Essays in Zen Buddhism: First Series

THE essence of Zen Buddhism consists in acquiring a new viewpoint of looking at life and things generally. By this I mean that if we want to get into the inmost life of Zen, we must forego all our ordinary habits of thinking which control our everyday life, we must try to see if there is any other way of judging things, or rather if our ordinary way is always sufficient to give us the ultimate satisfaction of our spiritual needs. If we feel dissatisfied somehow with this life, if there is something in our ordinary way of living that deprives us of freedom in its most sanctified sense, we must endeavour to find a way somewhere which gives us a sense of finality and contentment. Zen proposes to do this for us and assures us of the acquirement of a new point of view in which life assumes a fresher, deeper, and more satisfying aspect. This acquirement, however, is really and naturally the greatest mental cataclysm one can go through with in life. It is no easy task, it is a kind of fiery baptism, and one has to go through the storm, the earthquake, the overthrowing of the mountains, and the breaking in pieces of the rocks.

This acquiring of a new point of view in our dealings with life and the world is popularly called by Japanese Zen students “satori”[5.1] (wu in Chinese). It is really another name for Enlightenment (anuttara-samyak-saṁbodhi), which is the word used by the Buddha and his Indian followers ever since his realisation under the Bodhi-tree by the River Nairañjanā. There are several other phrases in Chinese designating this spiritual experience, each of which has a special connotation, showing tentatively how this phenomenon is interpreted. At all events, there is no Zen without satori, which is indeed the Alpha and Omega of Zen Buddhism. Zen devoid of satori is like a sun without its light and heat. Zen may lose all its literature, all its monasteries, and all its paraphernalia; but as long as there is satori in it, it will survive to eternity. I want to emphasise this most fundamental fact concerning the very life of Zen; for there are some even among the students of Zen themselves who are blind to this central fact and are apt to think when Zen has been explained away logically or psychologically or as one of the Buddhist philosophies which can be summed up by using highly technical and conceptual Buddhist phrases, Zen is exhausted and there remains nothing in it that makes it what it is. But my contention is, the life of Zen begins with the opening of satori (kai wu in Chinese).[5.2]

Satori may be defined as an intuitive looking into the nature of things in contradistinction to the analytical or logical understanding of it. Practically, it means the unfolding of a new world hitherto unperceived in the confusion of a dualistically-trained mind. Or we may say that with satori our entire surroundings are viewed from quite an unexpected angle of perception. Whatever this is, the world for those who have gained a satori is no more the old world as it used to be; even with all its flowing streams and burning fires, it is never the same one again. Logically stated, all its opposites and contradictions are united and harmonised into a consistent organic whole. This is a mystery and a miracle, but according to the Zen masters such is being performed every day. Satori can thus be had only through our once personally experiencing it.

Its semblance or analogy in a more or less feeble and fragmentary way is gained when a difficult mathematical problem is solved, or when a great discovery is made, or when a sudden means of escape is realised in the midst of most desperate complications, in short, when one exclaims, “Eureka! eureka!” But this refers only to the intellectual aspect of satori, which is therefore necessarily partial and incomplete and does not touch the very foundations of life considered one indivisible whole. Satori as the Zen experience must be concerned with the entirety of life. For what Zen proposes to do is the revolution, and the revaluation as well, of oneself as a spiritual unity. The solving of a mathematical problem ends with the solution, it does not affect one’s whole life. So with all other particular questions, practical or scientific, they do not enter the basic life-tone of the individual concerned. But the opening of satori is the re-making of life itself. When it is genuine—for there are many simulacra of it—its effects on one’s moral and spiritual life are revolutionary, and they are so enhancing, purifying, as well as exacting. When a master was asked what constituted Buddhahood, he answered, “The bottom of a pale is broken through.” From this we can see what a complete revolution is produced by this spiritual experience. The birth of a new man is really cataclysmic.

In the psychology of religion this spiritual enhancement of one’s whole life is called “conversion.” But as the term is generally used by Christian converts, it cannot be applied in its strict sense to the Buddhist experience, especially to that of the Zen followers; the term has too affective or emotional a shade to take the place of satori, which is above all noetic. The general tendency of Buddhism is as we know more intellectual than emotional, and its doctrine of Enlightenment distinguishes it sharply from the Christian view of salvation; Zen as one of the Mahayana schools naturally shares a large amount of what we may call transcendental intellectualism which does not issue in logical dualism. When poetically or figuratively expressed, satori is “the opening of the mind-flower,”[5.3] or “the removing of the bar,”[5.4] or “the brightening up of the mind-works.”[5.5] All these tend to mean the clearing up of a passage which has been somehow blocked, preventing the free, unobstructed operation of a machine or a full display of the inner works. With the removal of the obstruction, a new vista opens before one, boundless in expanse and reaching the end of time. As life thus feels quite free in its activity, which was not the case before the awakening, it now enjoys itself to the fullest extent of its possibilities, to attain which is the object of Zen discipline. This is often taken to be equivalent to “vacuity of interest and poverty of purpose.”

But according to the Zen masters the doctrine of non-achievement concerns itself with the subjective attitude of mind which goes beyond the limitations of thought. It does not deny ethical ideals, nor does it transcend them; it is simply an inner state of consciousness without reference to its objective consequences.

The coming of Bodhi-Dharma (Bodai-daruma in Japanese, P‘u-ti Ta-mo in Chinese) to China early in the sixth century was simply to introduce this satori element into the body of Buddhism whose advocates were then so engrossed in subtleties of philosophical discussion or in the mere literary observance of rituals and disciplinary rules. By the “absolute transmission of the spiritual seal”[5.6] which was claimed by the first patriarch, is meant the opening of satori, obtaining an eye to see into the spirit of the Buddhist teaching. The sixth patriarch, Yeno (Hui-nêng), was distinguished because of his upholding the satori aspect of dhyana against the mere mental tranquillisation of the Northern School of Zen under the leadership of Jinshu (Shên-hsiu). Baso (Ma-tsu), Obaku (Huan-po), Rinzai (Lin-chi), and all the other stars illuminating the early days of Zen in the T‘ang dynasty were advocates of satori. Their life-activities were unceasingly directed towards the advancement of this; and as one can readily recognise, they so differed from those merely absorbed in contemplation or the practising of dhyana so called. They were strongly against quietism, declaring its adherents to be purblind and living in the cave of darkness. Before we go on, it is advisable, therefore, to have this point clearly understood so that we leave no doubt as to the ultimate purport of Zen, which is by no means wasting one’s life away in a trance-inducing practise, but consists in seeing into the life of one’s being or opening an eye of satori.

There is in Japan a book going under the title of Six Essays by Shoshitsu (that is, by Bodhi-Dharma, the first patriarch of Zen); the book contains no doubt some of the sayings of Dharma, but most of the essays are not his; they were probably composed during the T‘ang dynasty when Zen Buddhism began to make its influence more generally felt among the Chinese Buddhists. The spirit however pervading the book is in perfect accord with the principle of Zen. One of the essays entitled “Kechimyakuron,” or “Treatise on the Lineage of Faith,”[5.7] discusses the question of Chien-hsingf104 見性 or satori, which, according to the author constitutes the essence of Zen Buddhism. The following passages are extracts.

“If you wish to seek the Buddha, you ought to see into your own Nature (hsing); for this Nature is the Buddha himself. If you have not seen into your own Nature, what is the use of thinking of the Buddha, reciting the Sutras, observing a fast, or keeping the precepts? By thinking of the Buddha, your cause [i.e., meritorious deed] may bear fruit; by reciting the Sutras your intelligence may grow brighter; by keeping the precepts you may be born in the heavens; by practising charity you may be rewarded abundantly; but as to seeking the Buddha, you are far away from him. If your Self is not yet clearly comprehended, you ought to see a wise teacher and get a thorough understanding as to the root of birth-and-death. One who has not seen into one’s own Nature, is not to be called a wise teacher.

“When this [seeing into one’s own Nature] is not attained, one cannot escape from the transmigration of birth-and-death, however well one may be versed in the study of the sacred scriptures in twelve divisions. No time will ever come to one to get out of the sufferings of the triple world. Anciently there was a Bhikshu Zensho (Shan-hsingf105) who was capable of reciting all the twelve divisions of scriptures, yet he could not save himself from transmigration, because he had no insight into his own Nature. If this was the case even with Zensho, how about those moderners who being able to discourse only on a few Sutras and Śastras regard themselves as exponents of Buddhism? They are truly simple-minded ones. When Mind is not understood, it is absolutely of no avail to recite and discourse on idle literature. If you want to seek the Buddha, you ought to see into your own Nature, which is the Buddha himself. The Buddha is a free man—a man who neither works nor achieves. If, instead of seeing into your own Nature, you turn away and seek the Buddha in external things, you will never get at him.

“The Buddha is your own Mind, make no mistake to bow [to external objects]. ‘Buddha’ is a Western word, and in this country it means ‘enlightened nature’; and by ‘enlightened’ is meant ‘spiritually enlightened.’ It is one’s own spiritual Nature in enlightenment that responds to the external world, comes in contact with objects, raises the eyebrows, winks the eyelids, and moves the hands and legs. This Nature is the Mind, and the Mind is the Buddha, and the Buddha is the Way, and the Way is Zen. This simple word, Zen, is beyond the comprehension both of the wise and the ignorant. To see directly into one’s original Nature, this is Zen. Even if you are well learned in hundreds of the Sutras and Śastras, you still remain an ignoramus in Buddhism when you have not yet seen into your original Nature. Buddhism is not there [in mere learning]. The highest truth is unfathomably deep, is not an object of talk or discussion, and even the canonical texts have no way to bring it within our reach. Let us once see into our own original Nature and we have the truth even when we are quite illiterate, not knowing a word....

“Those who have not seen into their own Nature, may read the Sutras, think of the Buddha, study long, work hard, practise religion throughout the six periods of the day, sit for a long time and never lie down for sleep, and may be wide in learning and well-informed in all things; and they may believe that all this is Buddhism. All the Buddhas in successive ages only talk of seeing into one’s Nature. All things are impermanent; until you get an insight into your Nature, do not say, ‘I have perfect knowledge.’ Such is really committing a very grave crime. Ānanda, one of the ten great disciples of the Buddha, was known for his wide information, but did not have any insight into Buddhahood, because he was so bent on gaining information only....”

The sixth patriarch, Hui-nêng (Yeno), insists on this in a most unmistakable way when he answers the question: “As to your commission from the fifth patriarch of Huang-mei, how do you direct and instruct others in it?” The answer was: “No direction, no instruction there is; we speak only of seeing into one’s Nature and not of practising dhyana and seeking deliverance thereby.” Elsewhere they are designated as the “confused” and “not worth consulting with,” they that are empty-minded and sit quietly having no thoughts whatever; whereas “even ignorant ones, if they all of a sudden realise the truth and open their mental eyes, are after all wise men and may attain even to Buddhahood.” Again when the patriarch was told of the method of instruction adopted by the masters of the Northern School of Zen, which consisted in stopping all mental activities, quietly absorbed in contemplation, and in sitting cross-legged for the longest while at a stretch, he declared such practises to be abnormal and not at all to the point, being far from the truth of Zen, and added this stanza which was quoted elsewhere:

The master continued: “Wilt thou practice this sitting cross-legged in order to attain dhyana or to attain Buddhahood? If it is dhyana, dhyana does not consist in sitting or lying; if it is Buddhahood, the Buddha has no fixed forms. As he has no abiding place anywhere, no one can take hold of him, nor can he be let go. If thou seekest Buddhahood by thus sitting cross-legged, thou murderest him. So long as thou freest thyself not from sitting so,f106 thou never comest to the truth.”

These are all plain statements, and no doubts are left as to the ultimate end of Zen, which is not sinking oneself into a state of torpidity by sitting quietly after the fashion of a Hindu saint and trying to exclude all the mental ripplings that seem to come up from nowhere and after a while pass away—where nobody knows. These preliminary remarks will help the reader carefully to consider the following “Questions and Answers”[5.9] (known as Mondo in Japanese); for they will illustrate my thesis that Zen aims at the opening of satori, or at acquiring a new point of view as regards life and the universe. The Zen masters, as we see below, are always found trying to avail themselves of every apparently trivial incident of life in order to make the disciples’ minds flow into a channel hitherto altogether unperceived. It is like picking a hidden lock, the flood of new experiences gushes forth from the opening. It is again like the clock’s striking the hours; when the appointed time comes it clicks, and the whole percussion of sounds is released. The mind seems to have something of this mechanism; when a certain moment is reached, a hitherto closed screen is lifted, an entirely new vista opens up, and the tone of one’s whole life thereafter changes. This mental clicking or opening is called satori by the Zen masters and is insisted upon as the main object of their discipline.

In this connection the reader will find the following words of Meister Eckhart quite illuminative: “Upon this matter a heathen sage hath a fine saying in speech with another sage: ‘I become aware of something in me which flashes upon my reason. I perceive of it that it is something, but what it is I cannot perceive. Only meseems that, could I conceive it, I should comprehend all truth.’”f107

The records quoted below do not always give the whole history of the mental development leading up to a satori, that is, from the first moment when the disciple came to the master until the last moment of realisation, with all the intermittent psychological vicissitudes which he had to go through. The examples are just to show that the whole Zen discipline gains meaning when there takes place this turning of the mental hinge to a wider and deeper world. For when this wider and deeper world opens, everyday life, even the most trivial thing of it, grows loaded with the truths of Zen. On the one hand, therefore, satori is a most prosaic and matter-of-fact thing, but on the other hand when it is not understood it is something of a mystery. But after all is not life itself filled with wonders, mysteries, and unfathomabilities, far beyond our discursive understanding?

A monk asked Jōshu (Chao-chou Tsung-shên, 778–897) to be instructed in Zen. Said the master, “Have you had your breakfast or not?” “Yes, master, I have,” answered the monk. “If so, have your dishes washed,” was an immediate response, which, it is said, at once opened the monk’s mind to the truth of Zen.

This is enough to show what a commonplace thing satori is; but to see what an important rôle this most trivial incident of life plays in Zen, it will be necessary to add some remarks which were made by the masters, and through these the reader may have a glimpse into the content of satori. Ummon (Yün-mên, Wên-yen, died 949) who lived a little later than Jōshu commented on him; “Was there any special instruction in the remark of Jōshu, or not? If there was, what was it? If there was not, what satori was it that the monk attained?” Later, Umpo Monyetsu (Yün-fêng Wen-yüeh, 997–1062) made a retort, saying, “The great master Ummon does not know what is what, hence this comment of his. It was altogether unnecessary, it was like painting legs to the snake and growing a beard to the eunuch. My view differs from his: that monk who seems to have attained a satori goes to hell as straight as an arrow!”[5.10]

Now, what does this all mean—Jōshu’s remark about washing the dishes, the monk’s attainment of satori, Ummon’s alternatives, and Monyetsu’s assurance? Are they speaking against each other? Is this much ado about nothing? This is where Zen is difficult to grasp and at the same time difficult to explain. Let me add a few more queries. How did Jōshu make the monk’s eye open by such a prosaic remark? Did the remark have any hidden meaning, however, which happened to coincide with the mental tone of the monk? How was the monk so mentally prepared for the final stroke of the master whose service was just pressing the button as it were? Nothing of satori is so far gleaned from washing the dishes; we have to look somewhere else for the truth of Zen. At any rate, we could not say that Jōshu had nothing to do with the monk’s realisation. Hence Ummon’s remark which is somewhat enigmatic, yet to the point. As to Monyetsu’s comment, it is what is technically known as Nenro,[5.11] “handling and playing,” or “playful criticism.” He appears to be making a disparaging remark about Ummon, but in truth he is joining hands with his predecessors.

Tokusan (Teh-shan Hsüan-chien, 779–865)[5.12] was a great scholar of the Diamond Sutra (Vajracchedikā). Learning that there was such a thing as Zen ignoring all the written scriptures and directly laying hand on one’s soul, he came to Ryutan (Lung-t‘an) to be instructed in the doctrine. One day Tokusan was sitting outside trying to see into the mystery of Zen. Ryutan said, “Why don’t you come in?” Replied Tokusan, “It is pitch dark.” A candle was lighted and handed over to Tokusan. When the latter was at the point of taking it, Ryutan suddenly blew the light out, whereupon the mind of Tokusan was opened.f108[5.13]