later on Ummon commented on the response, saying: "Was there any
special instruction in this remark by Joshu, or was there not?
If there was, what it was? If there was not, what *satori* was it
that the monk attained?" Still later Suigan had the following
retort on Ummon: "The great master Ummon does not know what is
what; hence this comment of his. It is altogether unnecessary; it
is like painting legs to a snake, or painting a beard to the
eunuch. My view differs from his. That monk who seemed to have
attained a sort of *satori* goes to hell as straight as an arrow!"

What does all this mean -- Joshu's remark about washing the
bowls, the monk's attainment of *satori*, Ummon's alternatives, and
Suigan's assurance? Are they speaking against one another, or is
it much ado about nothing? To my mind, they are all pointing one
way and the monk may go anywhere, but his *satori* in not to no
purpose.

Tokusan was a great scholar of the Diamond Sutra. Learning that
there was such a thing as Zen, ignoring all the written
scriptures and directly laying hands on one's soul, he went to
Ryutan to be instructed in the teaching. One day Tokusan was
sitting outside trying to look into the mystery of Zen. Ryutan
said, "Why don't you come in?" Replied Tokusan, "It is pitch
dark". A candle was lighted and held out to Tokusan. When he was
about to take it Ryutan suddenly blew out the light, whereupon
the mind of Tokusan was opened.

Hyakujo went out one day attending his master Baso, when they saw
a flock of wild geese flying. Baso asked:

"What are they?"

"They are wild geese, sir".

"Whither are they flying?"

"They have flown away".

Baso, abruptly taking hold of Hyakujo's nose, gave it a twist.
Overcome with pain, Hyakujo cried out: "Oh! Oh!"

Said Baso, "You say they have flown away, but all the same they
have been here from the very first".

This made Hyakujo's back wet with perspiration; he had *satori*.

Is there any possible connection between the washing of the bowls
and the blowing of the candle and the twisting of the nose? We
must say with Ummon: If there is none, how could they have all
come to a realization of the truth of Zen? If there is, what is
the inner relationship? What is this *satori*? What new point of
view of looking at things is this?

Under Daiye (1089-1169, a disciple of Yengo), the great Zen
master of the Sung dynasty, there was a monk named Doken, who had
spent many years in the study of Zen, but who had not as yet
uncovered its secrets, if there were any. He was quite
discouraged when he was sent on the errand to a distant city. A
trip requiring half a year to finish would be a hindrance rather
than help to his study. Sogen, one of his fellow-students, was
most sympathetic and said, "I will accompany you on the trip and
do all I can for you; there is no reason why you cannot go on
with your meditation even while travelling". One evening Doken
despairingly implored his friend to assist him in the solution of
the mystery of life. The friend said, "I am willing to help you
in every way I can, but there are some things in which I cannot
be of any help to you; these you must look after for yourself".
Doken expressed the desire to know what these things were. Said
the friend: "For instance, when you are hungry or thirsty, my
eating of food or drinking will not fill your stomach; you must
eat and drink for yourself. When you want to respond to the calls
of nature you must take care of yourself, for I cannot be of any
use to you. And then it will be nobody else but yourself that
will carry your body along this highway". This friendly counsel
at once opened the mind of the truth-seeking monk, who was so
transported with his discovery that he did not know how to
express his joy. Sogen said that his work was now done and that
his further companionship would have no meaning after this; so he
left Doken to continue his journey all by himself. After a half
year Doken returned to his own monastery. Daiye, on his way down
the mountains, happened to meet Doken and at once made the
following remark, "This time he knows all". What was it, let me
ask, that flashed through Doken's mind when his friend Sogen gave
him such matter-of-fact advice?

Kyogen was a disciple of Hyakujo. After his master's death Kyogen
went to Yisan, who had been a senior disciple of Hyakujo. Yisan
asked him: "I am told that you have been studying under my late
master, and that you have remarkable intelligence. The
understanding of Zen through this medium necessarily ends in
intellectual analytical comprehension, which is not of much use;
but nevertheless you may have had an insight into the truth of
Zen. Let me have your view as to the reason of birth and death;
that is, as to your own being before your parents had given birth
to you".

Thus asked, Kyogen did not know how to reply. He retired into his
own room and assiduously made research into the notes which he had
taken of the sermons given by their late master. He failed to
come across a suitable passage which he might present as his own
view. He returned to Yisan and implored him to teach him in the
faith of Zen, but Yisan replied: "I really have nothing to impart
to you, and if I tried to do so you might have occasion to make
me an object of ridicule. Besides, whatever I can tell you is my
own and can never be yours". Kyogen was disappointed and
considered him unkind. Finally he came to the decision to burn up
all his notes and memoranda, which seemed to be of no help to his
spiritual welfare, and, retiring altogether from the world, to
spent the rest of his life in solitude and the simple life in
accordance with the Buddhist rules. He reasoned: "What is the use
of studying Buddhism which is so difficult to comprehend and which
is too subtle to receive an instruction from another? I will be a
plain homeless monk, troubled with no desire to master things too
deep for thought". He left Yisan and built a hut near the tomb of
Chu, the National Master at Nan-yang. One day he was weeding and
sweeping the ground when a pebble which he had swept away struck
a bamboo; the unexpected sound produced by the percussion elevated
his mind to a state of *satori*. His joy was boundless. The
question proposed by Yisan became transparent; he felt as if
meeting his lost parents. Besides, he came to realize the
kindness of Yisan in refuting him instruction, for now he
realized that this experience could not have happened to him if
Yisan had been unkind enough to explain things to him.

Cannot Zen be so explained that a master can lead all his pupils
to enlightenment through explanation? Is *satori* something that is
not at all capable of intellectual analysis? Yes, it is an
experience which no amount of explanation or argument can make
communicable to others unless the latter themselves had it
previously. If *satori* is amenable to analysis in the sense that
by so doing in becomes perfectly clear to another who has never
had it, that *satori* will be no *satori*. For *satori* turned into a
concept ceases to be itself; and there will no more be a Zen
experience. Therefore, all that we can do in Zen in the way of
instruction is to indicate, or to suggest, or to show the way so
that one's attention may be directed towards the goal. As to
attainting the goal and taking hold of the thing itself, this
must be done by one's own hands, for nobody else can do it for
one. As regards the indication, it lies everywhere. When a man's
mind is matured for *satori* it tumbles over one everywhere. An
inarticulate sound, an unintelligent remark, a blooming flower,
or a trivial incident such as stumbling, is the condition or
occasion that will open his mind to *satori*. Apparently, an
insignificant event produces an effect which in importance is
altogether out of proportion. The light touch of the igniting
wire, and the explosion follows which will shake the very
foundation of the earth. All the causes, all the conditions of
*satori* are in the mind; they are merely waiting for maturing.
When the mind is ready for some reason or other, a bird flies, ar
a bell rings, and you at once return to your original home; that
is, you discover your now real self. From the very beginning
nothing has been kept from you, all that you wished to see has
been there all the time before you, it was only yourself that
closed the eye to the fact. Therefore, there is in Zen nothing to
explain, nothing to teach, that will add to your knowledge.
Unless it grows out of yourself no knowledge is really yours, it
is only a borrowed plumage.

Kozankoku, a Confucian poet and statesman of the Sung, came to
Kwaido to be initiated into Zen. Said the Zen master: "There is a
passage in the text with which you are perfectly familiar which
fitly describes the teaching of Zen. Did not Confucious declare:
'Do you think I am hiding things from you, O my disciples?
Indeed, I have nothing to hide from you.'" Kozankoku tried to
answer, but Kwaido immediately checked him by saying, "No, no!"
The Confucian scholar felt troubled in mind but did not know how
to express himself. Some time later they were having a walk in
the mountains; the wild laurel was in full bloom and the air was
redolent with its scent. Asked the Zen master, "Do you smell it?"
When the Confucian answered affirmatively, Kwaido said, "There, I
have nothing to hide from you". This reminder at once led
Kozankoku's mind to the opening of a *satori*.

These examples will suffice to show what *satori* is and how it
unfolds itself. The reader may ask, however: "After the perusal
of all your explanations or indications, we are not a whit wiser.
Can you not definitely describe the content of *satori*, if there
is any? Your examples and statements are tentative enough, but we
simply know how the wind blows; where is the port the boat
finally makes for?" To this the Zen devotee may answer: As far as
the content goes, there is none in either *satori* or Zen that can
be described or presented or demonstrated for your intellectual
appreciation. For Zen has no business with ideas, and *satori* is a
sort of inner perception -- not the perception, indeed, of a
single individual object but the perception of Reality itself,
so to speak. The ultimate destination of *satori* is towards the
Self; it has no other end but to be back within oneself.
Therefore, said Joshu, "Have a cup of tea". Therefore, said
Nansen, "This is such a good sickle, it cuts so well". This is
the way the Self functions, and it must be caught, if at all
catchable, in the midst of its functioning.

As *satori* strikes at the primary root of existence, its
attainment generally marks a turning point in one's life. The
attainment, however, must be thoroughgoing and clear-cut; a
luke-warm *satori*, if there is such a thing, is worse than no
*satori*. See the following examples:

When Rinzai was meekly submitting to the thirty blows of Obaku,
he presented a pitiable sight, but as soon as he had attained
*satori* he was quite a different personage. His first exclamation
was, "There is not much after all in the Buddhism of Obaku". And
when he again saw the reproachful Obaku, he returned his favour
by giving him a slap in the face. "What arrogance! What
impudence!" one may think. But there was reason in Rinzai's
rudeness; no wonder Obaku was quite pleased with this treatment.

When Tokusan gained an insight into the truth of Zen he
immediately took out all his commentaries on the Diamond Sutra,
once so valued and considered indispensable that he had to carry
them whenever he went, and set fire to them, reducing all the
manuscripts to ashes. He exclaimed, "However deep one's knowledge
of abstruse philosophy, it is like a piece of hair flying in the
vastness of space; however important one's experience in things
worldly, it is like a drop of water thrown into an unfathomable
abyss".

One day, following the incident of the flying geese, to which the
reference was made elsewhere, Baso appeared in the preaching hall
and was about to speak before a congregation, when Hyakujo, whose
nose was literally put out of joint, came forward and began to
roll up the matting which is spread before the Buddha for the
master to kneel. The rolling up generally means the end of the
sermon. Baso, without protesting, came down from the pulpit and
returned to his room. He sent for Hyakujo and asked him why he
rolled up the matting before he had even uttered a word. Replied
Hyakujo, "Yesterday you twisted my nose and it was quite
painful". Said Baso, "Where were your thoughts wandering?"
Hyakujo replied, "Today it is no longer painful". With this Baso
admitted Hyakujo's understanding.

These examples are sufficient to show what changes are produced in
one's mind by the attainment of *satori*. Before *satori*, how
hopeless those monks were! They were like travellers lost in the
desert. But after *satori* they behave like absolute monarchs; they
are no longer slaves to anybody, they are themselves masters.

After these remarks the following points about the opening of the
mind that is called *satori* may be observed and summarized.

1. People often imagine that the discipline of Zen is to produce
a state of self-suggestion through meditation. This entirely
misses the mark, as can be seen from the various instances cites
above. *Satori* does not consist in producing a certain
premeditated condition by intensely thinking of it. It is
acquiring a new point of view for looking at things. Ever since
the unfoldment of consciousness we have been led to respond to
the inner and outer conditions in a certain conceptual and
analytical manner. The discipline of Zen consists in upsetting
this groundwork once for all and reconstructing the old frame on
an entirely new basis. It is evident, therefore, that meditating
on metaphysical and symbolic statements, which are products of the
relative consciousness, play no part in Zen.

2. Without the attainment of *satori* no one can enter into the
truth of Zen. *Satori* is the sudden flashing into consciousness of
a new truth hitherto undreamed of. It is a sort of mental
catastrophe taking place all at once, after much piling up of
matters intellectual and demonstrative. The piling has reached a
limit of stability and the whole edifice has come tumbling to the
ground, when, behold, a new heaven is open to full survey. When
the freezing point is reached, water suddenly turns into ice;
the liquid has suddenly turned into a solid body and no
more flows freely. *Satori* comes upon a man unawares, when he
feels that he has exhausted his whole being. Religiously, it is a
new birth; intellectually, it is the acquiring of a new viewpoint.
The world now appears as if dressed in a new garment, which seems
to cover up all the unsightliness of dualism, which is called
delusion in Buddhist phraseology.

3. *Satori* is the raison d'etre of Zen without which Zen is no
Zen. Therefore every contrivance, disciplinary and doctrinal,
is directed towards *satori*. Zen masters could not remain patient
for *satori* to come by itself; that is, to come sporadically or at
its own pleasure. In their earnestness to aid their disciples in
the search after the truth of Zen their manifestly enigmatical
presentations were designed to create in their disciples a state
of mind which would more systematically open the way to
enlightenment. All the intellectual demonstrations and
exhortatory persuasions so far carried out by most religious and
philosophical leaders had failed to produce the desired effect,
and their disciples thereby had been father and father led
astray. Especially was this the case when Buddhism was first
introduced into China, with all its Indian heritage of highly
metaphysical abstractions and most complicated systems of Yoga
discipline, which left the more practical Chinese at the loss as
to how to grasp the central point of the doctrine of Sakyamuni.
Bodhidharma, the Sixth Patriarch, Baso, and other Chinese
masters noticed the fact, and the proclamation and development of
Zen was the natural outcome. By them *satori* was placed above
sutra-learning and scholarly discussions of the shastras and was
identified with Zen itself. Zen, therefore, without *satori* is
like pepper without its pungency. But there is also such a
thing as too much attachment to the experience of *satori*, which
is to be detested.

4. This emphasizing of *satori* in Zen makes the fact quite
significant that Zen in not a system of Dhyana as practiced in
India and by other Buddhist schools in China. By Dhyana is
generally understood a kind of meditation or contemplation
directed toward some fixed thought; in Hinayana Buddhism it was a
thought of transiency, while in the Mahayana it was more often
the doctrine of emptiness. When the mind has been so trained as
to be able to realize a state of perfect void in which there is
not a trace of consciousness left, even the sense of being
unconscious having departed; in other words, when all forms of
mental activity are swept away clean from the field of
consciousness, leaving the mind like the sky devoid of every
speck of cloud, a mere broad expense of blue, Dhyana is said to
have reached its perfection. This may be called ecstasy or
trance, but it is not Zen. In Zen there must be *satori*; there
must be a general mental upheaval which destroys the old
accumulations of intellection and lays down the foundation for new
life; there must be the awakening of a new sense which will
review the old things from a hitherto undreamed-of angle of
observation. In Dhyana there are none of these things, for it is
merely a quieting exercise of mind. As such Dhyana doubtless has
its own merit, but Zen must be not identified with it.

5. *Satori* is not seeing God as he is, as might be contended by
some Christian mystics. Zen has from the beginning made clear and
insisted upon the main thesis, which is to see into the work of
creation; the creator may be found busy moulding his universe, or
he may be absent from his workshop, but Zen goes on with its own
work. It is not dependent upon the support of a creator; when it
grasps the reason for living a life, it is satisfied. Hoyen
(died 1104) of Go-so-san used to produce his own hand and ask his
disciples why it was called a hand. When we know the reason,
there is *satori* and we have Zen. Whereas with the God of mysticism
there is the grasping of a definite object; when you have God,
what is no-God is excluded. This is self-limiting. Zen wants
absolute freedom, even from God. "No abiding place" means that
very thing; "Cleanse your mouth when you utter the word Buddha"
amounts to the same thing. It is not that Zen wants to be
morbidly unholy and godless, but that it recognizes the
incompleteness of mere name. Therefore, when Yakusan (751-834)
was asked to give a lecture, he did not say a word, but instead
come down from the pulpit and went off to his own room. Hyakujo
merely walked forward a few steps, stood still, and then opened
his arms, which was his exposition of the great principle.

6. *Satori* is not a morbid state of mind, a fit subject for the
study of abnormal psychology. If anything, it is a perfectly
normal state of mind. When I speak of mental upheaval, one may be
led to consider Zen as something to be shunned by ordinary
people. This is a most mistaken view of Zen, but one
unfortunately often held by prejudiced critics. As Joshu
declared, "Zen is your everyday thought"; it all depends on the
adjustment of the hinge whether the door opens in or opens out.
Even in the twinkling of an eye the whole affair is changed and
you have Zen, and you are as perfect and as normal as ever. More
than that, you have acquired in the meantime something altogether
new. All your mental activities will now be working to a
different key, which will be more satisfying, more peaceful, and
fuller of joy than anything you ever experienced before. The tone
of life will be altered. There is something rejuvenating in the
possession of Zen. The spring flowers look prettier, and the
mountain stream runs cooler and more transparent. The subjective
revolution that brings about this state of things cannot be
called abnormal. When life becomes more enjoyable and its expense
broadens to include the universe itself, there must be something
in *satori* that is quite precious and well worth one's striving
after.