Title: The Zen Experience
Author: Hoover, Thomas
Language: English
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THE ZEN EXPERIENCE



_Library Journal_ called it, "The best history of Zen ever written."



_The truth of Zen has always resided in individual experience rather
than in theoretical writings. To give the modern reader access to
understanding of this truth, THE ZEN EXPERIENCE illumines Zen as it was
created and shaped by the personalities, perceptions, and actions of
its masters over the centuries.

Beginning with the twin roots of Zen in Indian Buddhism and Chinese
Taoism, we follow it through its initial flowering in China under the
First Patriarch Bodhidharma; its division into schools of "gradual" and
"sudden" enlightenment under Shen-hsui and Shen-hui; the ushering in of
its golden age by Hui-neng; the development of "shock" enlightenment by
Ma-tsu; its poetic greatness in the person of Han-shan; the perfection
of the use of the koan by Ta-hui; the migration of Zen to Japan and its
extraordinary growth there under a succession of towering Japanese
spiritual leaders.

Rich in historical background, vivid in revealing anecdote and
memorable quotation, this long-needed work succeeds admirably in taking
Zen from the library shelves and restoring its living, human form.



_



BOOKS BY THOMAS HOOVER



Nonfiction

Zen Culture

The Zen Experience



Fiction

The Moghul

Caribbee

Wall Street Samurai

     (The _Samurai_ Strategy)

Project Daedalus

Project Cyclops

Life Blood

Syndrome



All free as e-books at

www.thomashoover.info



THE

  ZEN

EXPERIENCE



   Thomas  Hoover



SIGNET, SIGNET CLASSICS, MENTOR, PLUME, MERIDIAN AND NAL BOOKS are
published in the United States by The New American Library, Inc., 1633
Broadway, New York, New York 10019.

First Printing, March, 1980

23456789

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Bibliography Zen Buddhism--History.  Priests, Zen--Biography.

ISBN 0-452-25228-8

Copyright ©1980 by Thomas Hoover All rights reserved



                              www.thomashoover.info



Key words:

Author: Thomas Hoover

Title: The Zen Experience

Zen History, Buddhism, Zen Buddhism, Zen History, Seng-Chao, Tao-sheng,
Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu, Kuo Hsiang, Nagarjuna, Seng-chao, Tao-Sheng,
Bodhidharma, Hui'ko, Seng-Ts'an, Tao-hsin, Fa-jung, Hung-jen, Shen-
hsiu, Hui-neng, Ma-tsu, Huai-hai, Nan'chuan,  Chao-Chou,  P'ang,  Han-
shan,  Huang-po, Lin-Chi, Rinzai, Soto, Tung-shan, Ts'ao-shan, Kuei-
shan, Yun-men, Fa-yen, Ta-hui, Eisai, Dogen, Hakuin



PERMISSIONS



Selections from Zen and Zen Classics, Vols. I and II, by R. H. Blyth
(Tokyo: The Hokuseido Press, copyright © 1960, 1964 by R. H. Blyth,
copyright © 1978 by Frederick Franck), reprinted by permission of Joan
Daves.

Selections from Cold Mountain by Han-shan, Burton Watson, trans. (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1970), reprinted by permission of
publisher.

Selections from The Recorded Sayings of Layman Pang, Ruth Fuller Sasaki
et al., trans. (New York: John Weatherhill), reprinted by permission of
publisher.

Selections from Anthology of Chinese Literature, Cyril Birch, ed., Gary
Snyder, trans. (New York: Grove Press, copyright © 1965 by Grove
Press), reprinted by permission of publisher.

Selections from Tao: A New Way of Thinking by Chang Chung-yuan, (New
York: Harper & Row, Perennial Library, copyright © 1975 by Chang Chung-
yuan), reprinted by permission of publisher.

Selection from A History of Zen Buddhism by Heinrich S. J. Dumoulin,
Paul Peachey, trans. (New York: Pantheon Books, 1962), reprinted by
permission of publisher.

Selection by Ikkyu from Some Japanese Portraits by Donald Keene (Tokyo:
Kodansha International, 1979), reprinted by permission of author.

Selections from Essays in Zen Buddhism by D. T. Suzuki (New York: Grove
Press), reprinted by permission of publisher.

Selection from The Sutra of Hui-neng, Price and Wong, trans. (Boulder:
Shambala Publications), reprinted by permission of publisher.

Selections from The Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch, Philip
Yamplosky, trans. (New York: Columbia University Press), reprinted by
permission of publisher.

Selections from The Zen Master Hakuin by Philip Yamplosky (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1971), reprinted by permission of publisher.

Selections from The Golden Age of Zen by John C. H. Wu (Taipei, Taiwan:
Hwakang Book Store), reprinted by permission of author.

Selections from The Zen Teaching of the Hui Hai on Sudden Illumination
by John Blofeld (New York: Samuel Weiser, 1972), reprinjted by
permission of publisher.

Selections from Zen Master Dogen by Yoho Yukoi (New York: John
Weatherhill), reprinted by permission of publisher.

Selections from Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism by Chang Chung-
yuan (New York: Vintage, 1969), reprinted by permission of publisher.

Selections from Swampland Flowers by Christopher Cleary (New York:
Grove Press, copyright © 1977 by Christopher Cleary), reprinted by
permission of publisher.

Selections from The Zen Teaching of Huang Po on the Transmission of
Mind by John Blofeld (New York: Grove Press, copyright © 1958 by John
Blofeld), reprinted by permission of publisher.

Selections from Zen-Man Ikkyu, a dissertation by John Sanford,
University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, reprinted by permission of
author.

Selections from Zen is Eternal Life by Roshi Jiyu-Kennett (Dharma
Publishing, copyright © 1976 by Roshi Jiyu-Kennett), reprinted by
permission of author).



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Heartfelt thanks go to Dr. Philip Yampolsky of Columbia University, who
reviewed the manuscript in draft and clarified many points of fact and
interpretation. I also am indebted to the works of a number of Zen
interpreters for the West, including D. T. Suzuki, John Blofeld, Chang
Chung-yuan, and Charles Luk. In cases where this finger pointing at the
moon mistakenly aims astray, I alone am responsible.



CONTENTS

Preface to Zen

Taoism: The Way to Zen

Lao Tzu

Chuang Tzu

Kuo Hsiang: A Neo-Taoist

The Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove

The Buddhist Roots of Zen

The Buddha

Nagarjuna

Kumarajiva

Seng-chao

Tao-sheng

The Synthesis

PART I. THE EARLY MASTERS

1. Bodhidharma: First Patriarch of Zen

2. Hui-k'o: Second Patriarch of Zen

3. Seng-Ts'an, Tao-hsin, Fa-jung, and Hung-jen: Four Early Masters

4. Shen-hsiu and Shen-hui: "Gradual" and

"Sudden" Masters

5. Hui-neng: Sixth Patriarch and Father of Modern Zen

PART II. THE GOLDEN AGE OF ZEN

6. Ma-tsu: Originator of "Shock" Enlightenment

7. Huai-hai: Father of Monastic Ch'an

8. Nan-ch'uan and Chao-chou: Masters of the Irrational

9. P'ang and Han-shan: Layman and Poet

10. Huang-po: Master of the Universal Mind

PART III. SECTARIANISM AND THE KOAN

11. Lin-chi: Founder of Rinzai Zen

12. Tung-shan and Ts'ao-shan: Founders of Soto Zen

13. Kuei-shan, Yun-men, and Fa-yen: Three Minor Houses

14. Ta-hui: Master of the Koan

PART IV. ZEN IN JAPAN

15. Eisai: The First Japanese Master

16. Dogen: Father of Japanese Soto Zen

17. Ikkyu: Zen Eccentric

18. Hakuin: Japanese Master of the Koan

19. Reflections

Notes

Bibliography



   THE ZEN EXPERIENCE



_The sole aim of Zen is to enable one to understand, realize,

and perfect his own mind.

_Garma C. C. Chang



PREFACE TO ZEN



_Lao Tzu, Buddha, Confucius

_

Some call it "seeing," some call it "knowing," and some describe it in
religious terms. Whatever the name, it is our reach for a new level of
consciousness. Of the many forms this search has taken, perhaps the
most intriguing is Zen. Growing out of the wisdom of China, India, and
Japan, Zen became a powerful movement to explore the lesser-known
reaches of the human mind. Today Zen has come westward, where we are
rediscovering modern significance in its ancient insights. This book is
an attempt to encounter Zen in its purest form, by returning to the
greatest Zen masters.

Zen teachings often appear deceptively simple. This misconception is
compounded by the Zen claim that explanations are meaningless. They
are, of course, but merely because genuine Zen insights can arise only
from individual experience. And although our experience can be
described and even analyzed, it cannot be transmitted or shared. At
most, the "teachings" of Zen can only clear the way to our deeper
consciousness. The rest is up to us.

Zen is based on the recognition of two incompatible types of thought:
rational and intuitive. Rationality employs language, logic, reason.
Its precepts can be taught. Intuitive knowledge, however, is different.
It lurks embedded in our consciousness, beyond words. Unlike rational
thought, intuition cannot be "taught" or even turned on. In fact, it is
impossible to find or manipulate this intuitive consciousness using our
rational mind--any more than we can grasp our own hand or see our own
eye.

The Zen masters devised ways to reach this repressed area of human
consciousness. Some of their techniques--like meditation--were borrowed
from Indian Buddhism, and some--like their antirational paradoxes--may
have been learned from Chinese Taoists. But other inventions, like
their jarring shouts and blows, emerged from their own experience.
Throughout it all, however, their words and actions were only a means,
never an end.

That end is an intuitive realization of a single great insight--that we
and the world around are one, both part of a larger encompassing
absolute. Our rational intellect merely obscures this truth, and
consequently we must shut it off, if only for a moment. Rationality
constrains our mind; intuition releases it.

The irony is that the person glimpsing this moment of higher
consciousness, this Oneness, encounters the ultimate realization that
there is nothing to realize. The world is still there, unchanged. But
the difference is that it is now an extension of our consciousness,
seen directly and not analytically. And since it is redundant to be
attached to something already a part of you, there is a sudden sense of
freedom from our agonizing bondage to things.

Along with this also comes release from the constraints of artificial
values. Creating systems and categories is not unlike counting the
colors of a rainbow--both merely detract from our experience of reality,
while at the same time limiting our appreciation of the world's
richness. And to declare something right or wrong is similarly
nearsighted. As Alan Watts once observed, "Zen unveils behind the
urgent realm of good and evil a vast region of oneself about which
there need be no guilt or recrimination, where at last the self is
indistinguishable from God." And, we might add, where God is also one
with our consciousness, our self. In Zen all dualities dissolve,
absorbed in the larger reality that simply is.

None of these things is taught explicitly in Zen. Instead they are
discovered waiting in our consciousness after all else has been swept
away. A scornful twelfth-century Chinese scholar summarized the Zen
method as follows: "Since the Zen masters never run the risk of
explaining anything in plain language, their followers must do their
own pondering and puzzling--from which a real threshing-out results." In
these pages we will watch the threshing-out of Zen itself--as its
masters unfold a new realm of consciousness, the Zen experience.



TAOISM: THE WAY TO ZEN


Taoism is the original religion of ancient China. It is founded on the
idea that a fundamental principle, the Tao, underlies all nature. Long
before the appearance of Zen, Taoists were teaching the superiority of
intuitive thought, using an anti-intellectualism that often ridiculed
the logic-bound limitations of conventional Chinese life and letters.
However, Taoism was always upbeat and positive in its acceptance of
reality, a quality that also rubbed off on Zen over the centuries.
Furthermore, many Taoist philosophers left writings whose world view
seems almost Zen-like. The early Chinese teachers of meditation (called
_dhyana _in Sanskrit and Ch'an in Chinese) absorbed the Taoist
tradition of intuitive wisdom, and later Zen masters often used Taoist
expressions. It is fitting, therefore, that we briefly meet some of the
most famous teachers of Chinese Taoism.



LAO TZU


One of the most influential figures in ancient Chinese lore is
remembered today merely as Lao Tzu (Venerable Master). Taoist legends
report he once disputed (and bettered) the scholarly Confucius, but
that he finally despaired of the world and rode an oxcart off into the
west, pausing at the Han-ku Pass--on the insistence of its keeper--to set
down his insights in a five-thousand-character poem. This work, the Tao
Te Ching (The Way and the Power), was an eloquent, organized, and
lyrical statement of an important point of view in China of the sixth
century B.C., an understanding later to become an essential element of
Ch'an Buddhism.

The word "Tao" means many, many things--including the _elan vital _or
life force of the universe, the harmonious structuring of human
affairs, and--perhaps most important--a reality transcending words.
Taoists declared there is a knowledge not accessible by language. As
the Tao Te Ching announces in its opening line, "The Tao that can be
put into words is not the real Tao."

Also fundamental to the Tao is the unity of mind and matter, of the one
who knows and the thing known. The understanding of a truth and the
truth itself cannot be separated. The Tao includes and unifies these
into a larger "reality" encompassing both. The notion that our
knowledge is distinguishable from that known is an illusion.

Another teaching of the Tao Te Ching is that intuitive insight
surpasses rational analysis. When we act on our spontaneous judgment,
we are almost always better off. Chapter 19 declares, "Let the people
be free from discernment and relinquish intellection . . . Hold to
one's original nature . . . Eliminate artificial learning and one will
be free from anxieties."1 The wise defer to a realm of insight floating
in our mind beyond its conscious state.

Taoists also questioned the value of social organization, holding that
the best government is the one governing least and that "the wise deal
with things through non-interference and teach through no-words."2
Taoists typically refused to draw value judgments on others' behavior.
Lao Tzu asks, "What is the difference between good and bad?"3 and
concludes, "Goodness often turns out to be evil."4 There is complete
acceptance of what is, with no desire to make things "better." Lao Tzu
believed "good" and "bad" were both part of Tao and therefore, "Even if
a man is unworthy, Tao will never exclude him."5 If all things are one,
there can be no critical differentiation of any part. This
concentration on inner perception, to the exclusion of practical
concerns, evoked a criticism from the third-century-B.C. Confucian
philosopher Hsun Tzu that has a curiously modern ring of social
consciousness. "Lao Tzu understood looking inward, but knew nothing of
looking outward. . . . If there is merely inward-looking and never
outward-looking, there can be no distinction between what has value and
what has not, between what is precious and what is vile, between what
is noble and what is vulgar."6 But the refusal of Lao Tzu to
intellectualize what is natural or to sit in judgment over the world
was the perfect Chinese precedent for Ch'an.



CHUANG TZU


The second important figure in Taoism is the almost equally legendary
teacher remembered as Chuang Tzu, who is usually placed in the fourth
century B.C., some two centuries after Lao Tzu. An early historian
tells that once Chuang Tzu was invited to the court to serve as a
minister, an invitation he declined with a typical story: An ox is
selected for a festival and fattened up for several years, living the
life of wealth and indulgence--until the day he is led away for
sacrifice. At that reckoning what would he give to return to the simple
life, where there was poverty but also freedom?

In Chuang Tzu's own book of wisdom, he also derided the faith in
rationality common to Chinese scholars. To emphasize his point he
devised a vehicle for assaulting the apparatus of logic--that being a
"nonsense" story whose point could only be understood intuitively.,
There has yet to be found a more deadly weapon against pompous
intellectualizing, as the Ch'an Buddhists later proved with the koan.
Chuang Tzu also knew how quickly comedy could deflate, and he used it
with consummate skill, again paving the way for the absurdist Zen
masters. In fact, his dialogues often anticipate the Zen _mondo_, the
exchanges between master and pupil that have comic/straight-man
overtones.

In this regard, Chuang Tzu also sometimes anticipates twentieth-century
writers for the Theater of the Absurd, such as Beckett or Ionesco.
Significantly, the Columbia scholar Burton Watson suggests that the
most fruitful path to Chuang Tzu "is not to attempt to subject his
thoughts to rational and systematic analysis, but to read and reread
his words until one has ceased to think of what he is saying and
instead has developed an intuitive sense of the mind moving beyond the
words, and of the world in which it moves."7 This is undoubtedly true.
The effect of comic parody on logic is so telling that the only way to
really understand the message is to stop trying to "understand" it.

Concerning the limitations of verbal transmission, Chuang Tzu tells a
story of a wheelmaker who once advised his duke that the book of
ancient thought the man was reading was "nothing but the lees and scum
of bygone men." The duke angrily demanded an explanation--and received a
classic defense of the superiority of intuitive understanding over
language and logic.



_I look at the matter in this way; when I am making a wheel, if my
stroke is too slow, then it bites deep but is not steady; if my stroke
is too fast, then it is steady, but does not go deep. The right pace,
neither slow nor fast, cannot get into the hand unless it comes from
the heart. It is a thing that cannot be put into words; there is an art
in it that I cannot explain to my son. That is why it is impossible for
me to let him take over my work, and here I am at the age of seventy,
still making wheels. In my opinion, it must have been the same with the
men of old. All that was worth handing on died with them; the rest,
they put into their books.8

_

Chuang Tzu's parable that perhaps best illustrates the Taoist ideal
concerns a cook who had discovered one lives best by following nature's
rhythms. The cook explained that his naturalness was easy after he
learned to let intuition guide his actions. This approach he called
practicing the Tao, but it is in fact the objective of Zen practice as
well.

_Prince Wen Hui remarked, "How wonderfully you have mastered your art."
The cook laid down his knife and said, "What your servant really cares
for is Tao, which goes beyond mere art. When I first began to cut up
oxen, I saw nothing but oxen. After three years of practicing, I no
longer saw the ox as a whole. I now work with my spirit, not with my
eyes. My senses stop functioning and my spirit takes over."9

_

What he described is the elimination of the rational mind, which he
refers to as the senses, and the reliance upon the intuitive part of
his mind, here called the spirit. He explained how this intuitive
approach allowed him to work naturally.



_A good cook changes his knife once a year because he cuts, while a
mediocre cook has to change his every month because he hacks. I've had
this knife of mine for nineteen years and have cut up thousands of oxen
with it, and yet the edge is as if it were fresh from the grindstone.
There are spaces between the joints. The blade of the knife has no
thickness. That which has no thickness has plenty of room to pass
through these spaces. Therefore, after nineteen years, my blade is as
sharp as ever.10



_Lao Tzu and Chuang Tzu did not see themselves as founders of any
formal religion. They merely described the obvious, encouraging others
to be a part of nature and not its antagonist. Their movement, now
called Philosophical Taoism, was eclipsed during the Han Dynasty (206
B.C.-A.D. 220) in official circles by various other systems of thought,
most particularly Confucianism (which stressed obedience to authority--
both that of elders and of superiors--and reverence for formalized
learning, not to mention the acceptance of a structured hierarchy as
part of one's larger social responsibility). However, toward the end of
the Han era there arose two new types of Taoism: an Esoteric Taoism
that used physical disciplines to manipulate consciousness, and a
Popular Taoism that came close to being a religion in the traditional
mold. The first was mystical Esoteric Taoism, which pursued the
prolonging of life and vigor, but this gave way during later times to
Popular Taoism, a metaphysical alternative to the comfortless, arid
Confucianism of the scholarly establishment.

The post-Han era saw the Philosophical Taoism of Lao Tzu and Chuang Tzu
emerge anew among Chinese intellectuals, actually coming to vie with
Confucianism. This whole era witnessed a turning away from the accepted
values of society, as the well-organized government of the Han era
dissolved into political and intellectual confusion. Government was
unstable and corrupt, and the Confucianism which had been its
philosophical underpinning was stilted and unsatisfying. Whenever a
society breaks down, the belief system supporting it naturally comes
under question. This happened in China in the third and fourth
centuries of the Christian era, and from it emerged a natural
opposition to Confucianism. One form of this opposition was the
imported religion of Buddhism, which provided a spiritual solace
missing in the teachings of Confucius, while the other was a revival
among intellectuals of Philosophical Taoism.



KUO HSIANG: A NEO-TAOIST


In this disruptive environment, certain intellectuals returned again to
the insights of Lao Tzu and Chuang Tzu, creating a movement today known
as Neo-Taoism. One of the thinkers who tried to reinterpret original
Taoist ideas for the new times was Kuo Hsiang (d. ca. 312), who co-
authored a major document of Neo-Taoism entitled Commentary on the
Chuang Tzu. It focused on the important Taoist idea of _wu-wei_, once
explained as follows: " . . .to them the key concept of Taoism, _wu
_(literally, nonexistence), is not nothingness, but pure being, which
transcends forms and names, and precisely because it is absolute and
complete, can accomplish everything. The sage is not one who withdraws
into the life of a hermit, but a man of social and political
achievements, although these achievements must be brought about through
_wu-wei_, 'nonaction' or 'taking no [unnatural] action.' 1,11

This concept of _wu-wei _has also been described as abstaining from
activity contrary to nature and acting in a spontaneous rather than
calculated fashion. In Kuo Hsiang's words:



_Being natural means to exist spontaneously without having to take any
action. . . . By taking no action is not meant folding one's arms and
closing one's mouth. If we simply let everything act by itself, it will
be contented with its nature and destiny. (12)

_

Kuo Hsiang's commentary expanded on almost all the major ideas of
Chuang Tzu, drawing out with logic what originally had been set in
absurdism. Criticizing this, a later Ch'an monk observed, "People say
Kuo Hsiang wrote a commentary on Chuang Tzu. I would say it was Chuang
Tzu who wrote a commentary on Kuo Hsiang."13 Nonetheless, the idea of
_wu-wei_, processed through Buddhism, emerged in different guise in
later Ch'an, influencing the concept of "no-mind."



THE SEVEN SAGES OF THE BAMBOO GROVE



Other Chinese were content merely to live the ideas of Neo-Taoism.
Among these were the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove, men part of a
larger movement known as the School of Pure Conversation. Their
favorite pastime was to gather north of Loyang on the estate of one of
their members, where they engaged in refined conversation, wrote poetry
and music, and (not incidentally) drank wine. To some extent they
reflected the recluse ideal of old, except that they found the
satisfaction of the senses no impediment to introspection. What they
did forswear, however, was the world of getting and spending. Although
men of distinction, they rejected fame, ambition, and worldly station.

There is a story that one of the Seven Sages, a man named Liu Ling (ca.
221-330), habitually received guests while completely naked. His
response to adverse comment was to declare, "I take the whole universe
as my house and my own room as my clothing. Why, then, do you enter
here into my trousers."14

It is also told that two of the sages (Juan Chi, 210-63, and his nephew
Juan Hsien) often sat drinking with their family in such conviviality
that they skipped the nuisance of cups and just drank directly from a
wine bowl on the ground. When pigs wandered by, these too were invited
to sip from the same chalice. If one exempts all nature--including pigs--
from distinction, discrimination, and duality, why exclude them as
drinking companions?

But perhaps the most significant insight of the Seven Sages of the
Bamboo Grove was their recognition of the limited uses of language. We
are told, "They engaged in conversation 'til, as they put it, they
reached the Unnameable, and 'stopped talking and silently understood
each other with a smile.' "1S



THE BUDDHIST ROOTS OF ZEN



There is a legend the Buddha was once handed a flower and asked to
preach on the law. The story says he received the blossom without a
sound and silently wheeled it in his hand. Then amid the hush his most
perceptive follower, Kashyapa, suddenly burst into a smile . . . and
thus was born the wordless wisdom of Zen.

The understanding of this silent insight was passed down

through the centuries, independent of the scriptures, finally emerging
as the Chinese school of Ch'an, later called Zen by the Japanese. It is
said the absence of early writings about the school is nothing more
than would be expected of a teaching which was, by definition, beyond
words. The master Wen-yu summed it up when he answered a demand for the
First Principle of Ch'an with, "If words could tell you, it would
become the Second Principle."

This version of Zen's origin is satisfying, and for all we know it may
even be true. But there are other, considerably more substantive,
sources for the ideas that came to flower as Ch'an. Taoism, of course,
had plowed away at the Confucianist clutter restraining the Chinese
mind, but it was Buddhism that gave China the necessary new
philosophical structure--this being the metaphysical speculations of
India. Pure Chinese naturalism met Indian abstraction, and the result
was Ch'an. The school of Ch'an was in part the grafting of fragile
foreign ideas (Buddhism) onto a sturdy native species of understanding
(Taoism). But its simplicity was in many ways a re-expression of the
Buddha's original insights.



THE BUDDHA



The historic Buddha was born to the high-caste family Gautama during
the sixth century B.C. in the region that is today northeast India and
Nepal. After a childhood and youth of indulgence he turned to
asceticism and for over half a decade rigorously followed the
traditional Indian practices of fasting and meditation, only finally to
reject these in despair. However, an auspicious dream and one final
meditation at last brought total enlightenment. Gautama the seeker had
become Buddha the Enlightened, and he set out to preach.

It was not gods that concerned him, but the mind of man and its
sorrowing. We are unhappy, he explained, because we are slaves to our
desires. Extinguish desire and suffering goes with it. If people could
be taught that the physical or phenomenal world is illusion, then they
would cease their attachment to it, thereby finding release from their
self-destructive mental bondage.

The Buddha neglected to set down these ideas in written form however,
perhaps unwisely leaving this task to later generations. His teachings
subsequently were recreated in the form of sermons or sutras. In later
years, the Buddhist movement split into two separate philosophical
camps, known today as Theravada and Mahayana. The Theravada Buddhists--
found primarily in southeast Asia, Sri Lanka, and Burma--venerate the
early writings of Buddhism (known today as the Pali Canon) and tend to
content themselves with practicing the philosophy of the Buddha rather
than enlarging upon it with speculative commentaries. By contrast, the
followers of Mahayana--who include the bulk of all Buddhists in China,
Japan, and Tibet--left the simple prescriptions of the Buddha far behind
in their creation of a vast new literature (in Sanskrit, Tibetan, and
Chinese) of complex theologies. Chinese Ch'an grew out of Mahayana, as
of course did Japanese Zen.



NAGARJUNA



After the Buddha, perhaps the most important Buddhist figure is the
second-century A.D. Indian philosopher Nagarjuna. Some call him the
most important thinker Asia has produced. According to Tibetan legends
his parents sent him away from home at seven because an astrologer had
predicted his early death and they wished to be spared the sight. But
he broke the spell by entering Buddhist orders, and went on to become
the faith's foremost philosopher.

Today Nagarjuna is famous for his analysis of the so-called Wisdom
Books of Mahayana, a set of Sanskrit sutras composed between 100 B.C.
and A.D. 100. (Included in this category are The Perfection of Wisdom
in 8,000 Lines, as well as the Diamond Sutra and Heart Sutra, both
essential scriptures of Zen.) Nagarjuna was the originator of the
Middle Path, so named because it strove to define a middle ground
between affirmation of the world and complete negation of existence.

Reality, said Nagarjuna, cannot be realized through conceptual
constructions, since concepts are contained inside reality, not vice
versa. Consequently, only through the intuitive mind can reality be
approached. His name for this "reality" beyond the mind's analysis was
_sunyata_, usually translated as "emptiness" but sometimes as "the
Void." (_Sunyata _is perhaps an unprovable concept, but so too are the
ego and the unconscious, both hypothetical constructs useful in
explaining reality but impossible to locate on the operating table.)
Nagarjuna's most-quoted manifesto has the logic-defying ring of a Zen :
"Nothing comes into existence nor does anything disappear. Nothing is
eternal, nor has anything any end. Nothing is identical or
differentiated. Nothing moves hither and thither."

As the Ch'an teachers interpreted the teaching of _sunyata_, the things
of this world are all a mental creation, since external phenomena are
transient and only exist for us because of our perception. Consequently
they are actually "created" by our mind (or, if you will, a more
universal entity called Mind). Consequently they do not exist outside
our mind and hence are a void. Yet the

mind itself, which is the only thing real, is also a void since its
thoughts cannot be located by the five senses. The Void is therefore
everything, since it includes both the world and the mind. Hence,
_sunyata_.

As a modern Nagarjuna scholar has described _sunyata_, or emptiness, it
is a positive sense of freedom, not a deprivation



_ "This awareness of 'emptiness' is not a blank loss of consciousness,
an inanimate space; rather it is the cognition of daily life without
the attachment to it. It is an awareness of distinct entities, of the
self, of 'good' and 'bad' and other practical determinations; but it is
aware of these as empty structures."16

_

The Zen masters found ways to achieve the cognition without attachment
postulated by Nagarjuna, and they paid him homage by making him one of
the legendary twenty-eight Indian Patriarchs of Zen by posthumous
decree.



KUMARAJIVA



The Indian missionary who transmitted the idea of Emptiness to China
was Kumarajiva (344-413), a swashbuckling guru who, more than any other
individual, was responsible for planting sophisticated Mahayana
Buddhist ideas in Chinese soil. Before telling his story, however, it
may be well to reflect briefly on how Buddhism got to China in the
first place.

Although there are records of a Buddhist missionary in China as early
as A.D. 148, historians are hard pressed to find the name of an out-
and-out native Chinese Buddhist before sometime in the third century.
Buddhism, which at first apparently was confused with Taoism, seems to
have come into fashion after the Neo-Taoists ran out of creative steam.
Shortly thereafter, around A.D. 209, intelligible Chinese translations
of Indian Mahayana sutras finally began to become available.

There were many things about Buddhism, however, that rubbed Chinese the
wrong way. First there were the practical matters: Buddhism allowed, if
not encouraged, begging, celibacy, and neglect of ancestors--all
practices to rankle any traditional Chinese. Then there were
fundamental philosophical differences: Buddhism offered to break one
out of the Hindu cycle of rebirth, something the Chinese had not
realized they needed; and Indian thought was naturally geared to cosmic
time, with its endless cycles of eons, whereas the Chinese saw time as
a line leading back to identifiable ancestors. Early missionaries tried
to gain acceptability for Buddhism by explaining it in Taoist terms,
including stretching the two enough to find "matching concepts" or
ideas with superficial similarity, and they also let out the myth that
the Buddha was actually Lao Tzu, who had gone on to India after leaving
China.

When barbarians sacked the Northern Chinese center of Loyang in the
year 313 and took over North China's government, many of its
influential Confucianist scholars fled to the south. These emigres were
disillusioned with the social ideas of Confucianism and ready for a
solace of the spirit. Thus they turned for comfort to Buddhist ideas,
but using Neo-Taoist terminology and often treating Buddhism more as a
subject for salon speculations than as a religion. By translating
Buddhism into a Neo-Taoist framework, these southern intellectuals
effectively avoided having to grapple with the new ideas in Buddhist
metaphysics.

In North China, the Buddhists took advantage of the new absence of
competing Confucianists to move into ruling circles and assume the role
of the literate class. They preached a simple form of Buddhism, often
shamelessly dwelling on magic and incantations to arouse interest among
the greatest number of followers. The common people were drawn to
Buddhism, since it provided for the first time in China a religion that
seemed to care for people's suffering, their personal growth, their
salvation in an afterlife. Thus Buddhism took hold in North China
mainly because it provided hope and magic for the masses and a
political firewall against Confucianism for the new rulers. As late as
the beginning of the fifth century, therefore, Buddhism was
misunderstood and encouraged for the wrong reasons in both north and
south.

Kumarajiva, who would change all this, was born in Kucha to an Indian
father of the Brahmin caste and a mother of noble blood. When he was
seven he and his mother traveled to Kashmir to enter Buddhist orders
together. After several years of studying the Theravada sutras, he
moved on to Kashgar, where he turned his attention to Mahayana
philosophy. At age twenty we find him back in Kucha, being ordained in
the king's palace and sharpening his understanding of the Mahayana
scriptures. He also, we are told, sharpened his non-Buddhist amorous
skills, perhaps finding consolation in the illusory world of the senses
for the hollow emptiness of _sunyata_.

In the year 382 or 383, he was taken captive and removed to a remote
area in northeastern China, where he was held prisoner for almost two
decades, much to the dismay of the rulers in Ch'ang-an, who wanted
nothing more than to have this teacher (who was by then a famous
Buddhist scholar) for their own. After seventeen years their patience
ran out and they sent an army to defeat his recalcitrant captors and
bring him back. He arrived in Ch'ang-an in the year 401 and immediately
began a project crucial to the future of Chinese Buddhism. A modern
scholar of Chinese religion tells what happened next.



_". . . Chinese monks were assembled from far and near to work with him
in translating the sacred texts. This was a 'highly structured
project,' suggestive of the cooperative enterprises of scientists
today. There were corps of specialists at all levels: those who
discussed doctrinal questions with Kumarajiva, those who checked the
new translations against the old and imperfect ones, hundreds of
editors, sub-editors, and copyists. The quality and quantity of the
translations produced by these men in the space of eight years is truly
astounding. Thanks to their efforts the ideas of Mahayana Buddhism were
presented in Chinese with far greater clarity and precision than ever
before. Sunyata--Nagar- juna's concept of the Void--was disentangled from
the Taoist terminology that had obscured and distorted it, and this and
other key doctrines of Buddhism were made comprehensible enough to lay
the intellectual foundations of the great age of independent Chinese
Buddhism that was to follow."17

_

The Chinese rulers contrived to put Kumarajiva's other devotion to use
as well, installing a harem of ten beautiful young Chinese girls for
him, through whom he was encouraged to perpetuate a lineage of his own.
This genetic experiment apparently came to nothing, but two native
Chinese studying under him, Seng-chao (384-414) and Tao-sheng (ca. 360-
434), would carry his contribution through the final steps needed to
open the way for the development of Ch'an.



SENG-CHAO



The short-lived Seng-chao was born to a humble family in the Ch'ang-an
region, where he reportedly got his indispensable grounding in the
Chinese classics by working as a copyist. He originally was a confirmed
Taoist, but after reading the sutra of Vimalakirti (which described a
pious nobleman who combined the secular life of a bon vivant
businessman with an inner existence of Buddhist enlightenment, a
combination instantly attractive to the practical Chinese), Seng-chao
turned Buddhist. In the year 398, at age fifteen, he traveled to the
northwest to study personally under the famous Kumarajiva, and he later
returned to Ch'ang-an with the master.

Conversant first in the Taoist and then in the Buddhist classics, Seng-
chao began the real synthesis of the two that would eventually evolve
into Ch'an. The China scholar Walter Liebenthal has written that the
doctrine of Nagarjuna's Middle Path, sinicized by Seng-chao, emerged in
the later Ch'an thinkers cleansed of the traces of Indian origin. He
declares, "Seng-chao interpreted Mahayana, [the Ch'an founders] Hui-
neng and Shen-hui re-thought it."18

Three of Seng-chao's treatises exist today as the Book of Chao (or Chao
Lun), and they give an idea of how Chuang Tzu might have written had he
been a Buddhist. There is the distrust of words, the unmistakable
preference for immediate, intuitive knowledge, and the masterful use of
wordplay and paradox that leaves his meaning ambiguous. Most important
of all, he believed that truth had to be experienced, not reasoned out.
Truth was what lay behind words; it should never be confused with the
words themselves:



_"A thing called up by a name may not appear as what it is expected to
appear; a name calling up a thing may not lead to the real thing.
Therefore the sphere of Truth is beyond the noise of verbal teaching.
How then can it be made the subject of discussion? Still I cannot
remain silent."19

_

The dean of Zen scholars, Heinrich Dumoulin, declares, "The
relationship of Seng-chao to Zen is to be found in his orientation
toward the immediate and experiential perception of absolute truth, and
reveals itself in his preference for the paradox as the means of
expressing the inexpressible."20 Dumoulin also notes that the Book of
Chao regards the way to enlightenment as one of gradual progress.
However, the idea that truth can be approached gradually was disputed
by the other major pupil of Kumarajiva, whose insistence that
enlightenment must arrive instantaneously has caused some to declare
him the ideological founder of Zen.



TAO-SHENG



The famous Tao-sheng was the first Chinese Buddhist to advance the idea
of "sudden" enlightenment, and as a result he earned the enmity of his
immediate colleagues--and lasting fame as having anticipated one of the
fundamental innovations of Zen thought. He first studied Buddhism at
Lu-shan, but in 405 he moved to Ch'ang-an, becoming for a while a part
of the coterie surrounding Kumarajiva. None of his writings survive,
but the work of a colleague, Hui-yuan, is usually taken as
representative of his ideas.

Tao-sheng is known today for two theories. The first was that good
deeds do not automatically bring reward, a repudiation of the Indian
Buddhist concept of merit. The other, and perhaps more important,
deviation he preached was that enlightenment was instantaneous. The
reason, he said, was simple: since Buddhists say the world is one,
nothing is divisible, even truth, and therefore the subjective
understanding of truth must come all at once or not at all. Preparatory
work and progress toward the goal of enlightenment, including study and
meditation, could proceed step-by-step and are wholesome and
worthwhile, but to "reach the other shore," as the phrase in the Heart
Sutra describes enlightenment, requires a leap over a gulf, a
realization that must hit you with all its force the first time.

What exactly is it that you understand on the other shore? First you
come to realize--as you can only realize intuitively and directly--that
enlightenment was within you all along. You become enlightened when you
finally recognize that you already had it. The next realization is that
there actually is no "other shore," since reaching it means realizing
that there was nothing to reach. As his thoughts have been quoted: "As
to reaching the other shore, if one reaches it, one is not reaching the
other shore. Both not-reaching and not-not-reaching are really
reaching. . . . If one sees Buddha, one is not seeing Buddha. When one
sees there is no Buddha, one is really seeing Buddha."21

Little wonder Tao-sheng is sometimes credited as the spiritual father
of Zen. He championed the idea of sudden enlightenment, something
inimical to much of the Buddhism that had gone before, and he
distrusted words (comparing them to a net which, after it has caught
the fish of truth, should be discarded). He identified the Taoist idea
of _wu-wei_ or "nonaction" with the intuitive, spontaneous apprehension
of truth without logic, opening the door for the Ch'an mainstay of "no-
mind" as a way to ultimate truth.



THE SYNTHESIS



Buddhism has always maintained a skeptical attitude toward reality and
appearances, something obviously at odds with the wholehearted
celebration of nature that characterizes Taoism. Whereas Buddhism
believes it would be best if we could simply ignore the world, the
source of our psychic pain, the Taoists wanted nothing so much as to
have complete union with this same world. Buddhism teaches union with
the Void, while Taoism teaches union with the Tao. At first they seem
opposite directions. But the synthesis of these doctrines appeared in
Zen, which taught that the oneness of the Void, wherein all reality is
subsumed, could be understood as an encompassing whole or continuum, as
in the Tao. Both are merely expressions of the Absolute. The Buddhists
unite with the Void; the Taoists yearn to merge with the Tao. In Zen
the two ideas reconcile.

With this philosophical prelude in place, we may now turn to the
masters who created the world of Zen.



PART  I


THE EARLY MASTERS



    . . . in which a sixth-century Indian teacher of meditation,
Bodhidharma, arrives in China to initiate what would become a Buddhist
school of meditation called Ch'an. After several generations as
wanderers, these Ch'an teachers settle into a form of monastic life and
gradually grow in prominence and recognition. Out of this prosperity
emerges a split in the eighth-century Ch'an movement, between scholarly
urban teachers who believe enlightenment is "gradual" and requires
preparation in traditional Buddhism, and rural Ch'anists who scorn
society and insist enlightenment is experiential and "sudden," owing
little to the prosperous Buddhist establishment. Then a popular teacher
of rural Ch'an, capitalizing on a civil disruption that momentarily
weakens the urban elite, gains the upper hand and emasculates urban
Ch'an through his preaching that the authentic line of teaching must be
traced to an obscure teacher in the rural south, now remembered as the
Sixth Patriarch, Hui-neng.



CHAPTER ONE

BODHIDHARMA: FIRST PATRIARCH OF ZEN


There is a Zen legend that a bearded Indian monk named Bodhidharma (ca.
470-532), son of a South Indian Brahmin king, appeared one day at the
southern Chinese port city of Canton, sometime around the year 520.
From there he traveled northeast to Nanking, near the mouth of the
Yangtze River, to honor an invitation from China's most devout
Buddhist, Emperor Wu of the Liang Dynasty. After a famous interview in
which his irreverence left the emperor dismayed, Bodhidharma pressed
onward to the Buddhist centers of the north, finally settling in at the
Shao-lin monastery on Mt. Sung for nine years of meditation staring at
a wall. He then transmitted his insights and a copy of the Lankavatara
sutra to a successor and passed on--either physically, spiritually, or
both. His devotion to meditation and to the aforementioned sutra were
his legacies to China. He was later honored as father of the Chinese
_Dhyana_, or "Meditation," school of Buddhism, called Ch'an.

Bodhidharma attracted little notice during his years in China, and the
first historical account of his life is a brief mention in a chronicle
compiled well over a hundred years after the fact, identifying him
merely as a practitioner of meditation. However, later stories of his
life became increasingly embellished, as he was slowly elevated to the
office of First Patriarch of Chinese Ch'an. His life was made to
fulfill admirably the requirements of a legend, as it was slowly
enveloped in symbolic anecdotes illustrating the truth more richly than
did mere fact. However, most scholars do agree that there actually was
a Bodhidharma, that he was a South Indian who came to China, that he
practiced an intensive form of meditation, and that a short treatise
ascribed to him is probably more or less authentic. Although the legend
attached to this unshaven Indian Buddhist tells us fully as much about
early Ch'an as it does about the man himself, it is nonetheless the
first page in the book of Zen.



_[Bodhidharma], the Teacher of the Law, was the third son of a great
Brahmin king in South India, of the Western Lands. He was a man of
wonderful intelligence, bright and far-reaching; he thoroughly
understood everything that he had ever learned. As his ambition was to
master the doctrine of the Mahayana, he abandoned the white dress of a
layman and put on the black robe of monkhood, wishing to cultivate the
seeds of holiness. He practiced contemplation and tranquillization; he
knew well what was the true significance of worldly affairs. Inside and
outside he was transpicuous; his virtues were more than a model to the
world. He was grieved very much over the decline of the orthodox
teaching of the Buddha in the remoter parts of the earth. He finally
made up his mind to cross over land and sea and come to China and
preach his doctrine in the kingdom of Wei.1

_

China at the time of Bodhidharma's arrival was a politically divided
land, with the new faith of Buddhism often supplying a spiritual common
denominator. Bodhidharma happened to appear at a moment when an emperor
in the northwest, the aforementioned Wu (reigned 502-49), had become a
fanatic Buddhist. Shortly after taking power, Wu actually ordered his
imperial household and all associated with the court to take up
Buddhism and abandon Taoism. Buddhist monks became court advisers,
opening the imperial coffers to build many lavish and subsequently
famous temples.

Emperor Wu led Buddhist assemblies, wrote learned commentaries on
various sutras, and actually donated menial work at temples as a lay
devotee. He also arranged to have all the Chinese commentaries on the
sutras assembled and catalogued. Concerned about the sanctity of life,
he banished meat (and wine) from the imperial table and became so lax
about enforcing criminal statutes, particularly capital punishment,
that critics credited his good nature with an increase in corruption
and lawlessness. While the Taoists understandably hated him and the
Confucianists branded him a distracted ineffectual sovereign, the
Buddhists saw in him a model emperor. Quite simply, Emperor Wu was to
southern Chinese Buddhism what Emperor Constantine was to Christianity.

The emperor was known for his hospitality to visiting Indian monks, and
it is entirely possible he did invite Bodhidharma for an audience.2
According to the legend, Emperor Wu began almost immediately to regale
his visiting dignitary with a checklist of his own dedication to the
faith, mentioning temples built, clergy invested, sutras promulgated.
The list was long, but at last he paused, no doubt puzzled by his
guest's indifference. Probing for a response, he asked, "Given all I
have done, what Merit have I earned?" Bodhidharma scowled, "None
whatsoever, your majesty." The emperor was stunned by this reply, but
he pressed on, trying another popular question. "What is the most
important principle of Buddhism?" This second point Bodhidharma
reportedly answered with the abrupt "Vast emptiness."3 The emperor was
equally puzzled by this answer and in desperation finally inquired who,
exactly, was the bearded visitor standing before him--to which
Bodhidharma cheerfully admitted he had no idea. The interview ended as
abruptly as it began, with Bodhidharma excusing himself and pressing
on. For his first miracle, he crossed the Yangtze just outside Nanking
on a reed and headed north.

The legend of Bodhidharma picks up again in North China, near the city
of Loyang. The stories differ, but the most enduring ones link his name
with the famous Shao-lin monastery on Mt. Sung. There, we are told, he
meditated for nine years facing a wall (thereby inventing "wall
gazing") until at last, a pious version reports, his legs fell off. At
one time, relates another Zen story, he caught himself dozing and in a
fit of rage tore off his eyelids and cast them contemptuously to the
ground, whereupon bushes of the tea plant--Zen's sacramental drink--
sprang forth. Another story has him inventing a Chinese style of boxing
as physical education for the weakling monks at Shao-lin, thereby
founding a classic Chinese discipline. But the most famous episode
surrounding his stay at the Shao-lin concerns the monk Hui-k'o, who was
to be his successor. The story tells that Hui-k'o waited in the snows
outside Shao-lin for days on end, hoping in vain to attract
Bodhidharma's notice, until finally in desperation he cut off his own
arm to attract the master's attention.

Bodhidharma advocated meditation, sutras, and the trappings of
traditional Buddhism as a way to see into one's own nature. His legends
represent Zen in its formative period, before the more unorthodox
methods for shaking disciples into a new mode of consciousness had been
devised. However, one of the stories attributed to him by later writers
sounds suspiciously like a Zen mondo (the traditional consciousness-
testing exchange between master and monk). According to this story, the
disciple Hui-k'o

entreated Bodhidharma, saying, "Master, I have not found peace of mind.
I beg you to pacify my mind for me." Bodhidharma replied, "Bring me
your mind and I will pacify it for you." Hui-k'o was silent for a time,
finally conceding he could not actually find his mind. "There," said
Bodhidharma, "I have pacified it for you." This symbolic story
illustrates eloquently the concept of the mind as a perceiver,
something that cannot itself be subject to analysis. Logical
introspection is impossible. The mind cannot examine itself any more
than the eye can see itself. Since the mind cannot become the object of
its own perception, its existence can only be understood intuitively,
as Hui-k'o realized when he tried to plumb its whereabouts objectively.

The actual teachings of Bodhidharma are not fully known. The first
notice of the "blue-eyed barbarian" (as later Chinese called him) is in
the Chinese Buddhist history entitled Further Biographies of Eminent
Priests, usually dated around the year 645, more than a century after
he came to China. This biography also contains the brief text of an
essay attributed to Bodhidharma. At the time it was compiled,
Bodhidharma had not yet been anointed the First Patriarch of Zen:
rather he was merely one of a number of priests teaching meditation.
Accordingly there would have been no incentive to embellish his story
with an apocryphal essay, and for this reason most authorities think it
is authentic.4 A later, more detailed version of the essay by
Bodhidharma is contained in the Records of the Transmission of the Lamp
(A.D. 1004). This latter text is usually the one quoted, and it is
agreed to be the superior literary document.5 We are in good company if
we accept this essay as a more or less accurate record of the thoughts
of the First Patriarch.

The text that Bodhidharma left was meant to show others the several
ways to enlightenment.



_There are many ways to enter the Path, but briefly speaking, they are
two sorts only. The one is "Entrance by Reason" and the other "Entrance
by Conduct._"6_

_

The first of these paths, the Entrance by Reason, might more properly
be called entrance by pure insight. The path advocated seems a blending
of Buddhism and Taoism, by which the sutras are used as a vehicle for
leading the seeker first to meditation, and then to a nonliterary state
of consciousness in which all dualities, all sense of oneself as apart
from the world, are erased. This is an early and eloquent summary of
Zen's objectives.



_By "Entrance by Reason" we mean the realization of the spirit of
Buddhism by the aid of scriptural teaching. We then come to

have a deep faith in the True Nature which is one and the same in all
sentient beings. The reason that it does not manifest itself is due to
the overwrapping of external objects and false thoughts. When one,
abandoning the false and embracing the true, and in simpleness of
thought, abides in _pi-kuan _[pure meditation or "wall-gazing"], one
finds that there is neither selfhood nor otherness, that the masses and
the worthies are of one essence, and firmly holds on to this belief and
never moves away therefrom. He will not then be guided by any literary
instructions, for he is in silent communication with the principle
itself, free from conceptual discrimination, for he is serene and not-
acting.7_



Bodhidharma is given credit for inventing the term _pi-kuan_, whose
literal translation is "wall-gazing," but whose actual meaning is
anyone's guess. _Pi-kuan_ is sometimes called a metaphor for the mind's
confrontation with the barrier of intellect--which must eventually be
hurdled if one is to reach enlightenment. In any case, this text is an
unmistakable endorsement of meditation as a means for tranquilizing the
mind while simultaneously dissolving our impulse to discriminate
between ourselves and the world around us. It points out that literary
instructions can go only so far, and at last they must be abandoned in
favor of reliance on the intuitive mind.8

The other Path (or Tao) he described was called the "Entrance by
Conduct" and invokes his Indian Buddhist origins. The description of
"conduct" was divided into four sections which, taken together, were
intended to subsume or include all the possible types of Buddhist
practice.



_By "Entrance by Conduct" is meant the Four Acts in which all other
acts are included. What are the four? 1. How to requite hatred; 2. To
be obedient to _karma_; 3. Not to seek after anything; and 4. To be in
accord with the _Dharma_.9

_

The first Act of Conduct counseled the believer to endure all
hardships, since they are payment for evil deeds committed in past
existences.



_What is meant by "How to requite hatred"? Those who discipline
themselves in the Path should think thus when they have to struggle
with adverse conditions: During the innumerable past ages I have
wandered through multiplicity of existences, all the while giving
myself to unimportant details of life at the expense of essentials, and
thus creating infinite occasions for hate, ill-will, and wrong-doing.
While no violations have been committed in this life, the fruits of
evil deeds in the past are to be gathered now. Neither gods nor men can
foretell what is coming upon me. I will submit myself willingly and
patiently to all the ills that befall me, and I will never bemoan or
complain. In the Sutra it is said not to worry over ills that may
happen to you. Why? Because through intelligence one can survey [the
whole chain of causation]. When this thought arises, one is in concord
with the principle because he makes the best use of hatred and turns it
into the service of his advance towards the Path. This is called the
"way to requite hatred._"10_

_

The second Rule of Conduct is to be reconciled to whatever comes, good
or evil. It seems to reflect the Taoist attitude that everything is
what it is and consequently value judgments are irrelevant. If good
comes, it is the result of meritorious deeds in a past existence and
will vanish when the store of causative karma is exhausted. The
important thing to realize is that none of it matters anyway.



_We should know that all sentient beings are produced by the interplay
of karmic conditions, and as such there can be no real self in them.
The mingled yarns of pleasure and pain are all woven of the threads of
conditioning causes. . . . Therefore, let gains and losses run their
natural courses according to the ever changing conditions and
circumstances of life, for the Mind itself does not increase with the
gains nor decrease with the losses. In this way, no gales of self-
complacency will arise, and your mind will remain in hidden harmony
with the Tao. It is in this sense that we must understand the rule of
adaptation to the variable conditions and circumstances of life.11

_

The third Rule of Conduct was the teaching of the Buddha that a
cessation of seeking and a turning toward nonattachment brings peace.



_Men of the world remain unawakened for life; everywhere we find them
bound by their craving and clinging. This is called "attachment." The
wise, however, understand the truth, and their reason tells them to
turn from the worldly ways. They enjoy peace of mind and perfect
detachment. They adjust their bodily movements to the vicissitudes of
fortune, always aware of the emptiness of the phenomenal world, in
which they find nothing to covet, nothing to delight in. . . . Everyone
who has a body is an heir to suffering and a stranger to peace. Having
comprehended this point, the wise are detached from all things of the
phenomenal world, with their minds free of desires and craving. As the
scripture has it, "All sufferings spring from attachment; true joy
arises from detachment." To know clearly the bliss of detachment is
truly to walk on the path of the Tao.12

_

The fourth Rule of Conduct was to dissolve our perception of object-
subject dualities and view life as a unified whole. This merging of
self and exterior world Bodhidharma calls pure mind or pure reason.



_The Dharma is nothing else than Reason which is pure in its essence.
This pure Reason is the formless Form of all Forms; it is free of all
defilements and attachments, and it knows of neither "self" nor
"other."13



_Having set forth this rather elegant statement of Zen and Buddhist
ideals, as ascribed to Bodhidharma, it unfortunately is necessary to
add that it appears to have been taken directly from the Vajrasamadhi
Sutra (attributing quotations from the sutras to Patriarchs was
common), with the sole exception of the term _pi-kuan_.14 At the very
least, the legend at this time does not portray Bodhidharma as a
despiser of the sutras. He was, in fact, using a sutra as a vehicle to
promote his practice of intensive meditation. It is not known what role
meditation played in Buddhism at this time. However, the scholar Hu
Shih questions how well it was understood. "[An early Buddhist
historian's] Biographies, which covered the whole period of early
Buddhism in China from the first century to the year 519, contained
only 21 names of 'practitioners of _dhyana _(meditation)' out of a
total of about 450. And practically all of the 21_dhyana _monks were
recorded because of their remarkable asceticism and miraculous powers.
This shows that in spite of the numerous yoga manuals in translation,
and in spite of the high respect paid by intellectual Buddhists to the
doctrine and practice of _dhyana_, there were, as late as 500,
practically no Chinese Buddhists who really understood or seriously
practiced _dhyana _or Zen."15

Perhaps Bodhidharma, arriving in 520, felt his praise of meditation,
using the words of an existing sutra, could rouse Chinese interest in
this form of Buddhism. As it turned out, he was successful beyond
anything he could have imagined, although his success took several
centuries. As D. T. Suzuki sums it up, "While there was nothing
specifically Zen in his doctrine of 'Two Entrances and Four Acts,' the
teaching of _pi-kuan_, wall-contemplation, was what made Bodhidharma
the first patriarch of Zen Buddhism in China."16 Suzuki interprets _pi-
kuan _as referring to the mind in a thoughtless state, in which
meditation has permitted the rational mind to be suppressed entirely.
The use of meditation for this goal instead of for developing magical
powers, as had been the goal of earlier _dhyana _masters, seems to have
been the profound new idea introduced to China by Bodhidharma.17

The passage of Bodhidharma is also swathed in legend. What eventually
happened to this traveling Indian guru? Did he die of poison, as one
legend says; or did he wander off to Central Asia, as another reports;
or did he go to Japan, as still another story would have it? The story
that has been the most enduring (recorded in a Sung work, _Ching-te
ch'uan-teng-lu_) tells that after nine years at the Shao-lin monastery
decided to return to India and called together his disciples to test
their attainment. The first disciple reportedly said, "As I view it, to
realize the truth we should neither rely entirely on words and letters
nor dispense with them entirely, but rather we should use them as an
instrument of the Way." To this, Bodhidharma replied, "You have got my
skin."

Next a nun came forward and said, "As I view it, the Truth is like an
auspicious sighting of the Buddhist Paradise; it is seen once and never
again." To this Bodhidharma replied, "You have attained my flesh."

The third disciple said, "The four great elements are empty and the
five _skandhas_ [constituents of the personality: body, feelings,
perception, will, and consciousness] are nonexistent. There is, in
fact, nothing that can be grasped." To this Bodhidharma replied, "You
have attained my bones."

Finally, it was Hui-k'o's turn. But he only bowed to the master and
stood silent at his place. To him Bodhidharma said, "You have attained
my marrow."18

According to a competing story, Bodhidharma died of poisoning at the
age of 150 and was buried in the mountains of Honan.19 Not too long
thereafter a lay Buddhist named Sung Yun, who was returning to China
after a trip to India to gather sutras, met Bodhidharma in the
mountains of Turkestan. The First Patriarch, who was walking barefoot
carrying a single shoe, announced he was returning to India and that a
native Chinese would arise to continue his teaching. Sung Yun reported
this to Bodhidharma's disciples on his return and they opened the
master's grave, only to find it empty save for the other shoe.

How much of the story of Bodhidharma is legend? The answer does not
really matter all that much. As with Moses, if Bodhidharma had not
existed it would have been necessary to

invent him. Although his first full biography (ca. 645) makes no
particular fuss over him, less than a century after this, he was
declared the founder of Zen, provided with a lineage stretching
directly back through Nagarjuna to the Buddha, and furnished an
exciting anecdotal history. Yet as founders go, he was a worthy enough
individual. He does seem to have devised a strain of Buddhist thought
that could successfully be grafted onto the hardy native Chinese Taoist
organism. He also left an active disciple, later to be known as the
Second Patriarch, Hui-k'o, so he must have had either a charismatic
personality or a philosophical position that distinguished him from the
general run of meditation masters.

It is important to keep in mind that Bodhidharma, man and myth, was the
product of an early form of Zen. The later masters needed a lineage,
and he was tapped for the role of First Patriarch. The major problem
with Bodhidharma was that many of his ideas were in direct
contradiction to the position adopted by later Zen teachings. For
instance, recall that he promoted the reliance on a sutra (the
Lankavatara); and he heavily stressed meditation (something later Zen
masters would partially circumvent). The Jesuit scholar Heinrich
Dumoulin has declared that Bodhidharma's attributed teaching in no way
deviates from the great Mahayana sutras.20 It is, in fact, a far cry
from later Zen ideas, says John Wu, the Chinese authority.21 Finally, he
left no claim to patriarchy, nor did his first biographer offer to do
this for him.

Perhaps the evolution of Zen is best demonstrated by the slow change in
the paintings of Bodhidharma, culminating in the latter-day portrayals
of him as a scowling grump. His image became successively more
misanthropic through the centuries, perhaps as a way of underscoring
the later Zen practice of establishing a rather dehumanized
relationship between the Zen master and pupil, as the master shouts,
beats a monk, and destroys his ego through merciless question-and-
answer sessions. For all we know, the "wall-gazing Brahmin" of ancient
China may have had a wry smile to go along with his droll sense of
humor. Perhaps it is fitting to close with the most lasting apocrypha
associated with his name, to wit the stanza that later masters
attributed to him as an alleged summary of his teaching, but which he,
promulgator of the Lankavatara Sutra, would undoubtedly have disowned:



_A special transmission outside the sutras;

No reliance upon words and letters;

Direct pointing to the very mind;

Seeing into one's own nature._



Chapter Two

HUI-K'O: SECOND PATRIARCH OF ZEN


Hui-k'o (487-593) first enters the history of Zen as an eager Chinese
scholar devoted to meditation. Wishing to become a disciple of the
famous Indian monk who had recently installed himself at the Shao-lin
monastery, Hui-k'o set up a vigil outside the gate. Time passed and the
snows began to fall, but still Bodhidharma ignored him, declaring, "The
incomparable doctrine of Buddhism can only be comprehended after a long
hard discipline, by enduring what is most difficult to endure and by
practicing what is most difficult to practice. Men of inferior virtue
are not allowed to understand anything about it."1 Finally Hui-k'o
despaired and resorted to an extreme measure to demonstrate his
sincerity: he cut off his own arm and offered it to the master. (This
act reportedly has been repeated since by an occasional
overenthusiastic Zen novice.) Even a singleminded master of meditation
like Bodhidharma could not ignore such a gesture, and he agreed to
accept Hui-k'o as his first Chinese disciple.

Unlike Bodhidharma, Hui-k'o is not a mysterious, legendary figure, but
rather is remembered by a detailed history that interacts periodically
with known events in Chinese history.2 He came from the Chi family and
was originally named Seng-k'o, only later becoming known as Hui-k'o.
The most reliable report has him coming from Wu-lao, with a reputation
as a scholarly intellectual preceding him. Indeed he seems to have been
a Chinese scholar in the finest sense, with a deep appreciation of all
three major philosophies: Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism. It was
toward the last, however, that he

slowly gravitated, finally abandoning his scholarly secular life and
becoming a Buddhist monk. He was around age forty, in the prime of what
was to be a very long life, when he first encountered Bodhidharma at
the Shao-lin monastery. Whether he lost his arm by self-mutilation, as
the later Zen chronicles say, or whether it was severed in a fight with
bandits, as the earliest history reports, may never be determined.3 The
later story is certainly more pious, but the earlier would seem more
plausible.

For six years he studied meditation with Bodhidharma, gradually
retreating from the life of the scholar as he turned away from
intellectualism and toward pure experience. When Bodhidharma finally
decided to depart, he called in all his disciples for the famous
testing of their attainment recounted in Chapter l.4 Hui-k'o, by simply
bowing in silence when asked what he had attained, proved that his
understanding of the master's wordless teaching was superior, and it
was he who received the Lankavatara Sutra. The event reportedly was
sealed by a short refrain, now universally declared to be spurious, in
which Bodhidharma predicted the later division of Ch'an into five
schools:



_Originally I came to this land

To transmit the Dharma and to save all from error

A flower with five petals opens;

Of itself the fruit will ripen.5

_

As the story goes, Hui-k'o remained at the Shao-lin for a while longer
and then went underground, supporting himself through menial work and
learning about Chinese peasant life firsthand. Reportedly, he wanted to
tranquilize his mind, to acquire the humility necessary in a great
teacher, and not incidentally to absorb the Lankavatara Sutra. When
asked why he, an enlightened teacher, chose to live among menial
laborers, he would reply tartly that this life was best for his mind
and in any case what he did was his own affair. It was a hard
existence, but one he believed proper. Perhaps it was in this formative
period that the inner strength of Ch'an's first Chinese master was
forged.

Hui-k'o's major concern during this period must inevitably have been
the study of the Lankavatara Sutra entrusted him by Bodhidharma. The
Lankavatara was not written by a Zen master, nor did it come out of the
Zen tradition, but it was the primary scripture of the first two
hundred years of Ch'an. As

D. T. Suzuki has noted, there were at least three Chinese translations
of this Sanskrit sutra by the time Bodhidharma came to China.6 However,
he is usually given credit, at least in Zen records, for originating
the movement later known as the Lankavatara school. As the sutra was
described by a non-Ch'an Chinese scholar in the year 645, "The entire
emphasis of its teaching is placed on Prajna (highest intuitive
knowledge), which transcends literary expression. Bodhidharma, the Zen
master, propagated this doctrine in the south as well as in the north,
the gist of which teaching consists in attaining the unattainable,
which is to have right insight into the truth itself by forgetting word
and thought. Later it grew and flourished in the middle part of the
country. Hui-k'o was the first who attained to the essential
understanding of it. Those addicted to the literary teaching of
Buddhism in Wei were averse to becoming associated with these spiritual
seers."7

The Lankavatara purportedly relays the thoughts of the Buddha while
ensconced on a mountain peak in Sri Lanka. Although the work is
notoriously disorganized, vague, and obscure, it was to be the stone on
which Hui-k'o sharpened his penetrating enlightenment. The major
concept it advances is that of Mind, characterized by D. T. Suzuki as
"absolute mind, to be distinguished from an empirical mind which is the
subject of psychological study. When it begins with a capital letter,
it is the ultimate reality on which the entire world of individual
objects depends for its value."8 On the question of Mind, the
Lankavatara has the following to say:



_. . . the ignorant and the simple minded, not knowing that the world
is what is seen of Mind itself, cling to the multitudinousness of
external objects, cling to the notions of being and non-being, oneness
and otherness, bothness and not-bothness, existence and non-existence,
eternity and non-eternity. . . .9

_

According to the Lankavatara, the world and our perception of it are
both part of a larger conceptual entity. The teachings of the
Lankavatara cast the gravest doubt on the actual existence of the
things we think we see. Discrimination between oneself and the rest of
the world can only be false, since both are merely manifestations of
the same encompassing essence, Mind. Our perception is too easily
deceived, and this is the reason we must not implicitly trust the
images that reach our consciousness.



_. . . [I]t is like those water bubbles in a rainfall which have the
appearance of crystal gems, and the ignorant taking them for real
crystal gems run after them. . . . [T]hey are no more than water
bubbles, they are not gems, nor are they not-gems, because of their
being so comprehended [by one party] and not being so comprehended [by
another].10

_

Reality lies beyond these petty discriminations. The intellect, too, is
powerless to distinguish the real from the illusory, since all things
are both and neither at the same time. This conviction of the
Lankavatara remained at the core of Zen, even after the sutra itself
was supplanted by simpler, more easily approached literary works.

As Hui-k'o studied the Lankavatara and preached, he gradually acquired
a reputation for insight that transcended his deliberately
unpretentious appearance. Throughout it all, he led an itinerant life,
traveling about North China. It is reported that he found his way to
the capital of the eastern half of the Wei kingdom after its division
in the year 534. Here, in the city of Yeh-tu, he taught his version of
_dhyana_ and opened the way to enlightenment for many people. Though
unassuming in manner and dress, he nonetheless aroused antagonism from
established Buddhist circles because of his success, encountering
particular opposition from a conventional _dhyana _teacher named Tao-
huan. According to _Further Biographies of the Eminent Priests (645)_,
Tao-huan was a jealous teacher who had his own following of as many as
a thousand, and who resented deeply the nonscriptural approach Hui-k'o
advocated. This spiteful priest sent various of his followers to
monitor Hui-k'o's teaching, perhaps with an eye to accusing him of
heresy, but all those sent were so impressed that none ever returned.
Then one day the antagonistic _dhyana_ master met one of those former
pupils who had been won over by Hui-k'o's teachings. D. T. Suzuki
translates the encounter as follows:



_When Tao-huan happened to meet his first messenger, he asked: "How was
it that I had to send for you so many times? Did I not open your eye
after taking pains so much on my part?" The former disciple, however,
mystically answered: "My eye has been right from the first, and it was
through you that it came to squint._"11_

_

The message would seem to be that Hui-k'o taught a return to

one's original nature, to the primal man without artificial learning or
doctrinal pretense. Out of resentment the jealous _dhyana _master
reportedly caused Hui-k'o to undergo official persecution.

In later years, beginning around 574, there was a temporary but
thorough persecution of Buddhism in the capital city of Ch'ang-an.
Sometime earlier, an ambitious sorcerer and apostate Buddhist named Wei
had decided to gain a bit of notoriety for himself by attacking
Buddhism, then a powerful force in Ch'ang-an. In the year 567 he
presented a document to the emperor claiming that Buddhism had allowed
unsavory social types to enter the monasteries. He also attacked
worship of the Buddha image on the ground that it was un-Chinese
idolatry. Instead, he proposed a secularized church that would include
all citizens, with the gullible emperor suggested for the role of
"pope." The emperor was taken with the idea and after several years of
complex political maneuvering, he proscribed Buddhism in North China.

As a result, Hui-k'o was forced to flee to the south, where he took up
temporary residence in the mountainous regions of the Yangtze River.
The persecution was short-lived, since the emperor responsible died
soon after his decree, whereupon Hui-k'o returned to Ch'ang-an.
However, these persecutions may have actually contributed to the spread
of his teaching, by forcing him to travel into the countryside.

The only authentic fragment of Hui-k'o's thought that has survived
records his answer to an inquiry sent by a lay devotee named Hsiang,
who reportedly was seeking spiritual attainment alone in the jungle.
The inquiry, which seems more a statement than a question, went as
follows:



_. . . he who aspires to Buddhahood thinking it to be independent of
the nature of sentient beings is to be likened to one who tries to
listen to an echo by deadening its original sound. Therefore the
ignorant and the enlightened are walking in one passageway; the vulgar
and the wise are not to be differentiated from each other. Where there
are no names, we create names, and because of these names, judgments
are formed. Where there is no theorizing, we theorize, and because of
this theorizing, disputes arise. They are all phantom creations and not
realities, and who knows who is right and who is wrong? They are all
empty, no substantialities have they, and who knows what is and

what is not? So we realize that our gain is not real gain and our loss
not real loss. This is my view and may I be enlightened if I am at
fault?12

_

This "question," if such it is, sounds suspiciously like a sermon and
stands, in fact, as an eloquent statement of Zen concerns. Hui-k'o
reportedly answered as follows, in a fragment of a letter that is his
only known extant work.



_You have truly comprehended the Dharma as it is; the deepest truth
lies in the principle of identity. It is due to one's ignorance that
the mani-jewel is taken for a piece of brick, but lo! when one is
suddenly awakened to self-enlightenment it is realized that one is in
possession of the real jewel. The ignorant and the enlightened are of
one essence, they are not really to be separated. We should know that
all things are such as they are. Those who entertain a dualistic view
of the world are to be pitied, and I write this letter for them. When
we know that between this body and the Buddha, there is nothing to
separate one from the other, what is the use of seeking after Nirvana
[as something external to ourselves]?13

_

Hui-k'o insists that all things spring from the one Mind, and
consequently the ideas of duality, of attachment to this or that
phenomenon, or even the possibility of choice, are equally absurd.
Although he knew all too well that enlightenment could not be obtained
from teaching, he still did not advocate a radical break with the
traditional methods of the Buddhist _dhyana_ masters. His style was
unorthodox, but his teaching methods were still confined to lectures
and meditation. This low-key approach was still closer to the tradition
of the Buddha than to the jarring techniques of "sudden enlightenment"
destined to erupt out of Chinese Ch'an.

Toward the end of his life, Hui-k'o was back in Ch'ang-an, living and
teaching in the same unassuming manner. His free-lance style seems to
have continued to outrage the more conventional teachers, and a later
story records a martyr's death for him.14 One day, while a learned
master was preaching inside the K'uang-chou Temple, Hui-k'o chanced by
and started to chat with the passersby outside. Gradually a crowd
started to collect, until eventually the lecture hall of the revered
priest was emptied. This famous priest, remembered as Pien-ho, accused
the ragged Hui-k'o to the magistrate Che Ch'ung-j'an as a teacher of
false doctrine. As a result he was arrested and subsequently executed,
an impious 106-year-old revolutionary.



Chapter Three


SENG-TS'AN, TAO-HSIN, FA-JUNG, AND HUNG-JEN:

                   FOUR EARLY MASTERS



_The Fifth Patriarch,Hung-jen (left)_


The master succeeding Hui-k'o was Seng-ts'an (d. 606), who then taught
Fa-jung (594-657) and Tao-hsin (580-651), the latter in turn passing
the robe of the patriarchy to Hung-jen (601-74). The masters Seng-
ts'an, Tao-hsin, and Hung-jen are honored today as the Third, Fourth,
and Fifth Patriarchs, respectively, and revered as the torchbearers of
Ch'an's formative years. Yet when we look for information about their
lives, we find the sources thin and diffuse. One reason probably is
that before 700 nobody realized that these men would one day be
elevated to founding fathers, and consequently no one bothered
recording details of their lives.

During the seventh century the scattered teachers of _dhyana _seem to
have gradually coalesced into a sort of ad hoc movement--with sizable
followings growing up around the better-known figures. A certain amount
of respectability also emerged, if we can believe the references to
imperial notice that start appearing in the chronicles. It would seem
that the _dhyana_ or Ch'an movement became a more or less coherent
sect, a recognizable if loosely defined school of Buddhism. However,
what the movement apparently was striving to become was not so much a
branch of Buddhism in China as a Chinese version of Buddhism. The men
later remembered as the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Patriarchs have in
common a struggle to bend Buddhist thought to Chinese intellectual
requirements, to sinicize Buddhism. Whereas they succeeded only in
setting the stage for this transformation (whose realization would
await other hands), they did establish a personality pattern that would
set apart all later masters: a blithe irreverence that owed as much to
Chuang Tzu as to Bodhidharma.

When reading the biographies that follow, it is useful to keep in mind
that the explicit details may well have been cooked up in later years
to satisfy a natural Chinese yearning for anecdotes, with or without
supporting information. Yet the fact that the _dhyana _practitioners
eventually became a movement in need of a history is itself proof that
these men and their stories were not complete inventions. In any case,
they were remembered, honored, and quoted in later years as the
legendary founders of Ch'an.



SENG-TSAN, THE THIRD PATRIARCH (d. 606)



The question of the Second Patriarch Hui-k'o's successor was
troublesome even for the ancient Ch'an historians. The earliest version
of his biography (written in 645, before the sect of Ch'an and its need
for a history existed) declares, "Before [Hui-k'o] had established a
lineage he died, leaving no worthy heirs." When it later became
necessary for Ch'an to have an uninterrupted patriarchy, a revised
history was prepared which supplied him an heir named Seng-ts'an, to
whom he is said to have transmitted the doctrine.1 The story of their
meeting recalls Hui-k'o's first exchange with Bodhidharma, save that
the roles are reversed. The text implies that Seng-ts'an was suffering
from leprosy when he first encountered Hui-k'o, and that he implored
the Master for relief in a most un-Zenlike way, saying: "I am in great
suffering from this disease; please take away my sins."

Hui-k'o responded with, "Bring me your sins, and I will take them
away."

After a long silence, Seng-ts'an confessed, "I've looked, but I cannot
find them."

To which Hui-k'o replied, echoing Bodhidharma's classic rejoinder,
"Behold, you have just been cleansed."

Another version of the story says Hui-k'o greeted Seng-ts'an with the
words, "You are suffering from leprosy; why should you want to see me?"

To this Seng-ts'an responded, "Although my body is sick, the mind of a
sick man and your own mind are no different."

Whatever actually happened, it was enough to convince Hui-k'o that he
had found an enlightened being, one who perceived the unity of all
things, and he forthwith transmitted to Seng-ts'an the symbols of the
patriarchy--the robe and begging bowl of Bodhidharma--telling him that he
should take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma (the universal truth
proclaimed by Buddha), and the Sangha (the Buddhist organization or
priesthood). Seng-ts'an replied that he knew of the Sangha, but what
was meant by the Buddha and the Dharma? The answer was that all three
were expressions of Mind.2

This exchange seems to have taken place while Hui-k'o was in the
northern Wei capital of Yeh-tu.3 In later years Seng-ts'an found it
necessary to feign madness (to escape persecution during the anti-
Buddhist movement of 574), and finally he went to hide on Huan-kung
mountain for ten years, where his mere presence reportedly was enough
to tame the wild tigers who had terrorized the people there. The only
surviving work that purportedly relays his teaching is a poem, said to
be one of the earliest Ch'an treatises, which is called the _Hsin-hsin-
ming_, or "On the Believing Mind."4 It starts off in a lyrical, almost
Taoist, voice worthy of Chuang Tzu, as it celebrates man's original
nature and the folly of striving.



_There is nothing difficult about the Great Way

But, avoid choosing!

Only when you neither love nor hate,

Does it appear in all clarity.



Do not be anti- or pro- anything.

The conflict of longing and loathing,

This is the disease of the mind.

Not knowing the profound meaning of things,

We disturb our (original) peace of mind to no purpose.5



_Next, the poem turns to an acknowledgment of the Mahayanist concept of
the all-encompassing Mind, the greatest single truth of the universe,
and of Nagarjuna's Void, the cosmic emptiness of _sunyata_.



_Things are things because of the Mind.

The Mind is the Mind because of things.

If you wish to know what these two are,

They are originally one Emptiness.

In this Void both (Mind and things) are one,

All the myriad phenomena contained in both.6

_

The poem closes with an affirmation of the Ch'an credo of unity and the
absence of duality as a sign of enlightenment.

_

In the World of Reality

There is no self, no other-than-self.

. . .

All that can be said is "No Duality!"

When there is no duality, all things are one,

There is nothing that is not included.

.  .  .

The believing mind is not dual;

What is dual is not the believing mind.

Beyond all language,

For it there is no past, no present, no future.7

_

Since the earliest historical sources maintain that Seng-ts'an left no
writings, some have questioned the attribution of this lilting work to
the Third Patriarch. Whatever its authorship, the real importance of
the poem lies in its subtle merging of Taoism and Buddhism. We can
watch as the voices of ancient China and ancient India are blended
together into a perfect harmony until the parts are inseparable. It was
a noble attempt to reconcile Buddhist metaphysics with Chinese
philosophical concepts, and it was successful in a limited way. As for
Seng-ts'an, the legends tell that he finally was overcome by his
longing for the south and, handing down the symbols of the patriarchy
to a priest named Tao-hsin, he vanished.



TAO-HSIN, THE FOURTH PATRIARCH (580-651)



China, whose political turmoil had sent the early Patriarchs scurrying
from one small kingdom to another, found unity and the beginnings of
stability under a dynasty known as the Sui (581-618), the first in
three and a half centuries (since the end of the Han in 220) able to
unify the land.8 This brief dynasty (which soon was replaced by the
resplendent T'ang) came to be dominated by the Emperor Yang, a crafty
politician who maneuvered the throne away from an elder brother--
partially, it is said, by demonstrating to his parents his independence
of mind by abandoning all the children he begat in the ladies'
quarters. Whereas his father had undertaken the renovation of the North
Chinese capital of Ch'ang-an--not incidentally creating one of the
glories of the ancient world and the site of the finest moments of the
later T'ang Dynasty--Emperor Yang decided to reconstruct the city of
Loyang, some two hundred miles to the east. The result was a "Western
Capital" at Ch'ang-an and an "Eastern Capital" at Loyang, the latter
city soon to be the location of some pivotal episodes in Ch'an history.

For the construction of Loyang, a fairyland of palaces and gardens,
millions of citizens were conscripted and tens of thousands died under
forced labor. Emperor Yang's other monument was a grand canal, linking
the Yellow River in the north with the rich agricultural deltas of the
Yangtze in the south, near Nanking. The emperor loved to be barged down
this vast waterway--journeys that unsympathetic historians have claimed
were merely excuses to seek sexual diversions away from the capital. In
any case, his extravagances bankrupted the country and brought about
his overthrow by the man who would become the founder of the T'ang
Dynasty, later to reign under the name of Emperor T'ai-tsung (ruled
626-49).

The T'ang is universally regarded as one of the great ages of man, and
it is also considered the Golden Age of Ch'an. The founding emperor,
T'ai-tsung, was a wise and beneficent "Son of Heaven," as Chinese
rulers were styled.9 Under his influence, the capital city of Ch'ang-an
became the most cosmopolitan metropolis in the ancient world, with such
widespread influence that when the first visiting Japanese came upon
it, they were so dazzled they returned home and built a replica for
their own capital city. The city was laid out as a grid, with lavish
vermilion imperial palaces and gardens clustered regally at one end.
Its inhabitants numbered upward of two million, while its international
markets and fleshpots were crowded with traders from the farthest
reaches of Asia and Europe, echoing with a truly astounding cacophony
of tongues: Indian, Japanese, Turkish, Persian, Roman Latin, and
Arabic, not to mention the many dialects of Chinese. Christians moved
among the Buddhists, as did Muslims and Jews. Artisans worked with
silver, gold, jewels, silks, and porcelains, even as poets gathered in
wine shops to nibble fruits and relax with round-eyed foreign serving
girls. Such were the worldly attractions of Ch'ang-an during the early
seventh century. This new sophistication and urbanization, as well as
the political stability that made it all possible, was also reflected
in the change in Ch'an--from a concern chiefly of nomadic _dhyana
_teachers hiding in the mountains to the focus of settled agricultural
communities centered in monasteries.

The growth in Ch'an toward an established place in Chinese life began
to consolidate under the Fourth Patriarch, Tao-hsin, the man whose life
spanned the Sui and the early T'ang dynasties. He is best remembered
today for two things: First, he was particularly dedicated to
meditation, practicing it more avidly than had any _dhyana _master
since Bodhidharma; and second, he is credited with beginning the true
monastic tradition for Ch'an. His formation of a self-supporting
monastic community with its own agricultural base undoubtedly brought
Ch'an a long way toward respectability in Chinese eyes, since it
reduced the dependence on begging. Itinerant mendicants, even if
teachers of _dhyana_, had never elicited the admiration in China they
traditionally enjoyed in the Indian homeland of the Buddha. Begging was
believed to fashion character, however, and it never disappeared from
Ch'an discipline. Indeed, Ch'an is said to have encouraged begging more
than did any of the other Chinese Buddhist sects, but as a closely
regulated form of moral training.

Tao-hsin, whose family name was Ssu-ma, came from Honan, but he left
home at seven to study Buddhism and met the Third Patriarch, Seng-
ts'an, while still in his teens. When Seng-ts'an decided to drop out of
sight, he asked this brilliant pupil to take up the teaching of
_dhyana_ and Bodhidharma's Lankavatara Sutra at a monastery on Mt. Lu.
Tao-hsin agreed and remained for a number of years, attracting
followers and reportedly performing at least one notable miracle. The
story says that he saved a walled city from being starved out by
bandits by organizing a program of public sutra chanting among its
people. We are told that the robbers retired of their own accord while,
as though by magic, previously dry wells in the city flowed again. One
day not too long thereafter Tao-hsin noticed an unusual purple cloud
hanging over a nearby mountain. Taking this as a sign, he proceeded to
settle there (the mountain later became known as Shuang-feng or "Twin
Peaks") and found the first Ch'an community, presiding over a virtual
army of some five hundred followers for the next thirty years.

He is remembered today as a charismatic teacher who finally stabilized
_dhyana_ teaching. In an age of political turmoil, many intellectuals
flocked to the new school of Ch'an, with its promise of tranquil
meditation in uneasy times. Tao-hsin apparently encouraged his
disciples to operate a form of commune, in which agriculture and its
administration were merged with the practice of meditation.10 In so
doing, he seems not only to have revolutionized the respectability of
_dhyana _practice, but also to have become something of a national
figure himself. This, at any rate, is what we may surmise from one of
the more durable legends, which has him defying an imperial decree to
appear before the emperor, T'ai-tsung.

This legend concerns an episode which allegedly took place around the
year 645. As the story goes, an imperial messenger arrived one day at
the mountain retreat to summon him to the palace, but Tao-hsin turned
him down cold. When the messenger reported this to the emperor, the
response was to send back a renewed invitation. Again the messenger was
met with a refusal, along with a challenge.

"If you wish my head, cut it off and take it with you. It may go but my
mind will never go."

When this reply reached the emperor, he again dispatched the messenger,
this time bearing a sealed sword and a summons for the master's head.
But he also included a contradictory decree requiring that Tao-hsin not
be harmed. When the master refused a third time to come to the palace,
the messenger read the decree that his head should be severed. Tao-hsin
obligingly bent over, with the command "Cut it off." But the messenger
hesitated, admitting that the imperial orders also forbade harming him.
On hearing this Tao-hsin reportedly roared with laughter, saying, "You
must know that you possess human qualities."11

The Fourth Patriarch's teachings are not well known, other than for the
fact that he supposedly devised and promoted new techniques to help
novices achieve intensive meditation. The following excerpt of his
teaching illustrates his fervor for _dhyana_.

Sit earnestly in meditation! The sitting in meditation is basic to all
else. By the time you have done this for three to five years, you will
be able to ward off starvation with a bit of meal. Close the door and
sit! Do not read the sutras, and speak to no man! If you will so
exercise yourself and persist in it for a long time, the fruit will be
sweet like the meat which a monkey takes from the nutshell. But such
people are very rare.12

The de-emphasis on the sutras points the way to later Ch'an.
Interestingly, however, the usefulness of sitting in meditation would
also come under review in only a few short years, when the new style of
Ch'an appeared.

The reports of Tao-hsin say that Hung-jen, who was to become the Fifth
Patriarch, was one of his followers and grasped the inner meaning of
his teaching. It was Hung-jen whom he asked to construct a mausoleum in
the mountainside, the site of his final repose, and when it was
finished he retired there for his last meditation. After he passed
away, his body was wrapped in

lacquered cloth, presenting a vision so magnificent that no one could
bear to close the mausoleum.

Aside from his historical place as the founder of the first real
community for Ch'an, there is little that can be said with assurance
about Tao-hsin. However, a manuscript discovered early in this century
in the Buddhist caves at Tun-huang purportedly contains a sermon by the
Fourth Patriarch entitled "Abandoning the Body."



_The method of abandoning the body consists first in meditating on
Emptiness, whereby the [conscious] mind is emptied. Let the mind
together with its world be quieted down to a perfect state of
tranquility; let thought be cast in the mystery of quietude, so that
the mind is kept from wandering from one thing to another. When the
mind is tranquilized in its deepest abode, its entanglements are cut
asunder. . . . The mind in its absolute purity is like the Void
itself.13



_The text goes on to quote both Lao Tzu and Chuang Tzu, as well as some
of the older sutras, and there is a considerable reference to
Nagarjuna's Emptiness. This text, real or spurious, is one more element
in the merging of Taoism and Buddhism that was early Ch'an, even as its
analysis of the mind state achieved in meditation anticipates later
Ch'an teachings.



FA-JUNG, THE ST. FRANCIS OF ZEN (594-657)



In the parade of Patriarchs, we should not overlook the maverick Fa-
jung, a master who was never officially crowned a Patriarch, but whose
humanity made him a legend.14 Fa-jung (594-657), whose family name was
Wei, was born in a province on the south bank of the Yangtze River and
in his early years was a student of Confucian thought. But before long
his yearning for spiritual challenge led him to Buddhism. He finally
settled in a rock cave in the side of a cliff near a famous monastery
on Mt. Niu-t'ou, where his sanctity reportedly caused birds to appear
with offerings of flowers.

According to the Zen chronicle _Transmission of the Lamp _(1004),
sometime between 627 and 649 the Fourth Patriarch, Tao-hsin, sensed
that a famous Buddhist was living on Mt. Niu-t'ou and went there to
search out the man. After many days of seeking, he finally came upon a
holy figure seated atop a rock. As the two meditation masters were
becoming acquainted, there suddenly came the roar of a tiger from the
bramble farther up the mountain. Tao-hsin was visibly startled, causing
Fa-jung--friend of the animals--to observe wryly, "I see it is still with
you." His meaning, of course, was that Tao-hsin was still enslaved by
the phenomenal world, was not yet wholly detached from his fears and
perceptions.

After they had chatted a while longer, Fa-jung found occasion to leave
his seat and attend nature at a detached location. During his absence
Tao-hsin wrote the Chinese character for the Buddha's name on the very
rock where he had been sitting. When Fa-jung returned to resume his
place, he was momentarily brought up short by the prospect of sitting
on the Buddha's name. Expecting this, Tao-hsin smiled and said, "I see
it is still with you."

He had shown that Fa-jung was still intimidated by the trappings of
classical Buddhism and had not yet become a completely detached master
of the pure Mind. The story says that Fa-jung failed to understand his
comment and implored Tao-hsin to teach him Ch'an, which the Fourth
Patriarch proceeded to do.

Tao-hsin's message, once again, was to counsel nondistinction,
nonattachment, nondiscrimination; he said to abjure emotions, values,
striving. Just be natural and be what you are, for that is the part of
you that is closest to the Buddhist ideal of mental freedom.



_There is nothing lacking in you, and you yourself are no different
from the Buddha. There is no way of achieving Buddhahood other than
letting your mind be free to be itself. You should not contemplate nor
should you purify your mind. Let there be no craving and hatred, and
have no anxiety or fear. Be boundless and absolutely free from all
conditions. Be free to go in any direction you like. Do not act to do
good, nor to pursue evil. Whether you walk or stay, sit or lie down,
and whatever you see happen to you, all are the wonderful activity of
the Great Enlightened One. It is all joy, free from anxiety--it is
called Buddha.15

_

After Tao-hsin's visit, the birds offering flowers no longer appeared:
evidence, said the later Ch'an teachers, that Fa-jung's physical being
had entirely vanished. His school on Mt. Niu-t'ou flourished for a
time, teaching that the goals of Ch'an practice could be realized by
contemplating the Void of Nagarjuna. As Fa-jung interpreted the
teachings of the Middle Path:



_All talk has nothing to do with one's Original Nature, which can only
be reached through _sunyata_. No-thought is the Absolute Reality, in
which the mind ceases to act. When one's mind is free from thoughts,
one's nature has reached the Absolute.16



_Although Fa-jung's teachings happened to be transmitted to Japan in
later years, through the accident of a passing Japanese pilgrim, his
school did not endure in either country beyond the eighth century. His
was the first splinter group of Zen, and perhaps it lacked the
innovation necessary to survive, because it clung too much to
traditional Buddhism.

As Fa-jung's years advanced, he was encouraged to come down from his
mountain and live in a monastery, which his better judgment eventually
compelled him to do. It is reported that after his final farewell to
his disciples he was followed down the mountain by the laments of all
its birds and animals. A more ordinary teacher would have been
forgotten, but this beloved St. Francis of Zen became the topic of
lectures and a master remembered with reverence ever after.



HUNG-JEN, THE FIFTH PATRIARCH (601-74)



The other well-known disciple of the Fourth Patriarch, Tao-hsin, was
the man history has given the title of Fifth Patriarch, Hung-jen (601-
74). The chronicles say that he came from Tao-hsin's own province and
impressed the master deeply when, at age fourteen, he held his own with
the Fourth Patriarch in an introductory interview. As the exchange has
been described, Tao-hsin asked the young would-be disciple his family
name, but since the word for "family name" is pronounced the same as
that for "nature," Hung-jen answered the question as though it had
been, "What is your 'nature'?"--deliberately misinterpreting it in order
to say, "My 'nature' is not ordinary; it is the Buddha-nature."

Tao-hsin reportedly inquired, "But don't you have a 'family name'?"

To which Hung-jen cleverly replied, "No, for the teachings say that our
'nature' is empty."17

Hung-jen went on to become the successor to the Fourth Patriarch, with
an establishment where several hundred followers gathered. The
chronicles have little to say about the actual life and teachings of
the Fifth Patriarch, but no matter. His place in history is secured not
so much for what he said--there is actually very little that can
reliably be attributed to him--but rather for his accidental appearance
at the great crossroads of Zen. Hung-jen and his monastery became the
symbol of a great philosophical debate that occupied the first half of
the eighth century, a conflict to be examined in detail in the two
chapters to follow. Suffice it to say here that the chronicles at least
agree that he was an eminent priest and well respected, a man to whom
an early-eighth-century document attributes eleven disciples of note.18
Among those listed who are particularly important to the events that
follow are a monk named Shen-hsiu and another named Hui-neng, the men
whose names would one day be associated with a celebrated midnight
poetry contest in Hung-jen's monastery.

This contest eventually came to symbolize the conflict between the
teachings of gradual enlightenment and sudden enlightenment, between
intellectual and intuitive knowledge, between sophisticated urban
Buddhism and unlettered rural teachers, and between promoters of the
abstruse but challenging Lankavatara Sutra sanctioned by Bodhidharma
and the cryptic Diamond Sutra. Quite simply, it was a battle between
what would eventually be known as the Northern and Southern schools of
Ch'an, and it concerned two fundamentally opposing views of the
functions of the human mind. As things turned out, the gradual,
Northern, Lankavatara Sutra faction went on for years thinking it had
won--or perhaps not really aware that there was a battle in progress--
while the anti-intellectual, Southern, Diamond Sutra faction was
gathering its strength in the hinterlands for a final surge to victory.
When the Southern school did strike, it won the war handily and then
proceeded to recast the history of what had gone before, even going so
far as to put posthumous words of praise for itself into the mouths of
the once-haughty Northern masters. Thus the mighty were eventually
brought low and the humble lifted up in the annals of Ch'an. It is to
the two masters whose names are associated with this battle that we
must turn next.



Chapter Four

SHEN-HSIU AND SHEN-HUI:

"GRADUAL" AND "SUDDEN" MASTERS



Whereas the Ch'an Patriarchs of earlier times had been, more often than
not, fractious teachers ignored by emperors and gentry alike, the T'ang
Dynasty saw Ch'an masters rise to official eminence, receiving honors
from the highest office in China. The first half of the eighth century
witnessed what was to be the greatest battle within the school of
Ch'an, but it was also the time when Ch'an was finally recognized by
Chinese ruling circles. The name most often associated with this
imperial recognition is the famous, or perhaps infamous, Empress Wu.1

Wu was not born to royalty, but in the year 638, when she was thirteen,
she was placed in Emperor T'ai-tsung's harem as a concubine of
relatively low rank. Disapproving historians claim that one day she
managed to catch the crown prince, the heir apparent to the aging
emperor, in what we today might euphemistically call the bathroom, and
seduced him at a moment when he was without benefit of trousers. Thus
she was already on familiar terms with the next emperor when her
official husband, Emperor T'ai-tsung, went to his ancestors in the
summer of 649. Although she was only twenty-four years old, custom
required that she join all the deceased emperor's concubines in
retirement at a monastery--which ordinarily would have been the last
anyone heard of her. As it happened, however, the new emperor's first
wife was childless, with the effect that he began devoting increasing
attention to a favorite concubine. Knowing of the emperor's earlier
acquaintance and infatuation with Wu, the barren empress recalled her
from the convent, intending to divert the emperor from his current
favorite. The cure, however, turned out to be far more deadly than the
ailment.

Through an intrigue that apparently included murdering her own child by
the emperor and then blaming the empress, Wu soon had both the empress
and the competing concubine in prison. Not content with mere
imprisonment for her rivals, she went on to have them both boiled
alive--after first amputating their hands and feet, eliciting a dying
curse from the concubine that she would return as a cat to haunt Wu. To
escape this curse, Wu permanently banned cats from the imperial
compound, and eventually persuaded the emperor to move the government
from Ch'ang-an to Loyang, where for the next half century she tried to
exorcise the memory of her deed. In late 683 Wu's husband, the emperor,
died, and for a time she allowed his son, the true heir, to occupy the
throne--until she could find a pretext to take over the government
completely.

A couple of years after the emperor's death, when Wu was aged sixty,
she became infatuated with a lusty peddler of cosmetics and
aphrodisiacs, a man whose virility had made him a favorite with various
serving ladies around the palace. To give him a respectable post, she
appointed him abbot of the major Buddhist monastery of Loyang--enabling
him to satisfy, as it were, a double office in the service of the
state. His antics and those of his followers did the cause of Buddhism
little good over the next few years. When in 695 his arrogance finally
became too much even for Wu, she had him strangled by the court ladies
and his body sent back to the monastery in a cart. Although Wu is
remembered today as an ardent Buddhist, some have suggested that her
devotions turned as much to the claims of fortune telling by Buddhist
nuns (some of whose organizations in Loyang reportedly ran brothels on
the side) as to a pious concern with Indian philosophy.



SHEN-HSIU (605-706), THE FIRST "SIXTH PATRIARCH"



It is known that around 701 Empress Wu invited an aging Ch'an monk
named Shen-hsiu, follower of the Lankavatara school of Bodhidharma, to
come north to the imperial capital from his monastery in central China.2
He was over ninety at the time and had amassed a lifelong reputation
for his rigorous practice of _dhyana_. Shen-hsiu agreed reluctantly,
reportedly having to be

carried on a pallet into the presence of the empress. It is said that
Wu curtsied to him, an unusual act for a head of state, and immediately
moved him into the palace, where he seems to have become the priest-in-
residence. As for why Empress Wu would have chosen to honor a lineage
of Ch'an Buddhism, it has been pointed out that she was at the time
attempting to supplant the established T'ang Dynasty of her late
husband with one of her own. And since the T'ang emperors had honored a
Buddhist lineage, it was essential that she do the same--but one of a
different school. Shen-hsiu was both eminent and unclaimed, an ideal
candidate to become the court Buddhist for her fledgling dynasty--which,
needless to say, was never established. Nonetheless, Shen-hsiu was
given the title of "Lord of the law of Ch'ang-an and Loyang," and he
preached to vast crowds drawn from the entire northern regions. To
solidify his eminence, Wu had monasteries built in his honor at his
birthplace, at his mountain retreat, and in the capital.

Shen-hsiu, who briefly reigned as the Sixth Patriarch of Ch'an, was
described in the early chronicles as a sensitive and bright child who,
out of despair for the world, early on turned away from Confucianism to
become a Buddhist monk. At age forty-six he finally found his way to
the East Mountain retreat of the Fifth Patriarch, Hung-jen, where he
studied under the master until achieving enlightenment. As noted
previously he was among the eleven most prominent individuals
remembered from the monastery of the Fifth Patriarch. He later left the
monastery and traveled for almost two decades, during which time
another of the students of Hung-jen, Fa-ju, eclipsed him in fame and
followers. However, Shen-hsiu seems to have been the best known Master,
eventually becoming the titular head of the Lankavatara faction, also
to be known as the Northern school--possibly because Shen-hsiu brought
it to the urbanized, sophisticated capitals of North China, Loyang and
Ch'ang-an. This was Ch'an's most imperial moment, and no less than a
state minister composed the memorial epitaph for Shen-hsiu's
gravestone. Although his specific teachings are not well known, a verse
survives from one of his sermons that seems to suggest that the
teachings of Ch'an were really teachings of the mind and owed little to
traditional Buddhism.



_The teaching of all the Buddhas

In one's own Mind originally exists:

To seek the Mind without one's Self,

Is like running away from the father.3

_

After he died a pupil named P'u-chi (d. 739) carried on his
organization in the capital. This was the high point of official Ch'an,
signifying the moment of the Lankavatara school's greatest prestige.

Perhaps most important, the success of Shen-hsiu was also the success
of Ch'an, or what appeared to be success. The sect had risen from being
the passion of homeless teachers of _dhyana _to the object of imperial
honors in the midst of China's finest moment, the T'ang Dynasty. The
T'ang was an era to be remembered forever for its poetry, its art, its
architecture, its cultural brilliance.4 Unfortunately for Northern
Ch'an, this cultural brilliance was beginning to be the province of
groups other than the blueblooded gentry that traditionally had
controlled China's culture. The glories of the T'ang were to some
degree the creation of the non-gentry, and an outcast warrior would
before long bring the government to its knees, even as an obscure Ch'an
master from the rural south was soon to erase Shen-hsiu's seemingly
permanent place in history.



SHEN-HUI (670-762), THE "MARTIN LUTHER" OF CH'AN



The David to Shen-hsiu's Goliath was a master with a similar- sounding
name: Shen-hui. This theological street fighter was a native of the
province of Hupeh, some distance south of the lavish twin T'ang
captials of Ch'ang-an and Loyang.5 He began as a Taoist scholar, but
later turned to Buddhism, traveling even farther south around his
fortieth year to become the disciple of a priest named Hui-neng, whose
temple was Ts'ao-ch'i, just north of the southern port city of Canton
in Kuangtung province. It will be remembered that Hui-neng (whose
legend we will explore in the next chapter) had also been a disciple of
the Fifth Patriarch, Hung-jen, studying alongside Shen-hsiu. Shen-hui
is thought to have studied under Hui-neng for around five years, until
the latter's death in 713. After this he traveled about China, ending
up at Hua-t'ai, slightly northeast of the capital of Loyang. He seems
to have been a man of charismatic presence, one who inspired followers
easily. Then, in the year 732, at a convocation of Ch'an worthies at
the temple, he mounted the platform and, in a historic moment, declared
that the great Ch'an organizations of China, heretofore beholden to
Shen-hsiu as Sixth Patriarch, were following a false master.6

        The historical significance of this convocation and Shen-hui's
attack might be likened to the defiant act of Martin Luther, when he
challenged church hierarchy in sixteenth-century Germany. With superb
audacity, Shen-hui went on to spell out a new history of Ch'an that
supported his claims. His revised chronicle culminated with the name of
his old teacher Hui-neng, theretofore an obscure follower of the Fifth
Patriarch, Hung-jen, whom he declared Sixth Patriarch. He insisted that
Shen-hsiu, the man honored by Empress Wu, had posed falsely as the heir
of Hung-jen. The Northern school of Shen-hsiu and his heir, P'u-chi,
had perpetrated a historical deceit, said Shen-hui, robbing the true
Sixth Patriarch, the southerner Hui-neng, of his due recognition. For
Shen-hui to have challenged the hand-picked school of the ruling family
was an incredibly courageous act, but perhaps one that was just
audacious enough to win public sympathy.

He touted this new proposition more or less full-time between the years
732 and 745, as he traveled about North China and got to know the
officials of the T'ang regime. His political standing gradually
improved and he was eventually invited (in 745, at age seventy-seven)
to Loyang to assume leadership of the great Ho-tse temple. Although the
particular object of his criticism, Shen-hsiu's disciple P'u-chi, had
died in 739, Shen-hui's attacks on the lineage continued undiminished.
Politics finally caught up with him, however, when a follower of Shen-
hsiu's "Northern" Ch'an named Lu I, who just happened to be chief of
imperial censors, accused him of plotting against the government
(citing as evidence the large crowds he routinely attracted). Finally,
Emperor Hsuan-tsung (grandson of Empress Wu) himself summoned Shen-hui
from Loyang to Ch'ang-an, where he questioned the master and finally
sent him into exile in the deep south. This was about 753. It was at
this point that Chinese political history and Ch'an collide, for the
throne was soon to need Shen-hui's help.

Emperor Hsuan-tsung (reigned 712-756) has been credited by many with
the wreck of the T'ang Dynasty. At the beginning of his reign the
capital had been in the east at Loyang (where Empress Wu had moved it.
to escape her memories), but the aristocracy in the west successfully
pressured him to bring it back to Ch'ang-an. In his declining years
Hsuan-tsung became infatuated with the wife of his son, a lady now
infamous in Chinese history as Yang Kuei-fei. She subsequently was
divorced by her husband and became a member of the emperor's harem in
738, coming to enjoy enormous influence in affairs of state. She had
first been brought to the emperor's attention by one of her relatives,
and in typical Chinese style she procured government posts for all
available members of her family. As the poet Tu Fu (712-770) described
her machinations:



_So many courtiers now throng around the court

That honest men must tremble;

And it's said that the gold plate from the treasury

Has gone to the kinsmen of Lady Yang.7



_Although none of these blood relatives ever rose to the rich
opportunities the situation afforded, another of her favorites
compensated abundantly for their political ineptitude.

His name was An Lu-shan, a "barbarian" of Turkish extraction, born in
703, who first entered China as a slave to an officer in a northern
garrison of the empire. After distinguishing himself as a soldier, he
came to the attention of Yang Kuei-fei, who was so charmed by the man
that she adopted him as her son. Before long he was a familiar figure
at the court, reportedly very fat and possessing a flair for
entertaining the bored aristocracy by his flippancy. Eventually he was
made governor of a frontier province, where under pretense of a foreign
threat he proceeded to recruit an army of alarming proportions and
questionable allegiance.

Meanwhile, back in the capital, Lady Yang and her relatives had taken
over the government, whereupon they unwisely decided that An Lu-shan
should be brought under firmer control. With their hostility providing
him just the pretext needed, he marched his new army toward Ch'ang-an,
pausing only long enough to conquer Loyang and proclaim himself
emperor. This was in January 756. By July he had also taken Ch'ang-an,
from which the royal family had already fled. Conditions deteriorated
sufficiently that the troops supporting the throne demanded, and got,
the head of Lady Yang Kuei-fei as the price for continued support. (On
imperial orders she was strangled by a eunuch.) In the meantime, the
imperial T'ang forces found reinforcements, including some Arab
mercenaries. After a battle outside Ch'ang-an which left An Lu-shan's
forces in disarray, the rebel was murdered, some say by his own son.
Soon thereafter the victorious mercenaries sacked and looted Loyang,
ending forever its prominence in Chinese history. The government of the
T'ang survived, but it was penniless after the many war years in which
it could not enforce taxation.8

The time was now 757, some four years after Shen-hui's banishment. The
destitute government, desperate for money, decided to set up ordination
platforms in the major cities across China and raise cash by selling
certificates of investiture for

Buddhist monks. (Since entry into the priesthood removed an individual
from the tax rolls, it was accepted practice for the Chinese government
to require an advance compensation.) Shen-hui's oratorical gifts were
suddenly remembered by some of his former followers, and the old
heretic was recalled to assist in the fundraising. He was such an
effective fundraiser in the ruined city of Loyang that the government
commissioned special quarters to be built for him on the grounds of his
old temple, the Ho-tse. (He was later to be remembered as the Master of
Ho-tse.)

The price for his cooperation seems to have been the official
acceptance of his version of Ch'an's history. In his battle with the
Northern school of Ch'an he had outlived his opponents and through a
bizarre turn of events had finally won the day. Solely through his
persistence, the obscure Southern Ch'an monk Hui-neng was installed as
Sixth Patriarch in Ch'an histories (replacing Shen-hsiu), and one
history went so far as to declare Shen-hui himself the Seventh
Patriarch.

The philosophical significance of what Shen-hui's "Southern" doctrine
brought to Ch'an has been described as nothing less than a revolution.
A modern Zen scholar has claimed that Shen-hui's revolution produced a
complete replacement of Indian Buddhism with Chinese philosophy,
keeping only the name. Shen-hui, he claims, swept aside all forms of
meditation or _dhyana _and replaced it with a concept called no-mind:
the doctrines of "absence of thought" and "seeing into one's original
nature."9

Perhaps this philosophical _coup d'etat _may best be understood by
comparing the Northern and Southern teachings. The discredited Northern
school of Shen-hsiu had preached that the road to enlightenment must be
traversed "step by step," that there were in fact two stages of the
mind--the first being a "false mind" which perceives the world
erroneously in dualities, and the second a "true mind" which is pure
and transcends all discriminations and dualities, perceiving the world
simply as a unity. One proceeds from the "false mind" to the "true
mind" step by step, through the suppression of erroneous thought
processes by the practice of _dhyana_ or meditation, in which the mind
and the senses slowly reach a state of absolute quietude.

The Southern school took issue with this theory of the mind on a number
of points. To begin, they said that if there really is no duality in
the world, then how can the mind be divided into "false" and "true"?
They argued that the answer quite simply is that there is only one
mind, whose many functions are all merely expressions of single true
reality. The unity of all things is the true reality; our minds are
also part of this reality; and upon realizing this, you have achieved
the same enlightenment experience once realized by the Buddha. There is
no "false mind" and "true mind," nor is there any need for a long
program of _dhyana _to slowly suppress false thoughts. All that is
needed is to practice "absence of thought" and thereby intuitively to
realize a simple truth: One unity pervades everything. This realization
they called Buddha-mind, and it could only happen "all at once" (not
"step by step"), at any time and without warning. This moment of primal
realization they called "seeing into one's original nature."

Although Shen-hui is somewhat vague about exactly what practice should
replace meditation, the scholar Walter Liebenthal has inferred the
following about Shen-hui's attitude toward "sudden enlightenment" as a
replacement for meditation: "He seems to have rejected meditation in
the technical sense of the word. Instead of methodical endeavors
designed to promote religious progress he recommends a change of point
of view leading to non-attachment. . . . Non-attachment in this case
means that external objects are not allowed to catch our fancy.. . .



_ [A] thing recollected is isolated, it is singled out of the whole,
and is thus an illusion; for all short of the undifferentiated
continuum is illusive. The senses work as usual . . . but 'no desire is
aroused.' . . . This change happens suddenly, that is, it is not
dependent upon preceding exertions; it can be brought about without
first passing through the stages of a career. That is why it is called
'sudden awakening.' _"10 _

_

Liebenthal interprets Shen-hui as saying that whereas the purpose of
meditation should be merely to erase our attachment to physical things,
it also removes our cognizance of them, which is not necessarily a
requirement for nonattachment. It should be possible for us to be aware
of the world without being attached to it and enslaved by it. According
to Shen-hui's sermon:



_      When thus my friends are told to discard as useless all they
have learned before, then those who have spent fifty or more, or only
twenty years practicing meditation, hearing this, might be very much
puzzled. . . . Friends, listen attentively, I speak to you of self-
deception. What does self-deception mean? You, who have assembled in
this place today, are craving for riches and pleasures of intercourse
with males and females; you are thinking of gardens and houses. . . .
The Nirvana Sutra says, "To get rid of your passions is not Nirvana; to
look upon them as no matter of yours, that is Nirvana._"11_

_

So far so good; but how do we reach this state of recognition without
attachment? Apparently the way is to somehow find our original state,
in which we were naturally unattached to the surrounding world. The way
is to mentally disassociate ourselves from the turmoil of society that
surrounds us and look inward, touching our original nature. In this
way, both _prajna _and _samadhi_, awareness and noninvolvement, which
have been described as the active and passive sides of meditation, are
achieved simultaneously.



_Now, let us penetrate to that state in which we are not attached. What
do we get to know? Not being attached we are tranquil and guileless.
This state underlying all motions and passions is called samadhi.
Penetrating to this fundamental state we encounter a natural wisdom
that is conscious of this original tranquility and guilelessness. This
wisdom is called _prajna_. The intimate relation between _samadhi _and
_prajna _is thus defined.

. . . If now you penetrate to that state in which your mind is not
attached, and yet remains open to impressions, and thus are conscious
of the fact that your mind is not attached, then you have reached the
state of original blankness and tranquility. From that state of
blankness and tranquility there arises an inner knowledge through which
blue, yellow, red, and white things in this world are well
distinguished. That is _prajna_. Yet no desires arise from these
distinctions. That is _samadhi_.

. . . It follows that freedom from attachment (to external things,
which replaces meditation in Ch'an Buddhism), enables you to look into
the heart of all the Buddhas of the past, and yet it is nothing else
than what you yourselves experience today.12

_

Perhaps the most revolutionary thing about this approach was that it
seemed to eliminate the need for all the traditional apparatus of
Buddhism. It had little or nothing to do with organized religion, and
even less connection with the mountains of Indian philosophy that had
gone before. A thousand years of Indian thought had been distilled down
to a single truth: The realization of our original nature comprises
enlightenment. If this were taken at face value, then there was no
longer any need for the Buddhist community, the sutras, the chanting,
even meditation. There was, in fact, no longer any need for Buddhism.
It had been reduced, as the Chinese scholar Wing-tsit Chan has
observed, to a concern for the mind alone.

By redefining meditation, Shen-hui had "laid the foundations of Chinese
Zen which was no Zen at all."13 As Shen-hui now described meditation or
_dhyana_: Sitting motionless is no _dhyana_; introspection into your
own mind is no _dhyana_; and looking inward at your own calmness is no
_dhyana_.14. . . Here in my school, to have no thoughts is sitting, and
to see one's original nature is _dhyana_ (Ch'an).15

What happened to Indian meditation? No wonder the scholar Hu Shih has
described this new teaching as a Chinese revolt against Buddhism.

The political triumph of Shen-hui made Southern Ch'an the official
sect, but it also meant that he, now one of the leading religious
figures in China, had necessarily become a part of the ruling
establishment. Little wonder that the actual future of Ch'an soon
reverted back to rural teachers, men who could more convincingly claim
to despise the ways of the world, as they meditated in their secluded
mountain retreats far from imperial patronage. Shen-hui's school of
"Southern" Ch'an of Ho-tse temple, which had established dominance in
the north, was soon to be eclipsed by these new vigorous but unlettered
rural Ch'anists.16 Interestingly, the official recognition of the court
seemed to quickly extinguish any school of Ch'an that received it.
Shen-hsiu was honored by Empress Wu, and his school was then supplanted
by that of Shen-hui, whose own imperial recognition and honors were
soon to be dust in the history of Ch'an, as the new rural school burst
on the scene and effectively took over.17

The disorders surrounding and following the rebellion of An Lu-shan are
commonly considered today as signaling the decline of the great age of
the T'ang Dynasty. They certainly signified the atrophy of the war-torn
North Chinese capitals as the political power in China. Loyang and
Ch'ang-an came to be replaced in economic influence by the south, a
region relatively untouched by the constant struggles North China had
to mount against barbarian invaders. Northern scholars retired to the
pastoral south, where they lazed in peaceful gardens and recalled the
great poets of the early T'ang. Thus Northern urban Ch'an followed the
general demise of North Chinese political strength.

Was Shen-hui really the father of the new "meditationless" Ch'an of the
mind? Some traditional scholars claim it was not really Shen-hui who
revolutionized Ch'an, but rather his master, the Southern teacher Hui-
neng. For example, D. T. Suzuki believed that whereas Shen-hui was
correct in equating meditation with the primal knowledge of self called
_prajna_, he actually taught that this knowledge came about through
rational understanding rather than intuition.18 It was Hui-neng, said
Suzuki, who correctly understood that _prajna_ was intuition and who
knew that it could be realized only through the "sudden" path rather
than through the "step-by-step" path. This may well have been true.
Just as the Apostle Paul interpreted the teachings of an obscure
provincial teacher, Jesus of Nazareth, and popularized them among the
urban centers of the Roman Empire, so Shen-hui dispensed the ideas of
Hui-neng in northern cities, possibly tempering them where necessary to
gain acceptance from the more rationally inclined urban Ch'anists. To
continue the analogy, Shen-hui (like Paul) never quotes his mentor
directly in his writings--something he certainly would have done if
there had been anything to quote--but in a few decades there would be a
full autobiography of Hui-neng complete with a "sermon." Shen-hui's own
contribution was to open the way for the anti-meditation rural school
to take over Ch'an. We may now turn to the legendary Hui-neng,
remembered as the "Sixth Patriarch."



Chapter Five

HUI-NENG:

THE SIXTH PATRIARCH AND FATHER OF MODERN ZEN


The master honored today as the father of modern Zen was an
impoverished country lad from South China, whose attributed
autobiography, The Platform Sutra of Hui-neng, is the only "sutra" of
Buddhism written by a Chinese.1 In this work, Hui-neng (638-713) told
the story of his rise from obscurity to fame. He described his father
as a high Chinese official who, unjustly banished and reduced to a
commoner, died of shame while Hui-neng was still a small child. To
survive, the fatherless boy and his mother sold wood in the marketplace
at Han-hai, near Canton in South China. Then one day he chanced to
overhear a man reciting a passage from the Diamond Sutra. Hui-neng
stopped to listen, and when he heard the phrase "Let your mind function
freely, without abiding anywhere or in anything," he was suddenly
awakened. Upon inquiry, he discovered that the reciter was a follower
of the Fifth Patriarch, Hung-jen. This teacher, the stranger said,
taught that by reciting the Diamond Sutra it was possible to see into
one's own nature and to directly experience enlightenment.

The Diamond Sutra (sometimes called the Vajracchedika Sutra) became the
passion of Hui-neng as well as the touchstone for the new Chinese
Ch'an. An unusually brief work, it has been called the ultimate
distillation of the Buddhist Wisdom Literature. The following excerpt
is representative of its teaching.



_All the mind's arbitrary concepts of matter, phenomena, and of all
conditioning factors and all conceptions and ideas relating thereto are
like a dream, a phantasm, a bubble, a shadow, the evanescent dew, the
lightning's flash. Every true disciple should thus look upon all
phenomena and upon all the activities of the mind, and keep his mind
empty and selfless and tranquil.2

_

The Diamond Sutra does not search the philosophic heights of the
Lankavatara Sutra, the treatise revered by the early _dhyana _school of
Bodhidharma, and precisely for this reason it appealed to the Southern
school--whose goal was the simplification of Ch'an. Hui-neng could not
resist the call and immediately set out for the East Mountain monastery
of the Fifth Patriarch.

When he arrived, Hung-jen opened the interview by asking the newcomer
his origin. Hearing that he was from the Canton region, the old priest
sighed, "If you're from the south you must be a barbarian. How do you
expect to become enlightened?" To this Hui-neng shot back, "The people
in the north and south may be different, but enlightenment is the same
in both regions." Although this impertinence caused the master to
immediately recognize Hui-neng's mental gifts, he said nothing and
simply put him to work threshing and pounding rice. (This exchange,
incidentally, will be recognized as the memorable first encounter
between two generations of masters, an obligatory element in all the
legends of the early Patriarchs.)

For the next eight months, the young novice toiled in obscurity, never
so much as seeing the Fifth Patriarch. Then one day the old priest
called an assembly and announced that he was ready to pass on the robe
of the patriarchy to the one who could compose a verse showing an
intuitive understanding of his own inner nature. The disciples talked
over this challenge among themselves and decided, "The robe is certain
to be handed down to Shen-hsiu, who is head monk and the natural heir.
He will be a worthy successor to the master, so we will not bother
composing a verse."

Shen-hsiu, the same master later exalted by the Empress Wu in Loyang,
knew what was expected of him and began struggling to compose the
verse. After several days' effort, he found the courage to write an
unsigned _gatha _on a corridor wall in the dark of night.



_Our body is the Bodhi-tree

And our mind a mirror bright.

Carefully we wipe them hour by hour,

And let no dust alight.3



_When the Fifth Patriarch saw the verse, he convened an assembly in the
corridor, burned incense, and declared that they all should recite the
anonymous passage. Afterward, however, he summoned Shen-hsiu to his
private quarters and inquired if he was author of the verse. Receiving
an affirmative reply, the master said, "This verse does not demonstrate
that you have yet achieved true understanding of your original nature.
You have reached the front gate, but you have not yet entered into full
understanding. Prepare your mind more fully and when you are ready,
submit another _gatha_." It is a Ch'an commonplace that Shen-hsiu's
verse stressed methodical practice and was perfectly logical--just the
opposite of the sudden, anti-logical leap of intuition that is true
enlightenment. Shen-hsiu departed, but try as he might he could not
produce the second _gatha_.

In the meantime, Hui-neng overheard the monks reciting Shen-hsiu's
lines. Although he recognized that its author had yet to grasp his own
original nature, Hui-neng asked to be shown the verse and allowed to do
homage to it. After he was led to the hall, the illiterate lad from the
barbarian south asked to have a _gatha _of his own inscribed next to
the one on the wall.



_There is no Bodhi-tree

Nor stand of a mirror bright.

Since all is void,

Where can the dust alight?_4_

_

Although the assembly was electrified by the insight contained in this
_gatha_, the diplomatic old Fifth Patriarch publicly declared that its
author lacked full understanding. During the night, however, he
summoned young Hui-neng to the darkened meditation hall, where he
expounded the Diamond Sutra to him and then ceremonially passed to him
the robe of Bodhidharma, symbol of the patriarchy. He also advised him
to travel immediately to the south, to stay underground for a time in
the interest of safety, and then to preach the Dharma to all who would
listen. Hui-neng departed that very night, crossing the Yangtze and
heading south--the anointed Sixth Patriarch at age twenty-four.

When the other monks realized what had happened, they hastily organized
a party to retrieve Hui-neng and the Ch'an relics. Finally one of the
pursuers, a burly former soldier, reached the new Sixth Patriarch in
his hideaway. Suddenly overcome by the presence of Hui-neng, he found
himself asking not for the return of the robe but rather for
instruction. Hui-neng obliged him with, "Not thinking of good, not
thinking of evil, tell me what was your original face before your
mother and father were born." This celebrated question--which dramatizes
the Zen concept of an original nature in every person that precedes and
transcends artificial values such as good and evil--caused the pursuer
to be enlightened on the spot.

For the next several years Hui-neng sought seclusion, living among
hunters in the south and concealing his identity. The legends say his
kindly nature caused him sometimes to secretly release animals from the
hunters' traps and that he would accept only vegetables from their
stewpots. But this life as an anonymous vagabond, a Patriarch while not
even a priest, could not be his final calling. One day when the time
felt right (in 676, as he neared forty), he renounced the life of a
refugee and ventured into Canton to visit the Fa-hsing temple. One
afternoon as he lingered in the guise of an anonymous guest, he
overheard a group of monks arguing about a banner flapping in the
breeze.

One monk declared, "The banner is moving."

Another insisted, "No, it is the wind that is moving."

Although he was only a lay observer, Hui-neng could not contain
himself, and he interrupted them with his dramatic manifesto, "You are
both wrong. It is your mind that moves."

The abbot of the temple, standing nearby, was dumbstruck by the
profound insight of this stranger, and on the spot offered to become
his pupil. Hui-neng declined the honor, however, requesting instead
that his head be shaved and he be allowed to enter Buddhist orders, a
priest at last. He was shortly acclaimed by one and all as the Sixth
Patriarch, and after a few months in Canton he decided to move to a
temple of his own at Ts'ao-ch'i, where he taught for the next four
decades. From this monastery came the teachings that would define the
faith.

The foregoing story, perhaps the most famous in the Zen canon, is drawn
mainly from the aforementioned Platform Sutra of Hui-neng, purportedly
an autobiography and sermon presented to an assembly in his later
years.5 (The setting was a temple near his monastery, where he was
invited to lecture one day by the local abbot. It was transcribed by
one of his disciples, ince Hui-neng traditionally was said to have been
illiterate.) The document has come down to us in three parts. The first
part is the story just summarized: a poetry contest at the monastery of
the Fifth Patriarch in which the man later to lead Northern Ch'an is
humiliated by a bumpkin, who himself must then flee the wrath of the
Ch'an establishment and wait for recognition in the south. The second
part is a lecture that scholars believe probably represents the general
outline of Hui-neng's views on man's original nature. The third part is
a highly embellished account of his later years, usually dismissed as
the pious invention of a more recent date.

The real life of Hui-neng is a historical puzzle that may well never be
resolved. For example, it is common to note that the later Ch'an
writers took great pains to render Hui-neng as illiterate and
unlettered as possible, the more to emphasize his egalitarianism. (This
in spite of the fact that the sermon attributed to him refers to at
least seven different sutras.) The facts were adjusted to make a point:
If a simple illiterate wood peddler could become Patriarch, what better
proof that the faith is open to all people? Many of the traditional
anecdotes surrounding his early years are similarly suspect, and in
fact the most respected Hui-neng scholar has declared, "If we consider
all the available material, and eliminate patiently all the
inconsistencies by picking the most likely legends, we can arrive at a
fairly credible biography of Hui-neng. If, on the other hand, we
eliminate the legends and the undocumented references to the Sixth
Patriarch, we may conclude that there is, in fact, almost nothing that
we can really say about him."6 Yet does it really matter whether the
legend is meticulously faithful to the facts? Hui-neng is as much a
symbol as a historical individual, and it was essential that his life
have legendary qualities. In his case, art may have helped life along a
bit, but it was for a larger purpose.

The purpose was to formalize the new philosophical ideas of Southern
Ch'an. The second part of the Platform Sutra, which details his
philosophical position, has been characterized as a masterpiece of
Chinese thought, the work not of a scholar but of a natural sage whose
wisdom flowed spontaneously from deep within. Yet it is commonly
conceded that the uniqueness of his message lies not so much in its
being original (which most agree it is not) but in its rendering of the
basic ideas of Buddhism into Chinese terms.7 Buddhism itself seems at
times to be in question, as the Sixth Patriarch discounts traditional
observances, even

suggesting that the Buddhist Western Paradise, known as the Pure Land,
might be merely a state of mind.



_The deluded person concentrates on Buddha and wishes to be born in the
other land; the awakened person makes pure his own mind. . . . If only
the mind has no impurity, the Western Land is not far. If the mind
gives rise to impurities, even though you invoke the Buddha and seek to
be reborn in the West, it will be difficult to reach . . . but if you
practice straightforward mind, you will arrive there in an instant.8



_Hui-neng also questioned the traditional Ch'an practice of sitting in
meditation, declaring it to be more a mind-set than a physical act (if
his Sutra is authentic, then he predates his pupil Shen-hui on this
point). He also broke it apart into two different categories: the
sitting and the meditation.



_. . . what is this teaching that we call "sitting in meditation"? In
this teaching "sitting" means without any obstruction anywhere,
outwardly and under all circumstances, not to activate thoughts.
"Meditation" is internally to see the original nature and not become
confused.9

_

Elsewhere he is quoted as declaring that protracted sitting only
shackles the body without profiting the mind.10 Although Hui-neng
severely took to task those who depended on meditation, there is no
evidence that he forbade it entirely. What he did reject was a fixation
on meditation, a confusion--to use a later Zen expression--of the finger
pointing at the moon with the moon itself. Even so, this was a radical
move. Hui-neng presents us with the startling prospect of a _dhyana
_teacher questioning the function of _dhyana_--until then the very basis
of the school.

Yet the sutra is far from being all negative. It has a number of
positive messages, including the following: All people are born in an
enlightened state, a condition in which good and evil are not
distinguished. Nor are there distracting discriminations, attachments,
and perturbations of the spirit in this primal estate. (A very similar
view is found throughout the poetry of William Wordsworth, to give only
one example from Western thought.11) But if man's original nature is
pure and unstained, how then does evil enter into a person's character?
He faces this classic theological question head-on:



_Good friends, although the nature of people in this world is from the
outset pure in itself, the ten thousand things are all within their own
natures. If people think of all the evil things, then they will
practice evil; if they think of all the good things, then they will
practice good. Thus it is clear that in this way all the _dharmas
_(aspects of humanity) are within your own natures, yet your own
natures are always pure. The sun and moon are always bright, yet if
they are covered by clouds, although they are bright, below they are
darkened, and the sun, moon, stars, and planets cannot be seen clearly.
But if suddenly the wind of wisdom should blow and roll away the clouds
and mists, all forms in the universe appear at once. . . . [I]f a
single thought of good evolves, intuitive wisdom is born. As one lamp
serves to dispel a thousand years of darkness, so one flash of wisdom
destroys ten thousand years of ignorance.12

_

As Hui-neng viewed it, there is latent within us all the condition of
enlightenment, the state that precedes our concern with good and evil.
It can be reclaimed through an intuitive acquaintance with our own
inner natures. This is well summarized by the Hui-neng scholar Philip
Yampolsky: "The Platform Sutra maintains that the nature of man is from
the outset pure, but that his purity has no form. But by self-practice,
by endeavoring for himself, man can gain insight into this purity.
Meditation, _prajna_, true reality, purity, the original nature, self-
nature, the Buddha nature, all these terms, which are used constantly
throughout the sermon, indicate the same undefined Absolute, which when
seen and experienced by the individual himself, constitutes
enlightenment."13

This condition of original innocence that is enlightenment can be
reclaimed through "no-thought," a state in which the mind floats,
unattached to what it encounters, moving freely through phenomena,
unperturbed by the incursions and attractions of the world, liberated
because it is its own master, tranquil because it is pure. This is the
condition in which we were born and it is the condition to which we can
return by practicing "no-thought." Although it happens to be similar to
the condition that can be realized through arduous meditation, Hui-neng
apparently did not believe that meditation was required. This primal
condition of the mind, this glimpse into our original nature, could be
realized instantaneously if our mind were receptive. But what is this
state called "no-thought"? According to Hui-neng:



_To be unstained in all environments is called no-thought. If on the
basis of your own thoughts you separate from environment, then, in
regard to things, thoughts are not produced. If you stop thinking of
the myriad things, and cast aside all thoughts, as soon as one instant
of thought is cut off, you will be reborn in another realm. . . .
Because man in his delusion has thoughts in relation to his
environment, heterodox ideas stemming from these thoughts arise, and
passions and false views are produced from them.14

_

Yampolsky characterizes "no-thought" as follows: "Thoughts are
conceived as advancing in progression from past to present to future,
in an unending chain of successive thoughts. Attachment to one instant
of thought leads to attachment to a succession of thoughts, and thus to
bondage. By cutting off attachment to one instant of thought, one may,
by a process unexplained, cut off attachment to a succession of
thoughts and thus attain to no-thought, which is the state of
enlightenment."15 Precisely how this condition of "no-thought"
enlightenment is achieved is not explained in the Platform Sutra and in
fact has been the major concern of Zen ever since. The one thing that
all will agree is that the harder one tries to attain it, the more
difficult it becomes. It is there inside, waiting to be released, but
it can be reached only through the intuitive mind. And it happens
suddenly, when we least expect.

The master Hui-neng stands at the watershed of Zen history. Indeed he
may be the watershed, in the embodied form of a legend. There seems
reason to suspect that he was canonized well after the fact, as was
Bodhidharma. But whereas Bodhidharma provided an anchor for the
original formation of a separate _Dhyana_ sect in Chinese Buddhism,
Hui-neng became the rallying symbol for a new type of Ch'an, one wholly
Chinese, and one that seemed to discount Bodhidharma's old mainstay,
meditation. He became the Chinese answer to the Indian Bodhidharma.

Hui-neng redefined the specific characteristics of the Ch'an goal and
described in nontheological terms the mind state in which duality is
banished. But he failed to go the next step and explain how to get
there. All he did was point out (to use the terminology of logic) that
meditation not only was not a sufficient condition for enlightenment,
it might not even be a necessary condition. What then was required? The
answer to this question was to be worked out during the next phase of
Ch'an, the so-called Golden Age of Zen, when a new school of Southern
Ch'an exploded (to use a common description) in the south and went on
to take over all of Ch'an. These new teachers seem to have accepted
Hui-neng as their patron, although the direct connection is not
entirely clear. These masters learned how to impose a torture chamber
on the logical mind, bringing to it such humiliations that it finally
annihilated ego or self and surrendered to _prajna_, intuitive wisdom.
They devised systematic ways to produce the state of "no-thought" that
Hui-neng and Shen-hui apparently could only invoke.



  PART II



  THE GOLDEN AGE OF ZEN



. . . . in which teachers of rural, Southern Ch'an begin to experiment
with new ways to precipitate the "sudden" enlightenment experience,
even bringing into question the role of meditation. Along with the
search for new techniques goes the attempt to define precisely what
enlightenment is and to formalize the transmission process. During this
time, Ch'an monasteries become independent organizations and Ch'an a
recognized, if eccentric, Buddhist sect. The iconoclastic, self-
supporting Ch'an establishments ride out a persecution of Buddhism in
the mid-ninth century that effectively destroys all other Buddhist
schools in China. This is the great creative era of Ch'an, in which the
sect secures its own identity and creates its own texts for use by
later generations.



Chapter Six

MA-TSU:

ORIGINATOR OF "SHOCK" ENLIGHTENMENT


_Ma-tsu (right) and Layman P'ang_


If Hui-neng was the Sixth Patriarch, then who was the seventh? Although
several of his followers are mentioned in the Platform Sutra, the only
one who seems to have made any difference in Ch'an history was Shen-hui
(670-762), who successfully destroyed the Northern school of Shen-hsiu
(605-706) and elevated Hui-neng. Although Shen-hui was given the
accolade of Seventh Patriarch in some parts of the north, history was
to be written elsewhere. Shen-hui's school of "Southern" Ch'an was soon
compromising with the remaining Northern Ch'anists--conceding that the
study of the sutras could go along hand in hand with sudden
enlightenment--and he seems to have enjoyed a little too much his role
as imperial socialite. The only member of Shen-hui's school to realize
any historical prominence was Tsung-mi (780-841), whose fame attaches
not to his original thought but rather to his scholarly writings
describing the various sects of Ch'an.1 A litterateur and friend of the
famous poet Po Chu-i (772-846), he also tried unsuccessfully to mediate
between the followers of the step-by-step sutra-reading Buddhists of
the cities and the all-at-once, anti-literary proponents of sudden
enlightenment in the country, but he succeeded only in bringing the
history of Northern Ch'an to a dignified close.2

The Chinese scholar Hu Shih skillfully pinpoints why the social success
of Shen-hui's new "Southern" school in the north actually contributed
to its decline. As he saw it: "The explanation is simple. Zennism could
not flourish as an officially patronized religion, but only as an
attitude of mind, a method of thinking and a mode of living. An
officially patronized teacher of Buddhism is obliged to perform all the
traditional rituals and ceremonies which the true Zennist despises.
Shen-hui succeeded in establishing Zennism as a state religion, but by
so doing he almost killed it. All further development of Chinese Zen
had to come from those great teachers who valued simple life and
intellectual freedom and independence more than worldly recognition."3
And in fact just such teachers had begun springing up like mushrooms.
On lonely mountaintops, teachers of sudden enlightenment were
experimenting with new ways to transmit wordless insight. They seem to
have despised traditional Buddhism, perhaps partly because Buddhism--by
which is meant the cultural elitists and aristocrats in the capitals of
Ch'ang-an and Loyang--had so long despised them. (Recall the Fifth
Patriarch's greeting to Hui-neng: "If you're from the south, you must
be a barbarian.") Although traditional Buddhism (including teachers of
_dhyana_) continued to flourish, and the city of Ch'ang-an remained a
model for Asian civilization, the political power of the T'ang
government in the north gradually withered. And as it declined, so too
did the fortunes of the traditional Ch'an establishments that had
flourished under imperial patronage.

The new Ch'an teachers of the Southern school may have felt smug in
their new prestige and independence, but they still were subject to the
ingrained Chinese desire for a lineage. (Perhaps in the land of
Confucius, spiritual ancestors were essential to dignity.) The triumph
of the legend of Hui-neng in the north had not been lost on the
Ch'anists elsewhere, and it effectively meant that for any Ch'an school
to have respectability nationwide, it had to be able to trace its
lineage back to this illiterate southerner and his temple at Ts'ao-
ch'i. Unfortunately this turned out to be difficult, since by the time
Hui-neng actually came to be recognized as the Sixth Patriarch, he had
been dead for half a century and there were few Chinese who even knew
firsthand of his existence--and none besides Shen-hui who ever claimed
to have studied under him. How then could he be made the founder of the
Ch'an schools blooming all over China?

The scholar Hu Shih has speculated somewhat knavishly on how Hui-neng's
"lineage" may have been created after the fact: "By the last quarter of
the eighth century, there began to be a great stampede of almost all
the Ch'an schools to get on the bandwagon of the school of Hui-neng. .
. . Hui-neng died early in the eighth century, and his disciples were
mostly unknown ascetics who lived and died in their hilly retreats. One
could easily have paid a visit to some of them. So in the last decades
of the century, some of those unknown names were remembered or
discovered. Two of the names thus exhumed from obscurity were Huai-jang
of the Heng Mountains in Hunan, and Hsing-ssu of the Ch'ing-yuan
Mountains of Kiangsi. Neither of these names appeared in earlier
versions of Hui-neng's life story."4

These two masters, Nan-yueh Huai-jang (677-744) of Hunan and Ch'ing-
yuan Hsing-ssu (d. 740) of Kiangsi, were made the missing links between
Hui-neng and the two schools of Ch'an that would one day become
Japanese Rinzai and Soto, respectively. Since the lineage most
important for the early years of Ch'an's Golden Age was that which
would one day be the Rinzai school, the tradition of Huai-jang will be
examined here first. As noted above, although the legend says that
Huai-jang once studied under the Sixth Patriarch, Hui-neng, supporting
historical evidence is not readily found. However, he is thought to
have studied under another follower of the Fifth Patriarch Hung-jen and
to have been a part of the general scene of Southern Ch'an.5 His actual
function may have been to supply a direct line of descent between Hui-
neng and the man who was to be the creator of Rinzai Zen as we know it
today.

That man is the famous Ma-tsu Tao-i (709-788), who even if not a direct
spiritual descendant of Hui-neng was certainly a product of the same
exciting period of intellectual ferment. According to the more or less
contemporary record left by the northern historian Tsung-mi, Ma-tsu
(which means "Patriarch Ma") was a native of Szechuan who was ordained
a monk at an early age by a Korean master in his home province.6 Young
Ma traveled on, as was common with beginning Ch'an monks, and (so say
the later legends) finally came to the monastery of Huai-jang, located
on Mt. Nan-yueh. The story of their first encounter became a standard
among later Ch'an masters, for it is a particularly effective
discrediting of that onetime Ch'an mainstay, meditation, which became
anathema to the more revolutionary Southern school.

As the story goes, Huai-jang one day came upon Ma-tsu absorbed in
meditation and proceeded to question the purpose of his long bouts of
_dhyana_. Ma-tsu immediately replied, "I want to become a Buddha, an
enlightened being."

Saying nothing, Huai-jang quietly picked up a brick and started rubbing
it on a stone. After a time Ma-tsu's curiosity bested him and he
inquired, "Why are you rubbing that brick on a stone?"

Huai-jang replied, "I am polishing it into a mirror."

Ma-tsu probably knew by this time that he had been set up, but he had
to follow through: "But how can you make a mirror by polishing a brick
on a stone?"

The celebrated answer was: "How can you become enlightened by sitting
in meditation?"

The point, driven home time and again throughout the eighth century,
was that enlightenment is an active, not a passive, condition. And Ma-
tsu himself was to become the foremost exponent of enlightenment as a
natural part of life.

Ma-tsu always made a profound impression on his contemporaries, and no
small part may be attributable to his peculiar physical traits. As _The
Transmission of the Lamp _describes him:



_In appearance and bearing he was most striking. He glared as a tiger
does and he ambled like a cow. He could touch his nose with his tongue,
and on the soles of his feet were wheel-shaped marks [physical
qualities also attributed to the Buddha]. During the period [of 713-41]
he studied the dhyana . . . under Master Huai-jang, who then had nine
disciples. Of these only [Ma-tsu] received the sacred mind seal.7

_

However, his real immortality derives from his contribution to the
arsenal of methods for shocking novices into enlightenment. It will be
recalled that the legendary Sixth Patriarch, Hui-neng, neglected to
explain exactly what a person should do to "see into one's own nature."
Ma-tsu apparently was the first master who developed non-meditative
tricks for nudging a disciple into the state of "no-thought." He was an
experimenter, and he pioneered a number of methods that later were
perfected by his followers and the descendants of his followers. He was
the first master to ask a novice an unanswerable question, and then
while the person struggled for an answer, to shout in his ear (he liked
the syllable "Ho!")--hoping to jolt the pupil into a non-dualistic mind
state. Another similar technique was to call out someone's name just as
the person was leaving the room, a surprise that seemed to bring the
person up short and cause him to suddenly experience his original
nature. A similar device was to deliver the student a sharp blow as he
pondered a point, using violence to focus his attention completely on
reality and abort ratiocination. Other tricks included responding to a
question with a seemingly irrelevant answer, causing the student to
sense the irrelevancy of his question. He would also sometimes send a
pupil on a "goose chase" between himself and some other enlightened
individual at the monastery, perhaps in the hope that bouncing the
novice from one personality to another would somehow shake his
complacency. Whatever the technique, his goal was always to force a
novice to uncover his original nature for himself. He did this by never
giving a straight answer or a predictable response and therefore never
allowing a disciple to lapse into a passive mental mode.

Ma-tsu also seems to have simplified the idea of what constitutes
enlightenment. As he defined it, "seeing into one's own nature" simply
meant understanding (intuitively, not rationally) who you are and what
you are. This truth could be taught with whatever method seemed
appropriate at a given moment. As Hu Shih so eloquently describes his
teaching,



_ ". . . any gesture or motion, or even silence, might be used to
communicate a truth. [Recall the Buddha once enlightened a follower by
holding up a flower.] Ma-tsu developed this idea into a pedagogical
method for the new Zen. There is no need to seek any special faculty in
the mind for the enlightenment. Every behavior is the mind, the
manifestation of the Buddha-nature. Snapping a finger, frowning or
stretching the brow, coughing, smiling, anger, sorrow, or desire . . .
is the functioning of the Buddhahead: it is the Tao, the Way. There is
no need to perform any special act, be it dhyana_ _or worship, in order
to achieve the Tao. To be natural is the Way. Walk naturally, sit
naturally, sleep naturally, live naturally--that is the Way. Let the
mind be free: do not purposely do evil; nor purposely do good. There is
no Law to abide, no Buddhahood to attain. Maintain a free mind and
cling to nothing: that is Tao._"8_

_

Thus it seems that the most preeminent Ch'an master of the eighth
century not only repudiated all the apparatus of traditional Buddhism,
he also simplified enlightenment down to a quite secular condition of
acceptance of the natural state of human affairs. For instance,
although he was familiar with the great Mahayana sutras, Ma-tsu never
mentions Hui-neng or the Diamond Sutra. His Ch'an, expressed in simple
everyday language, seems merely so many ways of finding out who you are
and what you are. Furthermore, there seems to be nothing specifically
that you can do to accelerate the occurrence of sudden enlightenment,
other than use traditional practices to make your psyche as
uncomplicated as possible and then wait for the moment to strike (he,
of course, experimented to find ways to accelerate the arrival of that
moment). But he has nothing encouraging to say about the effectiveness
of meditation as an aid to finding the desired non-rational insight,
which he sometimes described using the borrowed term "Tao":

_Cultivation is of no use for the attainment of Tao. The only

thing that one can do is to be free of defilement. When one's

mind is stained with thoughts of life and death, or deliberate action,
that is defilement. The grasping of the Truth is the function of
everyday-mindedness. Everyday-mindedness is free from intentional
action, free from concepts of right and wrong, taking and giving, the
finite or the infinite. . . . All our daily activities--walking,
standing, sitting, lying down--all response to situations, our dealings
with circumstances as they arise: all this is Tao.9



_Ma-tsu eventually left Huai-jang (if, in fact, he ever met him in the
first place) and presided over a community of Ch'an disciples at K'ai-
yuan temple in Kiangsi. This was to be the incubator for the greatest
thinkers of the eighth century, and the setting for some of the finest
Ch'an anecdotes. The anecdote, incidentally, is the perfect Ch'an
teaching device, since it forces the listener to find its meaning in
his own inner experience. The sermon provided the theoretical basis for
an idea, but the anecdote showed the theory in action and made the
listener share in a real experience, if only vicariously. But first we
will begin with a sermon credited to him, in which he summarizes the
philosophical position he held. There was nothing particularly new
about his understanding; it was his method that was novel. His sermon
said, in essence, that reality is merely our mind, and that
enlightenment comprised the nonrational recognition of this.



_All of you should realize that your own mind is Buddha, that is, this
mind is Buddha's Mind. . . . Those who seek for the Truth should
realize that there is nothing to seek. There is no Buddha but Mind;
there is no Mind but Buddha.10

_

Again there is the counsel against discriminations between good and
evil, since the original Mind transcends these:



_Do not choose what is good, nor reject what is evil, but rather be
free from purity and defilement. Then you will realize the emptiness of
sin.11



_This is not a preachment of values; rather it is the insight that
there is a reality beyond our puny discriminations. If you can achieve
this larger perspective, then good and evil become an inconsequential
part of the larger flow of life.

His sermon then returns to the theme of the mind as the arbiter of
reality, recalling the Void of Nagarjuna and pointing out that even the
workings of the mind are ephemeral and possess no self-nature.



_Thoughts perpetually change and cannot be grasped because they possess
no self-nature. The Triple World [of desire, form, and beyond-form] is
nothing more than one's mind. The multitudinous universe is nothing but
the testimony of one Dharma [truth]. What are seen as forms are the
reflections of the mind. The mind does not exist by itself; its
existence is manifested through forms. . . . If you are aware of this
mind, you will dress, eat, and act spontaneously in life as it
transpires, and thereby cultivate your spiritual nature. There is
nothing more that I can teach you.12

_

The essence of this teaching is that reality is, for us, merely what
our mind says it is, and "enlightenment" or "becoming a Buddha" is
merely coming to terms with ourselves and with this tricky mind that
constantly devises our reality for us.

This credo is remembered most vividly in two anecdotes that were later
enshrined in a famous collection of koans called the Wu-men Kuan (or
Mumonkan in Japanese). In both of these anecdotes, Ma-tsu is asked,
"What is Buddha?"--meaning what is the spirituality that all seek. In
one he replied, "Mind is Buddha" (Mumonkan, Case 30), and in the other
anecdote he said, "No mind, no Buddha" (Mumonkan, Case 33), which
merely affirms that spirituality is in the mind, and for its
realization one must realize the mind.13 In either instance he is merely
following the earlier idea that there is no reality and thus no
enlightenment outside the mind.

These two exchanges are part of a single anecdote of Ma-tsu recorded in
the chronicles.



_A monk asked why the Master maintained, "The Mind is the Buddha." The
Master answered, "Because I want to stop the crying of a baby." The
monk persisted, "When the crying has stopped, what is it then?" "Not
Mind, not Buddha," was the answer. "How do you teach a man who does not
uphold either of these?" The Master said, "I would tell him, 'Not
things.' " The monk again questioned, "If you met a man free from
attachment to all things, what would you tell him?" The Master replied,
"I would let him experience the Great Tao._"14_



_As the scholar John Wu has pointed out, "This dialogue reveals an
important secret about Ma-tsu's art of teaching. Sometimes he used a
positive formula, sometimes he used a negative formula. On the surface
they are contradictory to each other. But when we remember that he was
using them in answering persons of different grades of attainments and
intelligence, the contradiction disappears at once in the light of a
higher unity of purpose, which was in all cases to lead the questioner
to transcend his present state."15 Another example of a seemingly
contradictory position is recorded as a koan in another famous
collection, the Blue Cliff Record (Case 3). In this anecdote, Ma-tsu is
asked one day about his health, and he responded with, "Sun-faced
Buddhas, Moon-faced Buddhas."16 According to a Buddhist tradition, a
Sun-faced Buddha lives for eighteen hundred years, a Moon-faced Buddha
lives only a day and a night. Perhaps he was proposing these two
contradictory cases to demonstrate the irrelevance of an inquiry after
his physical state. It would have been far better if the question had
concerned his mind.

A story describing how Ma-tsu handled other teachers who wandered by
depicts very well the way that he could undermine logic and
categorization. In a particularly famous anecdote, a visiting teacher
proposed a condition of duality, a condition equivalent to that of a
switch that can be either off or on. Having permitted the teacher to
adopt this very un-Zen position, Ma-tsu proceeds to demolish him. The
story goes as follows:



_A monk who lectured on Buddhism came to the Master and asked, "What is
the teaching advocated by the Ch'an masters?" Ma-tsu posed a
counterquestion: "What teachings do you maintain?" The monk replied
that he had lectured on more than twenty sutras and sastras. The Master
exclaimed, "Are you not a lion?" The monk said, "I do not venture to
say that." The Master puffed twice and the monk commented, "This is the
way to teach Ch'an." Ma-tsu retorted, "What way do you mean?" and the
monk said, "The way the lion leaves the den." The Master became silent.
Immediately the monk remarked, "This is also the way of Ch'an
teaching." At this the Master again asked, "What way do you mean?" "The
lion remains in his den." "When there is neither going out nor
remaining in, what way would you say this was?" The monk made no
answer. . . .17

_

Ma-tsu had posed a seemingly unanswerable question, at least a question
that logic could not answer. This provocative exchange, later to be
known as a mondo, was a new teaching technique that departed
significantly from the earlier methods of Hui-neng and Shen-hui, who
mounted a platform, gave a sermon, and then politely received questions
from the audience.

But how did Ma-tsu handle this question when it was presented to him?
He fell back on the fact that reality is what we make it, and all
things return to the mind. He once handled essentially the same
question that he put to the visiting monk, showing how it can be done.
His response is the essence of Zen.



_A monk once drew four lines in front of Ma-tsu. The top line was long
and the remaining three were short. He then demanded of the Master,
"Besides saying that one line is long and the other three are short,
what else could you say?" Ma-tsu drew one line on the ground and said,
"This could be called either long or short. That is my answer._"18_



_Language is deceptive. But if it is used to construct an anti-logical
question, it can equally be used to construct an anti-logical reply.

Ma-tsu discovered and refined what seems to have eluded the earlier
teachers such as Hui-neng and Huai-jang: namely, the trigger mechanism
for sudden enlightenment. As noted earlier, he originated the use of
shouting and blows to precipitate enlightenment, techniques to become
celebrated in later decades in the hands of men such as Huang-po and
Lin-chi, masters who shaped the Rinzai sect. As a typical example,
there is the story of a monk coming to him to ask, "What was the
purpose of Bodhidharma's coming from the West?" which is Ch'an parlance
for "What is the basic principle of Zen?" As the monk bowed reverently
before the old master waiting for the reply that would bring it all
together, Ma-tsu knocked him to the ground, saying, "If I do not strike
you, people all over the country will laugh at me." The hapless monk
picked himself up off the ground and--suddenly realizing he had just
tasted the only reality there is--was enlightened on the spot.19
Obviously, every boxer does not experience enlightenment when he
receives a knockout punch. The blow of enlightenment is meant to rattle
the questioning mind and to disrupt, if only for an instant, its
clinging to abstractions and logic. It seems almost as though
enlightenment were a physical phenomenon that sometimes can best be
achieved by a physical process--such as a blow or a shout.

The violence seemed to work both ways, for the monks often gave him a
dose of his own medicine. An example is reported in the following
story:



_It happened once that his disciple Yin-feng was pushing along a cart,
while Ma-tsu was sitting on the road with his feet stretched out. Yin-
feng requested him to draw back his feet, but Ma-tsu said, "What is
stretched out is not to be drawn back again!" Yin-feng retorted, "Once
advanced, there is no turning backward!'' Disregarding the master, he
kept pushing the cart until it ran over and injured his feet. Ma-tsu
returned to the hall with an axe in his hand, saying, "Let the one who
a few moments ago injured my feet with his cart come forward!" Yin-
feng, not to be daunted, came forward stretching his neck in front of
the master. The master [peacefully] put down his axe.20

_

The significance of this story, if it has any significance, is that it
conveys the atmosphere of Ch'an monasteries around 750. It demonstrates
that the leader of a monastery had to win his spurs. He had to be
tougher, more audacious, and faster than anybody else.

During the T'ang it was common to use the ox as a metaphor for all that
is uncontrollable in human nature. The ox was not necessarily bad; it
just had to be governed. The rigor with which this control was applied
at Ma-tsu's monastery is illustrated in the story concerning one of the
disciples, a former hunter who Ma-tsu encountered one day working in
the monastery kitchen.

"What are you doing?" asked the master--a question that never got a
straight answer from an enlightened Ch'an monk.

"I am herding an ox," the man replied, a metaphorical way of saying he
was trying to discipline himself. "And how," shot back Ma-tsu, "do you
go about tending it?" The monk replied, "Whenever it starts to go to
grass [i.e., self-indulgence], I yank it back by the nostrils [the
tender part of the great animal]."

To which Ma-tsu admiringly replied, "If you really can do that by
yourself, then I may as well retire."21

This story illustrates the emphasis on self-control that was a part of
the Ch'an monasteries. Yet self-control was only to be practiced for
what it gave in return. There were no value judgments or rules that had
to be followed. The point was to do what seemed the most rewarding. For
example, there is a story that a local governor asked Ma-tsu, "Master,
should I eat meat and drink wine?" The master did not give him a reply
that implied a value judgment, but rather outlined the rewards of the
two possible paths: "To eat and drink is your natural right, to abstain
from meat and wine is your chance for greater blessedness."22

Ma-tsu often used the structure of language, with its natural capacity
for parallels, as a teaching tool in itself.



_Another time a monk asked, what is the meaning of Bodhidharma coming
from the West?" "What is the meaning [of your asking] at this moment?"
replied the Master.23

_

The monk was interested in abstract issues (using the Ch'an metaphor
for enlightenment's meaning); Ma-tsu reminded him that the only reality
that mattered was his own being, his own needs. And he did it using
almost identical language.

Ma-tsu was constantly testing his disciples, keeping them on their toes
and reinforcing their enlightenment. There is the story that one
evening while enjoying the moonlight with three of his disciples
(including the two most famous, Huai-hai and Nan- ch'uan), he asked
them the question "what should we do right now, this very moment?"--a
typical Zen challenge. One of the monks said, "It would be best to be
studying the sutras of the ancients who have achieved enlightenment."
The monk Huai-hai, who was later to receive Ma-tsu's mantle, countered,
"It would be good to practice meditation."

At that point Nan-ch'uan, the third monk, simply rose, shook the
sleeves of his robe, and silently walked away. Ma-tsu acknowledged this
as the right answer and declared, "The sutra scriptures are returnable
to the Buddhist canon, and meditation to the undifferentiated ocean,
but Nan-ch'uan alone leaps over and transcends these."24 Nan-ch'uan's
response was a triumph of physical action and simplicity over
religiosity and abstraction.

Ma-tsu is reported in the chronicles to have had 139 enlightened
disciples, many of whom went on to become Ch'an leaders in their own
districts. The most outstanding were the monks Huai-hai and Nan-ch'uan
and a layman named P'ang--all three of whom are today remembered in
anecdotes that have become Ch'an scriptures. But others were probably
just as active and enlightened. Southern Ch'an was expanding, with
mountaintop retreats blossoming everywhere. Many teachers probably have
been forgotten only because they had no disciples who took the pains to
transcribe and preserve their teachings. Ma-tsu himself also apparently
wrote nothing, but he was more fortunate in his disciples. In any case,
he reportedly died in the typical Ch'an way. He predicted his death a
month in advance, and when the time came, he bathed, assumed the
meditation posture, and silently passed on.



Chapter Seven

HUAI-HAI:

FATHER OF MONASTIC CH'AN


Among the many celebrated disciples of Ma-tsu, the man whose influence
has been most pervasive throughout the succeeding centuries was Po-
chang Huai-hai (720-814). He is the master credited with founding the
first wholly Ch'an monastery, with devising a special set of rules for
Ch'an discipline, and with writing a closely argued treatise on sudden
enlightenment. Whereas Ma-tsu and others of his disciples such as Nan-
ch'uan experimented with ways to help novices break through the barrier
of reason, Huai-hai examined the phenomenon of enlightenment itself and
described the mental state of preparedness necessary to reach the Other
Shore. Huai-hai has been somewhat unjustifiably neglected by the modern
Zen movement, perhaps because his expository style did not lend itself
to memorable anecdotes or koan cases.

The accounts of Huai-hai's origin are contradictory, but he seems to
have begun his Buddhist studies early, becoming the pupil of a master
named Tao-chih in a small town in the present-day province of Chekiang.1
(It was this master who gave him the religious name Huai-hai, or "Ocean
of Wisdom.") After he came to maturity, the story goes, he heard of the
great master Ma-tsu in the province of Kiangsi, and he traveled there
to study.

Among the many anecdotes surrounding Huai-hai's stay with Ma-tsu,
perhaps the finest is that of the auspicious first encounter. The story
says that when Huai-hai arrived, the old master immediately asked what
previous temple he had traveled from, followed by: "What do you come
here to find?"

Huai-hai replied, "I have come to discover the truth of Buddha."

To this Ma-tsu replied, "What can you expect to learn from me? Why do
you ignore the treasure in your own house and wander so far abroad?"

Understandably puzzled, Huai-hai asked, "What is this treasure that I
have been ignoring?"

To which came the celebrated reply: "The one who questions me at this
moment is your treasure. Everything is complete in it. It is lacking in
nothing, and furthermore the things it possesses are inexhaustible.
Considering that you can use this treasure freely, why then do you
persist in wandering abroad?" It is said that with these words Huai-hai
suddenly had an intuitive, non-rational acquaintance with his own mind.2

Among the other classic tales of Huai-hai's apprenticeship under Ma-tsu
is the often repeated account of the day the two of them were walking
together along a path when suddenly a flock of migratory geese was
heard passing overhead. Ma-tsu turned to his pupil and asked, "What was
that sound?" Huai-hai innocently replied, "It was the cry of wild
geese." Ma-tsu paused and then demanded of his pupil, "Where have they
gone?" Huai-hai said, "They have flown away."

This was an unacceptably drab, straightforward answer for a Zen man,
and in disgust Ma-tsu whirled, grabbed Huai-hai's nose, and twisted it
until his disciple cried out in panic, causing Ma-tsu to observe, "So
you thought they had flown away. Yet they were here all the time."3

The legends say that this exchange, in the typical harsh style of Ma-
tsu, caused Huai-hai to confront his original nature. What Ma-tsu had
done was to give his pupil a vivid lesson in the concept of an
indivisible unity which pervades the world; things do not come and go--
they are there always, part of a permanent fabric. Huai-hai was being
invited to stop viewing the world as a fragmented collection of
elements and see it rather as a unified whole.

The interactions of master and novice were always dynamic. For example,
another story says that one day Ma-tsu asked Huai-hai how he would
teach Ch'an. Huai-hai responded by holding up a dust whisk vertically.
Ma-tsu continued by asking him, "Is this all there is? Is there nothing
more?" Huai-hai replied by throwing down the whisk. (One interpreter
has said that raising the dust whisk revealed the mind's function,
whereas throwing it down returned function to the mind's substance.)4
According to some versions of this episode, Ma-tsu responded by
shouting at the top of his lungs, rendering Huai-hai deaf for three
days. This shout is said to have been the occasion of Huai-hai's final
enlightenment.

Huai-hai seems to have been a kindly man, warm and personable, not
given to the roughhouse methods of some of his contemporaries. Instead
of flamboyance, we find a friendly type who concentrated on guiding a
community of disciples (sometimes called a "Zen forest") and giving a
helping hand to all. We will pass over the many other anecdotes
involving his stay with Ma-tsu and turn instead to his more significant
contributions to the growth of Ch'an.5 These fall into two major
categories: First, he founded the first wholly Ch'an monastery and for
it formulated a set of monastic rules that are today still respected in
Zen monasteries; and second, he was one of the first Southern Ch'an
masters to explore the psychology of "sudden enlightenment" and to
write a lucid analysis of the mental preparation it required.

Before detailing Huai-hai's contribution to monastic Ch'an, perhaps it
would be well to recall briefly the character of the traditional
Buddhist monastery in China during the T'ang (618-907) era. Buddhist
monasteries had long been governed by a set of rules known as the
_vinaya_. These rules prescribed everything from the color of the robes
for the priesthood to the penalties attached to eating onions or garlic
(forbidden primarily because they were thought to be stimulants, not
necessarily because of their social liabilities in close quarters).
There were also some specific and quite solemn commandments--for
example, monks or nuns could be expelled from the community for
stealing, killing, lying, or sexual congress. Originating in India,
these rules had been subsequently transplanted to China, where they
gradually were made even more strict, although their enforcement
apparently was not always rigorous. Perhaps because of this laxity the
T'ang regime established penalties even more severe than those imposed
by the Buddhist authorities. For example, whereas the _vinaya_
indirectly countenanced the eating of meat (through the loophole that
all charitable gifts must be accepted since they give the laity merit,
and if a gift happened to be meat it still had to be consumed for the
sake of the donor), the T'ang government prescribed thirty days of hard
labor for monks caught partaking. Since citizens entering Buddhist
orders were taken off the tax rolls, the government took pains to
ensure that monastic life was rigorous enough to discourage simple tax
dodgers.7 Although the Chinese Buddhist schools were almost all members
of the side of Buddhism known as Mahayana, they apparently followed the
rules of Theravada Buddhism, since the latter were clearer and more
easily understood.8 Huai-hai decided to merge the two sets of rules and
from them to devise a new set of guidelines specifically for Ch'an,
thereby creating a code of monastic discipline that eventually would
rule Zen behavior throughout the world.

The record concerning how the Ch'an monastic system initially was
established is less detailed than we might wish. The legendary Fourth
Patriarch, Tao-hsin, was said to have been the first _dhyana_ master to
settle down in one place and nurture a band of disciples. _Dhyana_
teachers seem to have allied themselves with the conventional Buddhists
in the decades that followed, living in their monasteries much as the
hermit crab finds a home in the shells of other species. If their
numbers were large they might have their own separate quarters, but
they still had to respect the rules of their host sect, which more
often than not was the Vinaya school.9 Gradually, however, a
transformation occurred, as Ch'an masters became increasingly
distinguishable from the leaders of other sects and Ch'an itself grew
to increasing proportions, particularly in the south.

It is not surprising that the man who made monastic Ch'an a reality was
Ma-tsu's pupil Po-chang Huai-hai. In the recorded anecdotes Huai-hai is
characterized as a level-headed, pragmatic man whom one can easily
imagine having superior administrative ability. As John Wu
characterizes his rules, "It was this rule [of Huai-hai] that
instituted for the first time the Zen monastic system. In its emphasis
on moral discipline and its matter of factness, it is comparable to the
Holy Rule of St. Benedict. The duties of the Abbot and various
functionaries under him are meticulously defined. The daily life of the
monks is regulated in detail. Of particular interest are the rites of
taking vows and the universal duty of working in the fields."10

It is difficult to say exactly what was the nature of the rules Huai-
hai formulated, since his original precepts have been recast a number
of times down through the years, with the earliest surviving version
being that preserved in a 1282 Chinese Yuan Dynasty document called
"the Holy Rule of Po-chang [Huai-hai]." If we look beyond the details,
however, we see that his emphasis on the creation of a self-supporting
monastic establishment was in a sense a further sinicization of Indian
Buddhism, through the rejection of begging as the primary means of
support. (Begging was not abandoned entirely, since it is valuable for
teaching humility; instead it was retained in a regulated, symbolic
form, but made a second line of economic defense.) The monasteries were
intended to survive on their own, since Huai-hai insisted that
meditation and worship be integrated with physical labor. Whereas the
ideal Indian holy man was one who relied on begging, Huai-hai believed
that in China it was holier to work for a living. This was the core of
his teachings, as symbolized in his famous manifesto: "A day without
work is a day without food." Nothing could have been more
sympathetically received among the Chinese, and Huai-hai is probably
rightly credited with inoculating Ch'an against the governmental
persecution of 845 that destroyed so many other Buddhist sects. He
practiced what he preached, and even when he reached old age he
continued to toil in the fields. In fact, his disciples finally became
so concerned for his health that they took the unprecedented step of
hiding his gardening hoe. But true to his rule, he refused to eat until
it was returned.

Perhaps we can infer something of Huai-hai's regulations from the
routine in contemporary Zen monasteries (of the Rinzai sect).11 Monks
rise well before light (before they can see the lines in the palm of
their hand), and after their morning toilet they gather in the main
hall for sunrise devotions--in this case rapid chanting of scriptures, a
device more for developing powers of concentration than for piety. They
then return to the meditation hall, where chanting resumes. Next comes
breakfast, usually plain rice with a modest vegetable garnish, and then
back to the meditation hall for ceremonial tea and announcements of the
day's schedule. Afterward each monk meets individually with the master
in his quarters, where the monk's enlightenment is tested and a koan
may be assigned. (The master, incidentally, enjoys a private room; the
monks sleep together in a common hall, arranged according to rank.)
After this, the monks attend to the garden and grounds of the
monastery, and later in the morning there may be begging or visits to
lay patrons for donations. After lunch (the main meal; its leftovers
are supper) there is more work in the garden of the monastery, planting
and harvesting, as well as repairing the buildings or other maintenance
chores. Later on there may be more chanting, as well as cleaning and
upkeep of the interior of the buildings. And in between there may be
meditation. Then as nightfall descends the evening bell rings out to
signify the work day's ending. During the evening the monk may meditate
more or receive further instruction from the master or his brothers.
Finally, late in the evening, to bed--at the end of a long day. It
should be noted that there are also many special days on which meals,
ceremonies, or activities may assume a different character.

It is significant that the monasteries of early Ch'an are said not to
have had a Buddha hall or a place for worship; rather they had only a
Dharma or lecture hall, in which the master gave a talk, followed by
sharp exchanges with his disciples, who often were rowdy and sometimes
left at will to demonstrate their independence of mind. These were
places of irreverence and unfettered intellectual inquiry; and
apparently there was no enforced study of the traditional Buddhist
literature. With monasteries of their own where they could do as they
pleased, the Ch'an masters found their rebellion complete. Theirs now
was an unhampered search for the perennial philosophy.

With this in mind we may now turn to the psychological teachings of the
lawgiver Huai-hai. Unlike the piecemeal story of his contribution to
monastic life, which is preserved in spirit more than in letter, the
writings on enlightenment that bear his name are rather firmly
attributed. This is, in fact, a significant new aspect of Ch'an
history, since his work represents one of the oldest documents actually
composed by a master--as compared to a sermon transcribed and edited by
some follower. According to the extant writings, after Huai-hai had
studied with Ma-tsu for several years, he returned to his home temple
to care for his first master, Tao-chih, who was by then aged and ill--an
act of duty any Chinese would immediately understand. It was during
this return visit with his old master that he composed a treatise
setting forth the theoretical basis of sudden enlightenment. It is said
that when this document was shown to Ma-tsu, he compared Huai-hai to a
great pearl whose luster penetrated all time and space. (Curiously, Ma-
tsu himself appears not to have made a great fuss about the meaning of
sudden enlightenment, seemingly taking the "theory" for granted and
moving along to the "practice.")

"The Zen Teaching of Huai-hai on Sudden Illumination" was

composed in the form of an imaginary question-and-answer session, in
which Huai-hai effectively interviewed himself on the question of
sudden enlightenment and the specific problems a person might encounter
in trying to prepare for it. He stressed that one of the most important
things to do was to suspend making value judgments about things, since
this leads almost directly to splitting things into camps of good and
bad, likes and dislikes. This opens one to the world of categories and
dualities, just the opposite from oneness. According to Huai-hai, the
first thing to do is strive for:



_. . . total relinquishment of ideas as to the dual nature of good and
bad, being and non-being, love and aversion, void and non-void,
concentration and distraction, pure and impure. By giving all of them
up, we attain to a state in which all opposites are seen as void. . . .
Once we attain that state, not a single form can be discerned. Why?
Because our self-nature is immaterial and does not catch a single thing
foreign to itself. That which contains no single thing is true Reality.
. . .12

_

The desire to avoid love and aversion is inextricably tied with the
freedom from distinctions, duality, judgments, or prejudices:

Wisdom means the ability to distinguish every sort of good and evil;
_dhyana_ means that, though making these distinctions, you remain
wholly unaffected by love or aversion for them.13

Elsewhere he describes this goal as:



_Being able to behold men, women and all the various sorts of
appearances while remaining as free from love and aversion as if they
were actually not seen at all. . . .14



_In this manner we can operate on the principle of unity, even in a
world where appearances have multiplicity.

But how exactly can we say that all things are one? It is not something
that can be fully understood with the rational mind, and initially it
must be taken partly on faith, as a holding action until we can
understand it intuitively. His translator John Blofeld uses the
traditional Buddhist analogy of the sea, which is both constantly
changing and yet eternally changeless: "Contemplation of the movement
and shifting composition of sea-waves is a useful symbolical approach;
for, not only are the waves and the sea identical in substance, but
also a given wave does not preserve its individual identity for a
single moment as the water composing it is never for an instant
entirely the same; thus, by the time it reaches us from a distance,
every drop it contains will be other than the drops composing it when
we saw it first. On the other hand, sea-water is sea-water and the wave
is entirely composed of that. Each wave is void--a mere fluctuating
appearance identical in substance with every other wave and with the
entire ocean. . . ."15 Waves are a perfect metaphor for the idea of
everything and nothing at once, since they are both ephemeral and part
of a larger reality, the sea, out of which they emerge, assume a
physical appearance, and then dissolve. They seem to exist, yet you
cannot grasp and hold them. They are both existing and nonexistent.
Thus they resemble the Void, a kind of energy that manifests itself
through diverse illusory objects of the senses, but which is itself
ungraspable, changeless unity. With this in mind, perhaps it is easier
to understand Huai-hai when he declares:



_The nature of the Absolute is void and yet not void. How so? The
marvellous "substance" of the Absolute, having neither form nor shape,
is therefore undiscoverable; hence it is void. Nevertheless, that
immaterial, formless "substance" contains functions as numerous as the
sands of the Ganges, functions which respond unfailingly to
circumstances, so it is also described as not void.16

_

By focusing on this idea of unity in an Absolute, we also interact with
our own perception of time. Since it is important that the mind not
dwell on anything, naturally enough this applies to time as well as
space.



_If you want to understand the non-dwelling mind very clearly, while
you are actually sitting in meditation, you must be cognizant only of
the mind. . . . Whatever is past is past, so do not sit in judgment
upon it; for when minding about the past ceases of itself, it can be
said that there is no longer any past. Whatever is in the future is not
here yet, so do not direct your hopes and longings towards it; for,
when minding about the future ceases of itself, it can be said that
there is no future. Whatever is present is now at hand; just be
conscious of your non-attachment to everything--non-attachment in the
sense of not allowing any love or aversion for anything to enter your
mind; for, when minding the present ceases of itself, we may say that
there is no present.17

_

He has taken the idea of the "now" to an interesting new dimension. By
cutting off thoughts of past and future, you not only save yourself
mental anguish, you also no longer need distinguish the idea of the
"present" . . . and you have just eliminated a major aspect of
attachment.

Huai-hai is not blind to the difficulty of such rigorous mind control,
and he offers some of the first practical advice from a Ch'an master
for controlling the mind. Not surprisingly, it is an admonition to stop
trying so hard, to just focus on goals rather than forcing the mind's
behavior. For example, if you are meditating and your mind wants to
meander and look for something to dwell on, what should you do?



_Should your mind wander away, do not follow it, whereupon your
wandering mind will stop wandering of its own accord. Should your mind
desire to linger somewhere, do not follow it and do not dwell there,
whereupon your mind's questing for a dwelling place will cease of its
own accord. Thereby, you will come to possess a non-dwelling mind--a
mind which remains in the state of non-dwelling. If you are fully aware
in yourself of a non-dwelling mind, you will discover that there is
just the fact of dwelling, with nothing to dwell upon or not to dwell
upon. This full awareness in yourself of a mind dwelling upon nothing
is known as having a clear perception of your own mind or, in other
words, as having a clear perception of your own nature.18

_

By way of wrapping up his treatise, he summarizes his technique for
sudden illumination in a bold manifesto:



_You should know that setting forth the principle of deliverance in its
entirety amounts only to this--WHEN THINGS HAPPEN, MAKE NO RESPONSE:
KEEP YOUR MINDS FROM DWELLING ON ANY THING WHATSOEVER: KEEP THEM
FOREVER STILL AS THE VOID AND UTTERLY PURE.19



_Perhaps it is time we asked what exactly is the point of all this.
When we have achieved his goal, we have effectively cut off all
attachments, rationality, discernment, values, sensations. But why
would we want to do this in the first place? Huai-hai answers that by
releasing ourselves from this enslaving bondage to our ego and its
attachments, we become the masters of our own being, free to experience
the world but no longer at its mercy. And furthermore we no longer have
even to think about being in the state of "no-thought." It is this
natural state of wisdom that is our goal.



_Concentration (_dhyana_) involves the stilling of your mind . . . so
that you remain wholly unmoved by surrounding phenomena. Wisdom means
that your stillness of mind is not disturbed by your giving any thought
to that stillness, that your purity is unmarred by your entertaining
any thought of purity and that, in the midst of such pairs of opposites
as good and evil, you are able to distinguish between them without
being stained by them and, in this way, to reach the state of being
perfectly at ease and free of all dependence.20



_This is the state called enlightenment, a new way of experiencing
reality that relies entirely upon intuition. Then we realize that all
this time our rational mind has been leading us along, telling us that
appearances are real and yet keeping us from really experiencing things
firsthand, since the rational mind believes in names, categories,
duality. Consequently, before this sudden moment of intuitive
understanding, we saw the world as through a glass darkly, with
ourselves as subject and the falsely perceived exterior world as
object. After this experience we see things clearly, but we perceive
them for what they really are--creations of mind as devoid of genuine
substance as the world we create in our dreams or the ocean's waves
that we can see but cannot hold. Knowing this, we can regard the world
dispassionately, no longer caught in the web of ego involvement that
enslaves those not yet enlightened. Since this whole world view only
can be understood intuitively, it is not surprising that it must one
day "dawn on you" when you least expect, like a sudden inspiration that
hits you after logic has failed. Huai-hai's instructions are intended
to be preparations for this moment, attributes to adopt that will make
you ready and receptive when your "sudden" enlightenment hits.

Huai-hai's concept of sudden enlightenment was quite
straightforward, and it apparently was not absolutely necessary that
meditation be employed. (In fact, he has defined _dhyana _as a state of
mind, not an action.) Enlightenment is release from the ego, the
primary thing standing in the way of mental peace in a world of getting
and spending, of conflict and competition. The ancient Ch'an masters
knew well the griefs and mental distress that haunt the heart of man,
and thinkers such as Huai-hai explored its cure more fully than we
realize today.



Chapter Eight

NAN-CH'UAN AND CHAO-CHOU:

MASTERS OF THE IRRATIONAL


Nan-ch'uan P'u-yuan


The best-remembered disciple of Ma-tsu was Nan-ch'uan P'u-yuan (748-
835), founder of a famous monastery and a brilliant if short-lived
lineage whose finest example was his pupil Chao-chou Ts'ung-shen (778-
897). _The Transmission of the Lamp _reports that Nan-ch'uan was born
in the North China province of Honan.1 He began study of meditation at
age ten, and according to the _Biographies of Eminent Monks _compiled
in the Sung (_Sung kao-seng chuan_) he went to study Buddhism on Mt.
Sung, near Loyang, when he was thirty and became a priest of
traditional Buddhism, apparently of the Vinaya school.2 After his
ordination, he traveled to various of the better-known monasteries,
perfected his knowledge of Buddhist scriptures, and landed finally at
the mountain establishment of the Ch'an master Ma-tsu.

The legend says that although there were eight hundred followers of Ma-
tsu, the precocious Nan-ch'uan was immediately elevated to the position
of the foremost disciple, and none of the others ventured to debate
with him.3 He finally achieved his complete enlightenment under the old
master. It is not clear when he arrived or how long he stayed with Ma-
tsu, but he reportedly left the monastery in 795--as he neared fifty--and
founded his own community on Mt. Nan-ch'uan, a location in Anhwei
province north of Kiangsi, building the original lodging with his own
hands and attracting several hundred disciples. His most famous
follower, aside from the later master Chao-chou, was the layman Lu
Hsuan, the provincial governor of the Hsuan district. The story says
that after residing in his mountain retreat for thirty years, without
once venturing out, he finally acceded to the requests of the governor
to come down and teach Ch'an to the people on the plain. He thus
enjoyed a great fame as a teacher of Ch'an, although today he is
remembered by anecdotes rather than by any attributed writings.

The governor seems to have been puzzled by some of the teachings of
Seng-chao (384-414), the early, pre-Ch'an Buddhist. He specifically
asked Nan-ch'uan the meaning of a statement in The Book of Chao that
all things come from the same source and accordingly there can be no
difference between right and wrong, which are themselves the same, by
virtue of a common origin. The story says that Nan-ch'uan pointed to a
patch of peonies in the garden and said, "Governor, when people of the
present day see these blossoms, it is as if they see them in a dream."4

The point seerns to be that the unenlightened cannot fully perceive the
flower as it really is, cannot experience it directly and purely.
Instead it is approached as an object apart from the viewer, the
subject. It is not seen as an extension of his or her own reality. The
ordinary mind permits this dichotomy of nature, but in the Zen mind,
man and flower become one, merged into a seamless fabric of life. This
is the kind of statement that in later years would be isolated from the
chronicles and made into a "public case" or koan, a teaching device for
novices. Its meaning is not meant to be discerned through the logical
processes, and even less through the medium of language. When a later
master was asked what Nan-ch'uan had meant, he answered with the
equally enigmatic "Pass me a brick."5

The other celebrated story about the governor is perhaps easier to
understand. The story says that one day Lu Hsuan posed the following
problem to Nan-ch'uan: "What if I told you that a man had raised a
goose in a bottle, watching it grow until one day he realized that it
had grown too large to pass through the bottle's neck? Since he did not
want to break the bottle or kill the goose, how would he get it out?"
Nan-ch'uan began quietly, "My esteemed governor," and then he shouted,
"THE GOOSE IS OUT!" The story says that Lu Hsuan suddenly was
enlightened on the spot.6 Nan-ch'uan had shown that one who posed a
hypothetical question could be answered by an equally hypothetical
response. There is a common Ch'an (and Taoist) reference to a truth
being caught in the net of words. Here Nan-ch'uan shows how to extract
truth from verbal encumbrances. Another anecdote recounts a similar
incident:



_A monk said to Nan-ch'uan, "There is a jewel in the sky; how can we
get hold of it?" Nan-ch'uan said, "Cut down bamboos and make a ladder,
put it up in the sky, and get hold of it!'' The monk said, "How can the
ladder be put up in the sky?" Nan-ch'uan said, "How can you doubt your
getting hold of the jewel?_"7_

_

Many of his finest exchanges with pupils are preserved in _The
Transmission of the Lamp_. For maximum impact it is perhaps best to
lean back and let his wordplay wash over the rational mind like a cool,
cleansing surf. As with the Taoist Chuang Tzu, the best way to
comprehend this antilogical phenomenon is to forget about trying to
grasp it intellectually, for only then can we understand.



_The Governor said, "There is a piece of stone in my house. Sometimes
it stands up and sometimes it lies down. Now, can it be carved into the
image of Buddha?" "Yes, it is possible," answered the Master. "But it
is impossible to do so?" countered the Governor."It is impossible! It
is impossible!" exclaimed the Master.8

_

This dialogue sounds almost as though it were from an undiscovered
scene from Waiting for Godot, as Vladimir and Estragon test the
meaninglessness of language. And for pure Ionesco, it is hard to top
the following incident:



_Once Master Nan-ch'uan told Kuei-tsung and Ma-yu that he was going to
take them with him to visit Nan-yang Hui-chung, the National Teacher.
Before they began their journey, Nan-ch'uan drew a circle on the road
and said, "As soon as you give a right answer we will be on our way."
Thereupon Kuei-tsung sat down inside the circle and Ma-yu bowed in
woman's fashion. The Master said to them, "Judging by this answer, it
will not be necessary to go._"9_

_

The attitude of Nan-ch'uan toward conventional pieties, as well as
toward the societal, rationalistic concerns of Confucianism, are
perhaps best illustrated by the farewell he gave to his distinguished
follower:



_When Governor Lu was about to return to his office in Hsuan-cheng, he
came to bid the Master good-bye. The latter asked him, "Governor, you
are going back to the capital. How will you govern the people?" The
Governor replied, "I will govern them through wisdom." The Master
remarked, "If this is true, the people will suffer for it._"10_

_

Nan-ch'uan had a refreshing lack of pomposity that would have well
served a good many other Zen masters, ancient and modern.



_When the Master was washing his clothes, a monk said, "Master! You
still are not free from 'this'?" Master Nan-ch'uan replied, lifting the
clothes, "What can you do about 'this'?_"11_



_This calls to mind the anecdote concerning Alexander the Great, who
when asked if he was a god as had been widely reported, responded by
suggesting that the question be directed to the man who carried out his
chamber pot.

His attitude toward the great Ch'an teachers of the past  seems
similarly lacking in awe.



_A monk inquired, "From patriarch to patriarch there is a transmission.
What is it that they transmit to one another?" The Master said, "One,
two, three, four, five." The monk asked, "What is that which was
possessed by the ancients?" The Master said, "When it can be possessed,
I will tell you." The monk said dubiously, "Master, why should you
lie?" The Master replied, "I do not lie. [The Sixth Patriarch Hui-neng]
lied._"12_

_

Nan-ch'uan was accustomed to the rough-and-tumble of Ma-tsu's
monastery, a place of shouting, beating, harangues, insults, "mindless"
interviews, misleading clues, and mind-fatiguing "irrelevancies." Yet
it was all done with a high intensity and intended for the quite noble
purpose of forcing a disciple to find his own first nature, his own
enlightenment. The monastery as it developed under these wild men of
Southern Ch'an was nothing less than a high-pressure cell for those who
chose to enter. Although these new techniques for shaking
nonintellectual insights into Ch'an novices were essentially the
invention of Ma-tsu, they were transplanted, refined, and expanded by
men like Nan-ch'uan, whose new monastery seems to have had the same
deadly-serious zaniness as Ma-tsu's.



Chao-chou Ts'ung-shen



Some of the most instructive anecdotes associated with Nan-ch'uan are
those involving his star pupil, Chao-chou Ts'ung-shen (778-897), who
came to be one of the major figures of the Golden Age of Ch'an and one
of the best-remembered of the wild Southern masters. Although his real
name was Ts'ung-shen, he is remembered in history (as are many Ch'an
masters) by the name of the mountain where he held forth during his
mature years. He was born in Ts'ao-chou in Shantung and early on became
a novice monk at a local monastery. However, the urge to travel was
irresistible and he left before being ordained, arriving at Nan-
ch'uan's monastery while still a lad. The traditional first exchange
typifies their long and fruitful relationship. Nan-ch'uan opened with
the standard question:



_"Where have you just come from?"

       "I have just left Shui-hsiang [named for a famous state of
Buddha]."

      "Have you seen the standing image of Buddha?"

"What I see is not a standing image of Buddha but a supine Enlightened
One!"

"Are you your own master or not?"

"Yes, I am. [i.e., I already have a master.]"

"Where is this master of yours?"

"In the middle of the winter the weather becomes bitterly cold. I wish
all blessings on you, sir."

        At this, Nan-ch'uan decided that this visitor was promising and
permitted him to become his disciple.13

_

Chao-chou's strange answer seems to have been his own way of signifying
he had chosen Nan-ch'uan as his future master. Nan-ch'uan, for his own
part, seems to have recognized in this quizzical repartee all the
makings of a great Ch'an worthy.

The exploits of Nan-ch'uan and Chao-chou form the core of the great
anecdotal literature of Ch'an's Golden Age. Neither was a great
innovator, a great writer, or a great organizer, but together they were
able to explore the highest limits of the dialogue as a vehicle for
enlightenment. And their dialogues, incidentally, did not always
necessarily require words.



_One day, in the monastery of Nan-chu'an, the monks of the east and
west wing had a dispute over the possession of a cat. They all came to
Nan-ch'uan for arbitration. Holding a knife in one hand and the cat in
the other, Nan-ch'uan said, "If any one of you can say the right thing,
this cat will be saved; otherwise it will be cut into two pieces." None
of the monks could say anything. Nan-ch'uan then killed the cat. In the
evening, when Chao-chou returned to the monastery, Nan-ch'uan asked him
what he would have said had he been there at the time. Chao-chou took
off his straw sandals, put them upon his head, and walked out.
Whereupon Nan-ch'uan commented, "Oh, if only you had been here, the cat
would have been saved._"14_

_

Chao-chou's response used no language and was devoid of distinctions,
being neither positive nor negative. This is one of the most celebrated
stories in _The Transmission of the Lamp_, and one that is probably
richer if we avoid subjecting it to too much commentary.

The point was specifically intended to be as simple as possible, but
this very simplicity is disturbing to the complicated intellectual
mind. There is a particularly telling story of the exchange Chao-chou
held with Nan-ch'uan concerning the Tao, meaning the way to
enlightenment:



_When Chao-chou asked his master, "What is the Tao?" the latter
replied, "Tao is nothing else than the ordinary mind." "Is there any
way to approach it?" pursued Chao-chou further. "Once you intend to
approach it," said Nan-ch'uan, "you are on the wrong track." "Barring
conscious intention," the disciple continued to inquire, "how can we
attain to a knowledge of the Tao?" To this the master replied, "Tao
belongs neither to knowledge nor to no-knowledge. For knowledge is but
illusive perception, while no-knowledge is mere confusion. If you
really attain true comprehension of the Tao, unshadowed by the
slightest doubt, your vision will be like the infinite space, free of
all limits and obstacles. Its truth or falsehood cannot be established
artificially by external proofs." At these words Chao-chou came to an
enlightenment. Only after this did he take his vows and become a
professed monk.15

_

Nan-ch'uan's assertion that Tao is nothing else than the ordinary mind,
but that it cannot be reached by deliberate searching, is the
longstanding commonplace of Ch'an. However, he here adds an interesting
new assertion: He claims here that although the person finding this
enlightenment has no doubt of its reality, it cannot be proved or
disproved by any objective tests. There is no way that the enlightened
person can be shown objectively to have achieved his goal. The Ch'an
masters could test enlightenment by matching the claimant's illogic
against their own; if his "craziness" matched, then the disciple
passed. But there is, by definition, no objective test of
enlightenment. But then, how do you test the ultimate realization that
there is nothing to realize other than what you knew all along? Quite
simply, the master's intuition is the final authority.

Their dialogues frequently were full of electricity, as witness another
exchange that ended quite differently:



_Chao-chou asked, "Tao is not external to things; the externality of
things is not Tao. Then what is the Tao that is beyond things?" The
master struck him. Thereupon Chao- chou took hold of the stick and
said, "From now on, do not strike a man by mistake." The Master said,
"We can easily differentiate between a dragon and a snake, but nobody
can fool a Ch'an monk._"10_

_

Chao-chou here seems to be declaring to Nan-ch'uan that his
enlightenment is genuine. And Nan-ch'uan, for his part, is asserting
that the Master's judgment, not the monk's, is the final criterion. In
another incident Chao-chou actually has the last word.



_Once Nan-ch'uan said to Chao-chou, "Nowadays it is best to live and
work among members of a different species from us." (This recalls the
Buddhist proverb: It is easier to save the beasts than to save
mankind.) Chao-chou, however, thought otherwise. He said, "Leaving
alone the question of 'different,' let me ask you what is 'species'
anyway?" Nan-ch'uan put both of his hands on the ground, to indicate
the species of the quadrupeds. Chao-chou, approaching him from behind,
trampled him to the ground, and then ran into the Nirvana Hall crying,
"I repent, I repent." Nan-ch'uan, who appreciated his act of trampling,
did not understand the reason of his repentance. So he sent his
attendant to ask the disciple what was he repenting for. Chao-chou
replied, "I repent that I did not trample him twice over._"17_

_

In spite of such occasional bursts of exuberance, Chao-chou seems
overall to have been comparatively mild-mannered for a Ch'an master. He
rarely chose to berate or beat his disciples, as did Ma-tsu or his own
master, Nan-ch'uan. In many ways, Chao-chou was the finest hope for the
lineage of Nan-ch'uan, but he seems not to have been overly concerned
with its continuation. In fact, it is somewhat ironic that Huai-hai,
who was more an organizer than a creator, ended up with a lineage
perpetuating his line down to the present day, whereas Nan-ch'uan's
lineage effectively ended with his disciple Chao-chou, although both
men were remarkable teachers. In fact, Chao-chou almost never did
settle down to run a monastery. After Nan-ch'uan died he resumed his
travels and for many years roamed across China, visiting with other
Ch'an masters. He seems to have gradually worked his way back north,
for it was in the north that he realized his most lasting fame and
influence. But his reputation was gained before he had a monastery of
his own and without the aid of permanent disciples. The real acclaim
seems to have been associated with a journey to a famous Buddhist
pilgrimage site, Mt. Wut'ai, in the northeastern edge of Shensi
province, where he preached a sermon that brought him wide recognition.
Although he loved nothing more than wandering the craggy mountains of
China, friends tried to convince him to settle down--as related in an
incident when he was near eighty, after many years of wandering:



_Once, as he was visiting Chu-yu, the latter said, "A man of your age
should try to find a place to settle down and teach." "Where is my
abiding place?" Chao-chou asked back. "What?" said his host, "With so
many years on your head, you have not even come to know where your
permanent home is!" Chao-chou said, "For thirty years I have roamed
freely on horseback. Today, for the first time I am kicked by an
ass!_"18_

_

He finally did settle down, at eighty, accepting an invitation to come
and live at the Kuan-yin monastery in Chao-chou in northeastern China,
where he stayed until his death some forty years later. His lack of
interest in worldly, administrative details is illustrated by the story
that during his forty years as abbot of the monastery he installed no
new furnishings and made no attempt to collect alms. Perhaps this tells
us why Huai-hai's line won the day. Yet Chao-chou was the popular
favorite. His preference for colloquial language endeared him to the
people. He tried to demonstrate that enlightenment can be found and
subsequently heightened through ordinary everyday activities. The
following anecdote suggests his idea of Buddhism had little to do with
the Buddha:



_Master Chao-chou was asked by a monk, "Who is the Buddha?" "The one in
the shrine," was the answer. "Isn't it a clay statue that sits in the
shrine?" the monk went on.

"Yes, that is right."

"Then who is the Buddha?" the monk repeated.

"The one in the shrine," replied the Master.

A monk asked, "What is my own self?"

"Have you finished your rice gruel?" asked the Master.

"Yes, I have finished it," replied the monk.

"Then go and wash your dishes," said the Master.

When the monk heard this, he was suddenly awakened.19

_

The thrust of this anecdote is that through the everyday doing of what
needs to be done, we can find authentic values and our original nature.
As the modern scholar Chang Chung-yuan points out, "This simple
activity of the Ch'an monk, washing the dishes after eating gruel, is
the most ordinary thing, the sort of activity that is completely
spontaneous and requires no mental effort. While engaged in it, a man
is free from assertion and negation."20

When we are doing manual tasks we experience them directly; we do not
have to intellectualize about them. This acting without thought,
without judgments of good or bad, is in fact a parable of
enlightenment. So it was that Chao-chou could so effectively use rote
tasks as a teaching device, for they showed a novice how he could free
his mind from its enslavement to opinions and values. This stress on
the meaningfulness of daily manual activities, as distinct from
philosophical speculation, seems to have been the major position of
Chao-chou. This attitude is particularly borne out in another
celebrated Chao-chou anecdote.



_One morning, as Chao-chou was receiving new arrivals, he asked one of
them, "Have you been here before?" "Yes," the latter replied. "Help
yourself to a cup of tea," he said. Then he asked another, "Have you
been here before?" "No, Your Reverence, this is my first visit here."
Chao-chou again said, "Help yourself to a cup of tea." The Prior of the
monastery took Chao-chou to task, saying, "The one had been here
before, and you gave him a cup of tea. The other had not been here, and
you gave him likewise a cup of tea. What is the meaning of this?" Chao-
chou called out, "Prior!" "Yes," responded the Prior. "Help yourself to
a cup of tea!_"21_

_

Behind this possibly deceptive simplicity, however, there must have
been a penetrating intelligence, for a very large number of his
anecdotes were important enough to become enshrined in those famous
collections of koans the Mumonkan and the Blue Cliff Record. One of the
best known is the following:



_A monk asked, "Since all things return to One, where does this One
return to?" "When I was in Tsing-chou, I had a robe made which weighed
seven chin [pounds]" replied the Master.22



_The answer is a perfect example of "no-thought," the anti-logic
condition in which rationality is disengaged. To attempt to subject it
to analysis would be to miss the entire point.

An even more famous koan, and one that has become the traditional
starting point for beginners, is the following:



_A monk asked Chao-chou, "Has a dog the Buddha Nature?" Chao-chou
answered, "Mu._"23_



_Here the word _mu_, meaning "nothingness" or "un," is an elegant
resolution of a perplexing Zen dilemma. Had Chao-chou answered in the
affirmative, he would have been tacitly instigating a dualistic view of
the universe, in which a dog and a man are allowed to be discussed as
separate objects. But to have responded negatively would have been to
even more strongly betray the Zen teaching of the Oneness permeating
all things. An answer was called for, but not an explanation. So the
master responded with a nonword--a sound that has been adopted in later
Zen practice as symbolic of the unity of all things.

This wisdom made Chao-chou such a legend in his own lifetime that many
monks from the south came north to try to test him, but he always
outwitted them, even when he was well past a hundred. Perhaps it would
be well to round out his story with a garland of some of the exchanges
he had with new monks:



_A new arrival said apologetically to the master, "I have come here
empty-handed!" "Lay it down then!" said the master. "Since I have
brought nothing with me, what can I lay down?" asked the visitor. "Then
go on carrying it!" said the master.24



One day Chao-chou fell down in the snow, and called out, "Help me up!
Help me up!" A monk came and lay down beside him. Chao-chou got up and
went away.25



A monk asked, "When a beggar comes, what shall we give him?" The master
answered, "He is lacking in nothing."26



When a monk asked him, "What is the real significance of Bodhidharma's
coming from the west?" his answer was, "The cypress tree in the
courtyard." When the monk protested that Chao-chou was only referring
to a mere object, the Abbot said, "No, I am not referring you to an
object." The monk then repeated again the question. "The cypress tree
in the courtyard!" said the Abbot once more.27

_

_A monk besought him to tell him the most vitally important principle
of Ch'an. The master excused himself by saying, "I must now go to make
water. Think even such a trifling thing I have to do in person."28



_Chao-chou was of a unique breed of "Golden Age" masters, who created
Ch'an's finest moment. Even Chao-chou knew this, for he is quoted as
recognizing that Ch'an had already passed through its most dynamic
epoch.



_"Ninety years ago," he said, "I saw more than eighty enlightened
masters in the lineage of Ma-tsu; all of them were creative spirits. Of
late years, the pursuit of Ch'an has become more and more trivialized
and ramified. Removed ever farther from the original spirit of men of
supreme wisdom, the process of degeneration will go on from generation
to generation._"29_

_

Chao-chou died in his one hundred and twentieth year, surely one of the
most venerable Ch'an masters. Fortunately his pessimistic assessment of
Ch'an's future was only partly correct. Although he himself had no
illustrious heirs, there were other Southern Ch'an masters who would
extend the lineage of Ma-tsu into what would one day be the Rinzai
school, among these a layman named P'ang and the master Huang-po.



Chapter Nine


P'ANG AND HAN-SHAN:

LAYMAN AND POET


_Han-shan

_

Each of the better-known disciples of Ma-tsu exemplified some
particular aspect of Ch'an: Whereas Po-chang Huai-hai advanced Ch'an's
organizational and analytical side, Nan-ch'uan embodied the illogical,
psychologically jolting approach to the teaching. But what about the
Ch'an outside the monasteries? Did Ma-tsu's influence extend to the lay
community? Although little has been preserved to help answer these
questions, we do have the stories of two Ch'an poets who operated
outside the monastic system: Layman P'ang (740?-811) and Han-shan
(760?-840?). They were part of a movement called _chu-shih_, lay
believers who were drawn to Buddhism but rejected the formal practices,
preferring to remain outside the establishment and seek enlightenment
on their own.1 However, P'ang studied under Ma-tsu himself, and Han-shan
sometimes echoed the master's teachings in his verse.



Layman P'ang



The man known to history as Layman P'ang was born in the mid-eighth
century.2 He grew to manhood in the city of Heng-yang, where his
Confucianist father served as a middle-level official. Although he was
educated in all the classics, he became a practicing Buddhist early and
never faltered in his devotion. Sometime after marrying he became so
obsessed with the classic Chinese ideal of a spiritual-poetic hermitage
that he actually had a thatched cottage built adjacent to his house.
Here he spent time with his wife--and now a daughter and son--meditating,
composing poetry, and engaging in characteristically Chinese musings. A
story relates that he was sitting in his thatched cottage one day when
he became exasperated with the difficulties of his path and declared,
"How difficult it is! How difficult it is! My studies are like drying
the fibers of ten thousand pounds of flax by hanging them in the sun."
His wife overheard this outburst and contradicted him, "Easy, easy,
easy. It's like touching your feet to the ground when you get out of
bed. I have found the teaching right in the tops of flowering plants."
His daughter, Ling-chao, heard both outbursts and showed them the truth
with her assertion, "My study is neither difficult nor easy. When I am
hungry I eat. When I am tired I rest."3

Then one day, thought to have been sometime between the years 785 and
790, P'ang decided to go the final step and sever his ties with the
materialism that weighed him down. After donating his house for a
temple, he loaded his remaining possessions into a boat--which he
proceeded to maneuver into the middle of a river and sink.

We do not know if his wife and son welcomed this final freedom from
material enslavement, but his daughter seems to have approved, for she
helped him wend his now-penurious way through the world by assisting
him in making and selling bamboo household articles. Free at last,
P'ang traveled about from place to place with no fixed abode, living,
so the legends say, "like a leaf." The image of P'ang and his daughter
as itinerant peddlers, wandering from place to place, made a searing
impression on the Chinese mind, and for centuries he has been admired
in China--admired, but not necessarily emulated.

Whom did P'ang go to visit? He seems to have known personally every
major Ch'an figure in China. The first master visited was the famous
Shih-t'ou (700-790), sometime rival of Ma-tsu. (It will be recalled
that the Sixth Patriarch, Hui-neng, had among his disciples a master
called Huai-jang (677-744), teacher of Ma-tsu and head of the lineage
of now Japanese Rinzai. Another of the Sixth Patriarch's legendary
followers was Hsing-ssu [d. 740], whose pupil Shih-t'ou is connected to
the line that became Japanese Soto. Ma-tsu and Shih-t'ou headed the two
major movements of Southern Ch'an in the eighth century.)4 In 786 P'ang
appeared at the retreat of Shih-t'ou on the mountain called Nan-yueh.
He greeted Shih-t'ou by asking him one of the standard Ch'an questions,
which Shih-t'ou answered by quietly placing a hand over P'ang's mouth--
causing the Layman's first enlightenment experience. P'ang studied
under Shih-t'ou--although probably in a nonmonastic capacity--for some
time, until one day Shih-t'ou decided to test him.

"Tell me," began Shih-t'ou, "how have you practiced Ch'an after coming
here to this mountain?"

P'ang shot back in a characteristic manner, saying, "There is really
nothing words can reveal about my daily life."

Shih-t'ou continued, "It is just because I know words cannot that I ask
you now."

At this, P'ang was moved to offer a verse:



_My daily activities are not unusual,

I'm just naturally in harmony with them.

Grasping nothing, discarding nothing,

In every place there's no hindrance, no conflict.

[My] supernatural power and marvelous activity:

Drawing water and carrying firewood.(5)

_

       The declaration that drawing water and carrying firewood were
miraculous acts demonstrated P'ang's understanding of "everyday-
mindedness"--the teaching of no-teaching, the approach of no-approach.6
The story says that Shih-t'ou acknowledged the Layman's enlightenment,
and went on to inquire whether P'ang wished to exchange his pauper's
robe of white for a monk's raiment of black. P'ang reputedly answered
him with an abrupt "I will do what I like." Apparently concluding that
he had absorbed all of Shih-t'ou's teaching, P'ang arose and absented
himself, heading for Kiangsi and the master Ma-tsu.

       P'ang's adventures with Ma-tsu are not particularly well
recorded, given the two years he reportedly studied under the master.
However, the account of their meeting has become a Ch'an standard.
According to the story, P'ang asked Ma-tsu,            "What kind of
man is he who has no companion among all things?"

         Ma-tsu answered, "After you swallow all the water in the West
River in one gulp, I will tell you." It is said that when P'ang heard
this, he was suddenly aware of the essence of Ch'an.7

If this exchange seems puzzling, with its subtle wordplay that weaves
in and out between realism and symbolism, what about another recorded
exchange between the two:



_One day the Layman addressed Ma-tsu, saying: "A man of unobscured
original nature asks you please to look upward."

Ma-tsu looked straight down.

The Layman said: "You alone play marvelously on the stringless ch'in
[lute]."

Ma-tsu looked straight up.

The Layman bowed low. Ma-tsu returned to his quarters.

       "Just now bungled it trying to be smart," then said the Layman.8

_

The modern master Charles Luk speculates that P'ang's request to Ma-tsu
to look up at an enlightened man was intended to trap the old master:
"In reply Ma-tsu looked down to reveal the functioning of the
enlightened mind. P'ang then praised the master for playing so well on
the stringless lute. Thereat Ma-tsu looked up to return functioning to
the enlightened mind. . . . In Ch'an parlance, looking down is
'function,' which means the mind wandering outside to deliver living
beings, and looking up is returning function to 'substance' (the mind)
after the work of salvation has been done. P'ang's act of prostrating
is 'function' and Ma-tsu's return to the abbot's room means returning
function to 'substance' to end the dialogue, for nothing further can be
added to reveal substance and function."9

Although the Layman declined monastic orders, he apparently could hold
his own with the best of Ma-tsu's followers, as well as with other
Ch'an monks he encountered in his travels. Often monks sought him out
merely to match wits. A typical exchange is reported with a follower of
Shih-t'ou named P'u-chi, who once came to test P'ang:



_One day P'u-chi visited the Layman.

       "I recall that when I was in my mother's womb I had a certain
word," said the Layman. "I'll show it to you, but you mustn't hold it
as a principle."

"You're still separated from life," said P'u-chi.

       "I just said you mustn't hold it as a principle," rejoined the
Layman.

        "How can I not be awed by a word that astounds people?" said
P'u-chi.

        "Understanding such as yours is enough to astonish people,"
replied the Layman.

         "The very statement 'don't hold it as a principle' has become
a principle," said P'u-chi.

         "You're separated not only by one or two lives," said the
Layman.

         "It's all right for you to reprove a rice-gruel [-eating] monk
[like me]," returned P'u-chi.

The Layman snapped his fingers three times.10

_

       The precise meaning of this exchange will not be tackled here,
but P'ang apparently came off on top. Now and then, however, P'ang
seems to have been equaled or bested. There is a story of an exchange
he had with one of the monks at Ma-tsu's monastery, named Shih-lin.

_

One day Shih-lin said to the Layman: "I have a question I'd like to
ask. Don't spare your words."

"Please go on," said the Layman.

"How you do spare words!" exclaimed Shih-lin.

"Unwittingly by this discussion we've fallen into a snare [of words],"
said the Layman.

Shih-lin covered his ears.

"You adept, you adept!" cried the Layman.11

_

Another time P'ang is reminiscent of Chao-chou in demonstrating that it
is possible to hold one's own without the use of words.



_The Layman was once lying on his couch reading a sutra. A monk saw him
and said: "Layman! You must maintain dignity when reading a sutra."

The Layman raised up one leg.

The monk had nothing to say.12

_

Layman P'ang studied under Ma-tsu for two years, but he finally decided
to resume his life as a wandering student of Ch'an. He left Ma-tsu
declaring the family his source of strength, or so it would seem from
his parting verse presented to the master.



_I've a boy who has no bride,

I've a girl who has no groom;

Forming a happy family circle,

We speak about Birthless.13

_

And off he went to travel, a completely enlightened man after his stay
in Kiangsi. He turned increasingly to poetry during these years of
wandering across the central part of China, composing some of his most
sensitive verse. One poem in particular seems to capture the carefree
spirit of these years of wanderings:



_The wise man, perceiving wealth and lust,

Knows them to be empty illusion;

Food and clothes sustain body and life--

I advise you to learn being as is.

When it's time, I move my hermitage and go,

And there's nothing to be left behind.14

_

One of Layman P'ang's most enduring companions was the monk Tan-hsia
T'ien-jan, known for his irreverence. The following is typical of the
exchanges recorded between the two:



_When the Layman was walking with Tan-hsia one day he saw a deep pool
of clear water. Pointing to it with his hand, he said: "Being as it is
we can't differentiate it."

"Of course we can't," replied Tan-hsia.

The Layman scooped up and threw two handfuls of water on Tan-hsia.

"Don't do that, don't do that!" cried Tan-hsia.

"I have to, I have to!" exclaimed the Layman.

Whereupon Tan-hsia scooped up and threw three handfuls of water on the
Layman, saying: "What can you do now?"

"Nothing else," replied the Layman.

"One seldom wins by a fluke," said Tan-hsia.

"Who lost by a fluke?" returned the Layman.15

_

To attempt to explicate this exchange would be to ride the wind. They
are in a completely different reality from that in which mere books are
written and read.

What occupied Madam P'ang during the Layman's wanderings is not known.
However, she seems well on the way to enlightenment herself. A story
says that one day she went to a Buddhist temple to make an offering of
food. The priest asked her the purpose of the offering so that he could
post the customary notice identifying the name of a donor and the date
and purpose of the gift. This was called "transferring merit," since
the knowledge of her good deed would be "transferred" from herself to
others. It is reported that Mrs. P'ang took her comb, stuck it in the
back of her hair, and announced to the stunned priest, "Transference of
merit is accomplished."16 She seemed a part of P'ang's enlightenment,
even if not a companion in his travels.

Eventually P'ang and his daughter, Ling-chao, ended up back in the
north, near Hsiang-yang, the city of his birth, which he had left when
a very small child. But instead of moving into the town, they lived in
a cave about twenty miles to the south. And to this cave often
journeyed a distinguished visitor--Prefect Yu Ti of Hsiang province, an
important official who had learned of P'ang's verse and his reputation
for Ch'an teaching. Originally a vicious and arrogant dictator who
delighted in persecuting Buddhists, he had been converted by a Ch'an
monk and had become a strong supporter of the faith. In fact, it is Yu
Ti whom we must thank for our knowledge of P'ang, for it was he who
collected the poetry and stories of the Layman after his death.

P'ang lived in his cave with Ling-chao for two years, and then he
suddenly declared that it was time to die. In a dramatic gesture, he
assumed a meditating posture and asked Ling-chao to go outside and tell
him when the sun reached high noon, at which time he would pass on. She
went out, but quickly returned to announce that it was already noon but
that there was an eclipse. P'ang jumped up and ran out to see this
event, but while he was gone Ling-chao seated herself in his place,
folded her hands, and died herself. P'ang returned from her
diversionary announcement, saw what had happened, and declared, "Her
way was always swift. Now she has gone ahead of me." In respect he
postponed his own death for a week.17

Hearing of this episode, Prefect Yu Ti rushed to the scene. The Layman
addressed him with, "I pray you to hold all that is thought to be real
as empty, and never take that which is empty as being real. Farewell.
The world is merely a shadow, an echo."18 He then laid his head on the
prefect's knee and died. He left a request that his body be cremated
and his ashes scattered across the waters of nearby lakes and rivers.

When P'ang's wife heard of the death of her husband and daughter, she
said, "That stupid girl and ignorant old man have gone away without
telling me. How unbearable."19 She then relayed the news to her son, who
was in the fields hoeing. He too subsequently died miraculously, while
still standing up. For her own part, Madam P'ang journeyed about the
countryside bidding her friends farewell, and then secluded herself,
where it was never known. And with her passing ends the saga of Layman
P'ang. This real-life individual was honored as China's answer to the
mythical Indian businessman Vimalakirti, who combined enlightenment
with the life of the market.



Han Shan



An even more elusive figure is the hermit Han-shan, whose name means
"Cold Mountain," the site where he supposedly resided. He is an almost
totally lengendary character, for we actually know nothing for sure
about when he lived (the current best guess is late eighth to early
ninth century). Almost everything known about him has been gleaned from
his poems and from a presumably contemporaneous preface to these poems
composed by a mysterious hand untraceable to any historical Chinese
individual. His was some of the most confessional, yet joyous, verse
penned in T'ang China, and he has been claimed by the Ch'anists as one
of theirs--although he might just as easily have been a Taoist
conversant in Buddhist jargon. Han-shan embodied the archetypal hero of
the Chinese imagination: a member of the rural gentry who gave up his
staid family life and some sort of scholarly career to become a
wandering poet. As he describes his own early life in the years before
his wanderings:



_From my father and mother I inherited land enough

And need not envy others' orchards and fields

Creak, creak goes the sound of my wife's loom;

Back and forth my children prattle at their play.

                                     *   *   *

The mountain fruits child in hand I pluck;

My paddy field along with my wife I hoe.

And what have I got inside my house?

Nothing at all but one stand of books.20_



So we have a gentleman scholar, comfortably well off, with wife and
children and an idyllic life undisturbed by the incursions of the
world. It is all too perfect by half, and sure enough sometime before
his thirtieth year his life was disrupted by an (undescribed) event so
catastrophic that his wife and family turned him out:



_I took along books when I hoed the fields,

In my youth, when I lived with my older brother.

Then people began to talk;

Even my wife turned against me.

Now I've broken my ties with the world of red dust;

I spend my time wandering and read all I want.

Who will lend a dipper of water

To save a fish in a carriage rut.21

_

Just when this sad event took place we do not know. However, by the
time Han-shan was thirty he found himself on Cold Mountain, part of the
T'ien-tai mountain range and near the town of T'ang-hsing.



_Thirty years ago I was born into the world.

A thousand, ten thousand miles I've roamed,

By rivers where the green grass lies thick,

Beyond the border where the red sands fly.

I brewed potions in a vain search for life everlasting.

I read books, I sang songs of history,

And today I've come home to Cold Mountain

To pillow my head on the stream and wash my ears.22

_

He described his life in the mountains in a number of verses that often
seem more Taoist than Buddhist. One of the most lyrical follows:



_Ever since the time when I hid in the Cold Mountain

I have kept alive by eating the mountain fruits.

From day to day what is there to trouble me?

This my life follows a destined course.

The days and months flow ceaseless as a stream;

Our time is brief as the flash struck on a stone.

If Heaven and Earth shift, then let them shift;

I shall still be sitting happy among the rocks.23

_

He was a contradictory individual, one minute solemn in his search for
Mind, and the next minute a buoyant bon vivant, writing verses that
seem almost a T'ang version of our own carpe diem:



_Of course there are some people who are careful of money,

But not I among them.

Because I dance too much, my garment of thin cloth is worn.

My bottle is empty, for I spurt out the wine when we sing.

Eat a full meal.

Don't tire your feet.

The day when weeds are sprouting through your skull,

You will regret what you have been.24

_

The life he describes for himself is one immersed in poetry. He is the
compleat poet, whose only concern is writing (not publishing) verse.



_Once at Cold Mountain, troubles cease--

No more tangled, hung-up mind,

I idly scribble poems on the rock cliff,

Taking whatever comes, like a drifting boat.25



_But if his poems were written on a rock cliff, how then were they
preserved? Thereon hangs a tale, or more likely a legend. At some
unknown time, Han-shan's verses (some three hundred) were collected and
supplied with a "preface."26 The person who takes credit for saving Han-
shan from a country poet's oblivion identifies himself as Lu-ch'iu Yin,
a high official. As it happens, the T'ang Chinese were very fussy about
keeping records on such things as high officials, and a Lu-ch'iu Yin is
not remembered among their ranks. Consequently, some have speculated
that the author of the preface was in fact a Buddhist priest who wished
to remain anonymous. At any rate, according to the story, our official
first heard of Han-shan upon becoming ill just before a planned trip to
a new prefecture and, after failing to be helped by a doctor, was cured
by a wandering priest, who then told him that in the prefecture of his
destination he would need further protection from bodily ills. Lu-ch'iu
Yin asked him for the name of a master, and the priest told him to be
on the lookout for two eccentric-appearing kitchen servants at the Kuo-
ch'ing monastery dining hall, named Han-shan and Shih-te.

When he arrived at his new post, he immediately sought out this
monastery and was amazed to learn the story was true. People around the
temple said, "Yes, there is a Han-shan. He lives alone in the hills at
a place called Cold Mountain, but he often comes down to the temple to
visit his friend, Shih-te. The cook, Shih-te, it turned out, saved
leftovers for his friend Han-shan, who would come and take them away in
a bamboo tube, merrily laughing and joking along the length of the
temple veranda as he carted away his booty. Once the monks caught him
and exposed his system, but he only laughed all the more. His
appearance was that of a starving beggar, but his wisdom was that of a
man of enlightenment.

Lu-ch'iu Yin anxiously pressed on to the kitchen, where sure enough he
found Han-shan and Shih-te, tending the stoves and warming themselves
over the fire. When he bowed low to them, they broke into gales of
laughter and shouted "HO" back at him. The other monks were scandalized
and wondered aloud why a distinguished official would bow to a pair of
ne'er-do-wells. But before he could explain, the pair clasped hands and
bolted out of the temple. (The giggling Han-shan and Shih-te became a
staple of Zen art for a millennium thereafter.) Determined to retrieve
them, he arranged for the monastery to provide them permanent
accommodations and left a package of clothes and incense for them. When
they failed to reappear, he had a bearer carry his gifts and accompany
him up into the mountains. Finally they glimpsed Han-shan, who yelled,
"Thief! Thief!" at them and retreated to the opening of a cave. He then
bade them farewell with, "Each of you men should strive to your
utmost!" Whereupon he disappeared into the cave, which itself then
closed upon him, leaving no trace. The preface says Han-shan was never
seen again. In homage the disappointed Lu-ch'iu Yin had his poems
collected from where they had been composed--on scraps of bamboo, wood,
stones, cliffs, and on the walls of houses. Thus there came to be the
collected _oeuvre _of Han-shan.

Han-shan's poems support at least part of this somewhat fanciful story.
He does seem to have been Buddhist in outlook, and as one of his
translators, Burton Watson, has declared, ". . . to judge from his
poetry, Han-shan was a follower of the Ch'an sect, which placed great
emphasis on individual effort and was less wary of emotionalism than
earlier Buddhism had been. . . . Though he writes at times in a mood of
serenity, at other times he appears despondent, angry, arrogant, or
wildly elated. . . ,"27

As did Layman P'ang, Han-shan seems to have believed that the Way is
found in everyday-mindedness, a point of view most forcefully expounded
by Ma-tsu. As Han-shan declares in one of his poems:



_As for me, I delight in the everyday Way,

Among mist-wrapped vines and rocky caves.

Here in the wilderness I am completely free,

With my friends, the white clouds, idling forever.

There are roads, but they do not reach the world;

Since I am mindless, who can rouse my thoughts?

On a bed of stone I sit, alone in the night,

While the round moon climbs up Cold Mountain.28 _



Many of his verses reinforce the belief that he was indeed a follower
of Southern Ch'an. For example, he seemed to believe that the mind
itself is the Buddha that all seek.



_Talking about food won't make you full,

Babbling of clothes won't keep out the cold.

A bowl of rice is what fills the belly;

It takes a suit of clothing to make you warm.

And yet, without stopping to consider this,

You complain that Buddha is hard to find.

Turn your mind within! There he is!

Why look for him abroad?29

_

Interestingly enough, for all his rather traditional Ch'an sentiments
and admonitions, he was much more in touch with

human concerns than were most followers of Ch'an. For one thing, he
lived alone in the mountains, an isolated ascetic cut off from human
contact, and the resulting loneliness was something those caught up in
the riotous give-and-take of a Ch'an monastery never knew. He gives
voice to this loneliness in a touching poem.



_I look far off at T'ien-t'ai's summit,

Alone and high above the crowding peaks.

Pines and bamboos sing in the wind that sways them

Sea tides wash beneath the shining moon.

I gaze at the  mountain's green borders below

And discuss philosophy with the white clouds.

In the wilderness, mountains and seas are all right,

But I wish I had a companion in my search for the Way.30

_

The admission of loneliness and near-despair in many of his verses has
always been a troublesome point for Zen commentators. The enlightened
man is supposed to be immune to the misgivings of the heart, focused as
he is on oneness and nondistinction. But Han-shan worried a good bit
about old age, and he also missed his family, as he admits, albeit
through the medium of a dream:



_Last night in a dream I returned to my old home

And saw my wife weaving at her loom.

She held her shuttle poised, as though lost in thought,

As though she had no strength to lift it further.

I called. She turned her head to look,

But her eyes were blank--she didn't know me.

So many years we've been parted

The hair at my temples has lost its old color.31

_

But perhaps it is this non-Ch'an quality, this mortal touch, that
elevates Han-shan to the rank of a great lyrical poet. He actually
manages to be both a plausible Buddhist and a vulnerable human being.
Few other poets in Chinese letters managed to combine genuine Buddhism
with such memorable verse. As Burton Watson has observed, "In the works
of most first-rate Chinese poets, Buddhism figures very slightly,
usually as little more than a vague mood of resignation or a
picturesque embellishment in the landscape--the mountain temple falling
into melancholy ruin, the old monk one visits on an outing in the
hills. Han-shan, however, is a striking exception to this rule. The
collection of poetry attributed to him . . . is permeated with deep and
compelling religious feeling. For this reason he holds a place of
special importance in Chinese literature. He proved that it was
possible to write great poetry on Buddhist, as well as Confucian and
Taoist, themes; that the cold abstractions of Mahayana philosophy could
be transformed into personal and impassioned literature. . . . The
language of his poems is simple, often colloquial or even slangy . . .
[but] many of his images and terms are drawn from the Buddhist sutras
or the sayings of the Southern School of Zen, whose doctrine of the
Buddha as present in the minds of all men--of Buddha as the mind itself--
he so often refers to. At the same time he is solidly within the
Chinese poetic tradition, his language again and again echoing the
works of earlier poets. . . ."32

With Han-shan we return repeatedly to the world of Cold Mountain, which
was--as another of his translators, Arthur Waley, has pointed out--as
much a state of mind as a locality. It was this, together with his
advice to look within, that finally gives Han-shan his haunting voice
of Ch'an. He seems not to have cared for the supercilious "masters" who
dominated the competitive world of the monasteries. He invited them to
join him in the rigorous but rewarding world of "Cold Mountain," where
the mind was Buddha and the heart was home.



_When men see Han-shan

They all say he's crazy

And not much to look at--

Dressed in rags and hides.

They don't get what I say

& I don't talk their language.

All I can say to those I meet:

"Try and make it to Cold Mountain._"33_

_


Chapter Ten

HUANG-PO:

MASTER OF THE UNIVERSAL MIND


Perhaps the most thoughtful Zen philosopher of them all was Huang-po
(d. 850?), who picked up where the earlier teachers had left off and
brought to a close the great creative era of Ch'an. He also stood at
the very edge of the tumultuous watershed in Chinese Buddhism, barely
living past the 845 Great Persecution that smashed the power of all the
Buddhist schools except that of the reclusive Southern Ch'anists.

Originally named Hsi-yun, the master moved at a young age from his
birthplace in present-day Fukien to Mt. Huang-po in the same province,
the locale that gave him his Ch'an title. His biography declares that
his voice was articulate and mellifluous, his character open and
simple.1 He later decided to make a pilgrimage to see the famous Ma-tsu,
but when he arrived in Kiangsi he was told that the master had died.2
Po-chang Huai-hai was still there, however, and consequently Huang-po
settled down to study with him instead.

Huang-po is known to us today primarily through the accident of having
a follower obsessed by the written word. This man, Pei Hsiu, was also a
high Chinese official who served as governor in two of the provinces
where Huang-po at various times resided. He studied under Huang-po both
times (all day and night, so he claimed) and later produced an
anecdotal summary of the master's teachings now known as _On the
Transmission of Mind_.3 This document was extensive, representing one of
the most detailed descriptions of an early master's thoughts. Pei Hsiu
also reports in his preface (dated 858) that he sent his work back to
Kuang T'ang monastery on Mt. Huang-po to have it authenticated by the
old monks there who still remembered the sayings of the master.4

By the time of Huang-po the issue of "gradual" versus "sudden"
enlightenment was decisively resolved in favor of the latter. He
therefore turned instead to two major remaining questions: 1) how
enlightenment fits into the mental world, and 2) how this intuitive
insight can be transmitted. Before he was through he had advanced these
issues significantly and had laid the philosophical basis for the next
phase of Ch'an in China--to be dominated by the school of his pupil Lin-
chi.

Huang-po struggled with a fundamental dilemma of Ch'an: how the
wordless wisdom of intuition can be passed from generation to
generation. Enlightenment necessarily has to be intuitive, and that
means traditional teaching methods are useless. There are no conceptual
formulations or "concepts." It is by definition wordless. It has to be
realized intuitively by the novice, by himself. The masters had
isolated a type of knowledge that words could not transmit. It was this
transmission of wordless insight, of Mind, that obsessed Huang-po.

His teachings are well summarized by his biographer Pei Hsiu, who
declared: "Holding in esteem only the intuitive method of the Highest
Vehicle, which cannot be communicated in words, he taught nothing but
the doctrine of the One Mind; holding that there is nothing else to
teach, in that both mind and substance are void. . . . To those who
have realized the nature of Reality, there is nothing old or new, and
conceptions of shallowness and depth are meaningless. Those who speak
of it do not attempt to explain it, establish no sects, and open no
doors or windows. That which is before you is it. Begin to reason about
it and you will at once fall into error."5

He seems to have been preoccupied with the issue of transmission even
during the early days of studying under Huai-hai. His very first
question to the older master reportedly was "How did the early Ch'an
masters guide their followers?" Huai-hai answered this very un-Ch'an
question with silence, an implied rebuke. When Huang-po pressed the
point, Huai-hai called him a disappointing disciple and said he had
best beware or he (Huang-po) would be the man who lost Ch'an.6

In a later episode, however, Huai-hai designates Huang-po as a
successor in Dharma, via a famous transmission exchange in which Huang-
po finally demonstrates wordless communication.



_One day Huai-hai asked Huang-po, "Where have you been?"

The answer was that he had been at the foot of the Ta-hsiung

Mountain picking mushrooms. Huai-hai continued, "Have you seen any
tigers?" Huang-po immediately roared like a tiger. Huai-hai picked up
an ax as if to chop the tiger. Huang-po suddenly slapped Huai-hai's
face. Huai-hai laughed heartily, and then returned to his temple and
said to the assembly, "At the foot of the Ta-hsiung Mountain there is a
tiger. You people should watch out. I have already been bitten today_."7

_

_This enigmatic utterance by Huai-hai has been taken by many to signify
that Huang-po was being acknowledged as a worthy being, perhaps even a
successor. The scholar Chang Chung-yuan has observed that the genius of
this response was its freedom from the trap of logical assertion or
negation.8 The act signified freedom from the alternatives of words or
silence. Could it be that with this incident we have finally captured a
wordless transmission?

Huang-po also had a number of exchanges in later years with Nan-ch'uan
(738-824), another of his seniors who had studied at the feet of old
Ma-tsu. As the story is reported in _The Transmission of the Lamp_:



_Some time later Huang-po was with Nan-ch'uan. All the monks in Nan-
ch'uan's monastery were going out to harvest cabbage. Nan-ch'uan asked
Huang-po, "Where are you going?" Huang-po answered, "I am going to pick
cabbage." Nan-ch'uan went on, "What do you use to pick cabbage?" Huang-
po lifted his sickle. Nan-ch'uan remarked, "You take the objective
position as a guest, but you do not know how to preside as a host in
the subjective position." Huang-po thereupon knocked on the ground
three times with his sickle.9

_

When Blofeld translates this puzzling episode from _On the Transmission
of Mind_, he comments that he has been unable to find a modern Zen
master who could explain its meaning.10 However, Nan-ch'uan's final
remark questions the degree of Huang-po's enlightenment, and some
assume the latter knocked on the ground to signify defeat.11

As did other masters, Huang-po also employed silence as a teaching
device, using it to teach wordless insight by example. One particularly
pointed story involves none other than his biographer, the official Pei
Hsiu. In Pei Hsiu's introduction to his transcript of Huang-po's
teachings he says that they first met in 843 when he invited the master
to lecture at Lung-hsing Temple in Chung-ling, the district which he
governed. Six years later, in 849, the governor was in charge of Wan-
ling, and he again invited the master to come and teach, this time at
the local K'ai-yan temple.12

When Huang-po arrived in Wan-ling, for what was to be the second
teaching session with Pei Hsiu, the story says that the governor made
the mistake of presenting the master with a written exposition of the
teachings of Ch'an. Huang-po greeted this with silence, his
"exposition" of Ch'an.



_The Prime Minister invited the Master to the city and presented his
own written interpretation of Ch'an to him. The Master took it and put
it on the table. He did not read it. After a short silence, he asked
the Prime Minister, "Do you understand?" The minister answered, "I do
not understand." The Master said, "It would be better if you could
understand immediately through inner experience. If it is expressed in
words, it won't be our teaching._"13_

_

_The Transmission of the Lamp_ reports that after this episode at Wan-
ling, the spirit of Huang-po's school became widespread south of the
Yangtze River.14

This exchange brings out the essence of Huang-po's concerns. His most
insistent conviction was that Ch'an cannot be taught, that it must be
somehow gained intuitively. He was contemptuous of conceptual thought,
believing it to be the greatest hindrance to achieving intuitive
insight. The problem is the mistaken belief that Zen can somehow be
taught and understood if only one grasps the concepts. But concepts
only serve to obstruct intuition; Zen intuition can work only outside
concepts. As Huang-po phrased it:



_Since Zen was first transmitted, it has never taught that men should
seek for learning or form concepts. "Studying the Way" is just a figure
of speech. It is a method of arousing people's interest in the early
stages of their development. In fact, the Way is not something which
can be studied. Study leads to the retention of concepts and so the Way
is entirely misunderstood.15

_

The use of the rational mind in the study of Ch'an is only meaningful
at the beginning. But once the fish of intuitive insight has been
snared in the net of the rational mind's ken, the net must be
discarded. Elsewhere he likens the extended use of analytical thought
to the shoveling of dung.16 Concepts, it turns out, are only one of the
mind's many constructs. The mind also provides our perception of
concrete objects, thereby "creating" them to suit its needs.



_Hills are hills. Water is water. Monks are monks. Laymen are laymen.
But these mountains, these rivers, the whole world itself, together
with the sun, moon, and stars--not one of them exists outside your
minds! . . . Phenomena do not arise independently, but rely upon (the
mental) environment (we create).17

_

Since reality is created by the mind, we will never know what is "real"
and what is illusion. Examples of this are commonplace. The electron is
both a wave and a particle, depending upon our point of view. Which is
"reality"? Furthermore, concepts limit. By treating the world using
rational constructs, we force it into a limited cage. But when we deal
with it directly, it is much more complex and authentic. To continue
the example, the electron may be something much more complex than
either a wave or a particle, since it behaves at times like either or
both. It may in fact be something for which our rationality-bound mind
has no "concept."

The illusory world we think we see around us, deceptively brought to us
by our untrustworthy senses, leads us to conceptual thought and to
logical categories as a means to attempt its "understanding." The
resulting intellectual turmoil is just the opposite of the tranquility
that is Ch'an. But avoidance of conceptual thought leads to a serene,
direct, and meaningful understanding of the world around us, without
unsettling mental involvement.



_Ordinary people all indulge in conceptual thought based on
environmental phenomena, hence they feel desire and hatred. To
eliminate environmental phenomena, just put an end to your conceptual
thinking. When this ceases, environmental phenomena are void; and when
these are void, thought ceases. But if you try to eliminate environment
without first putting a stop to conceptual thought, you will not
succeed, but merely increase its power to disturb you.18

_

What is worse, reliance on misleading perception blocks out our
experience of our own pure mind.



_People in the world cannot identify their own mind. They believe that
what they see, or hear, or feel, or know, is mind. They are blocked by
the visual, the auditory, the tactile, and the mental, so they cannot
see the brilliant spirit of their original mind.19



_When he was asked why Zen students should not form concepts as other
people do, he replied, "Concepts are related to the senses, and when
feeling takes place, wisdom is shut out."20 Huang-po is so adamant
against the deceiving world of the senses he even comes down hard on
the pleasures of the gourmet.



_Thus, there is sensual eating and wise eating. When the body suffers
the pangs of hunger and accordingly you provide it with food, but
without greed, that is called wise eating. On the other hand, if you
gluttonously delight in purity and flavour, you are permitting the
distinctions which arise from wrong thinking. Merely seeking to gratify
the organ of taste without realizing when you have taken enough is
called sensual eating.21

_

The point here seems to be that the use of the senses for pleasure is
an abuse and distracts one from the illusion of the world, which itself
obscures our mind from us. The ideal man he describes in terms of one
who can remain passive even when confronted by a manifestation of good
or of evil. He commends the person who has the character to remain
aloof, even when in the Buddhist heaven or the Buddhist hell:



_If he should behold the glorious sight of all the Buddhas coming to
welcome him, surrounded by every kind of gorgeous manifestation, he
would feel no desire to approach them. If he should behold all sorts of
horrific forms surrounding him, he would experience no terror. He would
just be himself, oblivious of conceptual thought and one with the
Absolute. He would have attained the state of unconditioned being.22

_

Truth is elusive. It is impossible to find it by looking for it. And
the world of the senses and the conceptual thought it engenders are
actually impediments to discovering real truth. He provides an analogy
in the story of a man who searches abroad for something that he had all
along.



_Suppose a warrior, forgetting that he was already wearing his pearl on
his forehead, were to seek for it elsewhere, he could

travel the whole world without finding it. But if someone who knew what
was wrong were to point it out to him, the warrior would immediately
realize that the pearl had been there all the time.23

_He concludes that the warrior's finding his pearl had nothing to do
with his searching for it, just as the final realization of intuitive
wisdom has nothing to do with the graduated practice of the traditional
Buddhists.



_So, if you students of the Way are mistaken about your own real Mind .
. . you will indulge in various achievements and practices and expect
to attain realization by such graduated practices. But, even after
aeons of diligent searching, you will not be able to attain to the Way.
These methods cannot be compared to the sudden elimination of
conceptual thought, the certain knowledge that there is nothing at all
which has absolute existence, nothing on which to lay hold, nothing on
which to rely, nothing in which to abide, nothing subjective or
objective. It is by preventing the rise of conceptual thought that you
will realize Bodhi (enlightenment); and, when you do, you will just be
realizing the Buddha who has always existed in your own Mind!24

_

The traditional practices neither help nor hinder finding the way,
since they are unrelated to the final flash of sudden enlightenment--
which is in your mind from the beginning, ready to be released.

What then did he teach, if there is nothing to be taught? The answer
seems to be to stop seeking, for only then does wisdom come.
Furthermore, to study a doctrine of nonattachment puts you in the
compromising position of becoming attached to nonattachment itself.



_If you students of the Way wish to become Buddhas, you need study no
doctrines whatever, but learn only how to avoid seeking for and
attaching yourselves to anything. . . . Relinquishment of everything is
the Dharma, and he who understands this is a Buddha, but the
relinquishment of ALL delusions leaves no Dharma on which to lay hold.25

_

But just how does Huang-po manage to practice what he preaches?



_. . . [M]ost students of Zen cling to all sorts of sounds and forms.
Why do they not copy me by letting each thought go as though it were
nothing, or as though it were a piece of rotten wood, a stone, or the
cold ashes of a dead fire? Or else, by just making whatever slight
response is suited to each occasion?26

_

His final admonitions were organized by Pei Hsiu and summarized in the
following list, reported as Huang-po's answer to the question of what
guidance he had to offer those who found his teaching difficult.

_

I have NOTHING to offer. . . . All you need to remember are the
following:

First, learn how to be entirely unreceptive to sensations arising from
external forms, thereby purging your bodies of receptivity to
externals.

Second, learn not to pay attention to any distinctions between this and
that arising from your sensations, thereby purging your bodies of
useless discernments between one phenomenon and another.

Third, take great care to avoid discriminating in terms of pleasant and
unpleasant sensations, thereby purging your bodies of vain
discriminations.

Fourth, avoid pondering things in your mind, thereby purging your
bodies of discriminatory cognition.27

_

Huang-po struggled mightily with the problem of transmission. Since the
doctrine was passed "mind-to-mind," he was obliged to find a
transmission that somehow circumvented the need for words, something to
bring a novice up against his own original nature. His contribution
here was not revolutionary: He mainly advocated the techniques
perfected by Ma-tsu, including roars and shouts, beatings, calling out
a disciple's name unexpectedly, or just remaining silent at a critical
moment to underscore the inability of words to assist. He also used the
technique of continually contradicting a pupil, until the pupil finally
realized that all his talking had been just so many obscuring concepts.

But just what was this mind that was being transmitted? His answer was
that nothing was transmitted, since the whole point was just to jar
loose the intuition of the person being "taught."



_Once Huang-po was asked, "If you say that mind can be transmitted,
then how can you say it is nothing?" He answered, "To achieve nothing
is to have the mind transmitted to you." The questioner pressed, "If
there is nothing and no mind, then how can it be transmitted?" Huang-po
answered, "You have heard the expression 'transmission of the mind' and
so you think there must be something transmitted. You are wrong. Thus
Bodhidharma said that when the nature of the mind is realized, it is
not possible to express it verbally. Clearly, then, nothing is obtained
in the transmission of the mind, or if anything is obtained, it is
certainly not knowledge_."28



He finally concludes that the subject cannot really even be discussed,
since there are no terms for the process that transpires. Just as
_sunyata_--that "emptiness" or Void whose existence means that
conceptual thought is empty and rational constructs inadequate--is not
something that can be transmitted as a concept, so too is the Dharma or
teaching, as well as Mind, that essence we share with a larger reality.
Even statements that concepts are pointless must fall back on language
and consequently are actually themselves merely make-do approximations,
as are all descriptions of the process of transmission. He finally
gives up on words entirely, declaring that none of the terms he has
used has any meaning.



_A transmission of Void cannot be made through words. A transmission in
concrete terms cannot be the Dharma. . . In fact, however, Mind is not
Mind and transmission is not really transmission.29

_

He was working on the very real problem of the transmission of
understanding that operates in a part of the mind where speech and
logic cannot enter. As John Wu has pointed out, in a sense Huang-po had
come back full circle to the insights of Chuang Tzu: good and evil are
meaningless; intuitive knowledge is more profound than speech-bound
logic; there is an underlying unity (for Chuang Tzu it was the Tao or
Way; for Huang-po, the Universal Mind) that represents the ineffable
absolute.30

In effect, Huang-po laid it all out, cleared the way, and defined Ch'an
once and for all. The Perennial Philosophy was never more strongly
stated. The experimental age of Ch'an thus drew to a close, its job
finished. With his death at the midpoint of the ninth century, there
was little more to be invented.31 It was time now for Ch'an to formalize
its dialectic, as well as to meet society and make its mark in the
world. The first was taken care of by Huang-po's star pupil, Lin-chi,
and the second was precipitated by the forces of destiny.

The death of Huang-po coincided with a critical instant in Chinese
history whose consequences for future generations were enormous. Once
before Chinese politics had affected Ch'an, producing a situation in
which Southern Ch'an would steal the march on Northern Ch'an. And now
another traumatic episode in Chinese affairs would effectively destroy
all Buddhist sects except Southern Ch'an, leaving the way clear for
this pursuit of intuitive wisdom--once relegated to wandering teachers
of _dhyana_--to become the only vital Buddhist sect left in China.

As noted previously, resentment toward Buddhism had always smoldered in
Chinese society. Periodically the conservative Chinese tried to drive
this foreign belief system from their soil, or failing that, at least
to bring it under control. The usual complaints revolved around the
monasteries' holdings of tax-free lands, their removal of able-bodied
men and women from society into nonproductive monastic life, and the
monastic vows of celibacy so antithetical to the Chinese ideals of the
family.

The Ch'an monasteries, deliberately or not, worked hard to defuse many
of these complaints. Indeed, some would say that Ch'an managed to
change Buddhism into something the Chinese could partially stomach.
Ch'anists were just the opposite of parasitical on society, since they
practiced Po-chang Huai-hai's injunction of a day without work being a
day without food. Also, the unthinking piety of traditional Buddhists
was reviled by Ch'anists. Furthermore, Ch'an dispensed with much of the
rigmarole and paraphernalia favored by the Buddhist sects that stuck to
its Indian origins more closely.

The resentment felt toward Buddhists was summarized in a document
issued in 819 by a scholar-bureaucrat named Han Yu.32 His recital of
Buddhism's failings came down particularly hard on the fact that the
Buddha had not been Chinese. Han Yu advocated a complete suppression of
this pernicious establishment: "Restore its people to human living!
Burn its books! And convert its buildings to human dwellings!"33 As
resentment toward the worldly influence of Buddhism grew during the
ninth century, there came to power an emperor who decided to act.

The Emperor Wu-tsang (r. 841-46) is now thought to have gone mad as a
prelude to his persecution of the Buddhists. But his edicts were
effective nonetheless. The state had begun tightening its grip on
Buddhism when he came into power in 841, but in August 845 he issued
the edict that ultimately had the effect of destroying traditional
Buddhism and urbanized Northern Ch'an in China. Over a period of two
years he destroyed 4,600 big temples and monasteries and over 40,000
smaller temples and retreats. He freed 150,000 male and female slaves
or temple attendants and evicted some 265,000 monks and nuns, forcing
them back into secular life. (This was out of a total Chinese
population estimated to be around 27 million.) And not incidentally,
the state reclaimed several million acres of property that had belonged
to the monasteries. The effect of this was to obliterate virtually all
the great Buddhist establishments, including the Buddhist strongholds
in the capitals of Chang-an and Loyang, which were reduced to only two
temples and thirty monks in each of the two cities.34

The irony of the Great Persecution was that it actually seemed to
invigorate Southern Ch'an. For one thing, these rural Ch'an teachers
had long been iconoclasts and outcasts themselves, as they disowned
ostentatious temples and even the scriptures. Almost as much a
philosophy as a religion, Southern Ch'an had long known how to do
without imperial favor and largess. And when a further edict came down
demanding that all Buddhist paraphernalia, including statues and
paintings, be burned, the outcast Ch'an monasteries had the least to
lose, since they had even done a bit of burning themselves--if we are to
believe the story of Tan-hsia (738-824), a famous Ch'an monk who once
burned a Buddhist statue for warmth. Southern Ch'an teachers just
melted for a time back into secular life, from which they had never
been far in any case.35

The result of all this was that after 846 the only sect of Buddhism
with any strength at all was rural Ch'an. Chinese Buddhism literally
became synonymous with Southern Ch'an--a far cry from the almost
fugitive existence of the sect in earlier years. And when Buddhism
became fashionable again during the Sung, Southern Ch'an became a house
religion, as Northern had once been. The result was that Ch'an
gradually lost its iconoclastic character. But out of this last phase
of Ch'an developed one of the most powerful tools ever for
enlightenment, the famous Zen koan, whose creation preserved something
out of the dynamism of Ch'an's early centuries.



PART III



SECTARIANISM AND THE KOAN



. . . in which the Ch'an movement diversifies into a variety of
schools, each beholden to a master or masters advocating an
individualized path to enlightenment. From this period of personality
and experimentation gradually emerge two main Ch'an paths, the Lin-chi
and the Ts'ao-tung (later called Rinzai and Soto in Japan). The Lin-chi
school concludes that enlightenment can be precipitated in a prepared
novice through shouts, jolts, and mental paradoxes. The Ts'ao-tung
relies more heavily on the traditional practice of meditation to
gradually release enlightenment. The faith grows in numbers, but
quality declines. To maintain Ch'an's intellectual vigor, there emerges
a new technique, called the koan, which uses episodes from Ch'an's
Golden Age to challenge novices' mental complacency. This invention
becomes the hallmark of the later Lin-chi sect, and through the
refinement of the koan technique Ch'an enjoys a renaissance of
creativity in China.



Chapter Eleven

LIN-CHI:

FOUNDER OF RINZAI ZEN


The Great Persecution of 845 brought to a close the creative Golden Age
of Ch'an, while also leaving Ch'an as the dominant form of Chinese
Buddhism. In the absence of an establishment Buddhism for Ch'an to
distinguish itself against, the sect proceeded to evolve its own
internal sectarianism. There arose what are today known as the "five
houses," regional versions of Ch'an that differed in minor but
significant ways.1 Yet there was no animosity among the schools, merely
a friendly rivalry. In fact, the teachers themselves referred back to
the prophecy attributed to Bodhidharma that the flower of _dhyana_
Buddhism would one day have five petals.

The masters who founded the five schools were all individualists of
idiosyncratic character. Yet the times were such that for the most part
their flowers bloomed gloriously only a few decades before slowly
fading. However, two of the sects did prosper and eventually went on to
take over the garden. These two houses, the Lin-chi and the Ts'ao-tung,
both were concerned with dialectics and became the forerunners of the
two Zen sects (Rinzai and Soto) eventually to flourish in Japan. Of the
two, the Lin-chi is most directly traceable back to the earlier
masters, since its founder actually studied under the master Huang-po.

The master known today as Lin-chi (d. 866?) was born in the prefecture
of Nan-hua, in what today is Shantung province.2 He reportedly was
brilliant, well behaved, and filled with the filial devotion expected
of good Chinese boys. Drawn early to Buddhism, although not necessarily
to Ch'an, he shaved his head and became a monk while still young. His
early studies were of the sutras, as well as the _vinaya_ or Buddhist
rules and the _sastra_ or commentaries. But in his early twenties he
decided that he was

more interested in intuitive wisdom than orthodoxy and consequently
took the road in search of a master.

Thus he arrived at the monastery of Huang-po already a fully ordained
monk. But his learning was traditional and his personality that of a
timorous fledgling monk. For three years he dutifully attended the
master's sermons and practiced all the observances of the mountain
community, but his advancement was minimal. Finally the head disciple
suggested that he visit Huang-po for an interview to try to gain
insight. The young man obligingly went in to see the master and asked
him the standard opener: "What is the real meaning of Bodhidharma's
coming from the West?" Huang-po's wordless response was to lay him low
with a blow of his stick.

Lin-chi scurried away in perplexity and related the story to the head
disciple, who encouraged him to return, which he did twice more. But
each time he received the same harsh reception. He was finally so
demoralized that he announced plans to leave the monastery and seek
enlightenment elsewhere. The head monk related this to Huang-po
together with the opinion that this young novice showed significant
promise. So when Lin-chi came to bid Huang-po farewell, the master
sympathetically directed him to the monastery of a kindly nearby
teacher, the master Ta-yu.

Perhaps it was all planned, but when Lin-chi arrived at the second
monastery and related his unhappy treatment at the hands of Huang-po
the master Ta-yu listened patiently and then declared, "Huang-po
treated you with great compassion. He merely wanted to relieve your
distress." Upon hearing this Lin-chi suddenly understood that Huang-po
was transmitting the wordless insight to him, the understanding that
Ch'an lies not in the words produced in the abbot's room but rather in
the realization of his intuitive mind. It suddenly was all so obvious
that the young monk could not contain his joy and declared, "So Huang-
po's Buddhism is actually very simple; there's nothing to it after
all!" This struck the master Ta-yu as either impertinent or a
significant breakthrough, so he grabbed Lin-chi and yelled, "You scamp!
A minute ago you complained that Huang-po's teaching was impossible to
understand and now you say there is nothing to it. What is it you just
realized? Speak quickly!" (Only in a spontaneous utterance is there
real, uncalculated evidence of enlightenment.)

Lin-chi's answer was to pummel Ta-yu in the ribs three times with his
fist. The older master then discharged him (or perhaps kicked him out)
with the observation, "Your teacher is Huang-po, and therefore you do
not concern me." Thus the enlightened young novice trudged back up the
mountain to Huang-po's monastery. The master greeted him with the
puzzled observation: "Haven't you come back a bit too soon? You only
just left." In response Lin-chi bowed and said, "It's because you've
been so kind to me that I came back so quickly," and he proceeded to
relate the story of his sudden enlightenment. To which Huang-po
declared, "What a big mouth that old man has. The next time I see him
I'll give him a taste of my staff." To this Lin-chi yelled, "Why wait!
I can give it to you now," and proceeded to slap the master's face. The
startled Huang-po declared, "This crazy monk is plucking the tiger's
whiskers." Whereupon Lin-chi emitted the first of what was to be a
lifetime of shouts, affirming his wordless insight. The satisfied
Huang-po called an attendant and said, "Take this crazy fellow to the
assembly hall."

This is a perfect example of "sudden" enlightenment that took many
years to achieve. Lin-chi had been a plodding, earnest young man until
the moment of his "sudden" enlightenment, which occurred over a
seemingly uncalculated remark by a teacher not even his own master. In
fact, all Huang-po had done was to assail him with a staff. But Lin-chi
was transformed suddenly from a milksop to the founder of a school,
probably the greatest radicalization since the Apostle Paul was struck
down on the road to Damascus.3 Still, Lin-chi's "sudden" enlightenment
had come about at the end of a highly disciplined period of
preparation. As he later described it:



_In bygone days I devoted myself to the _vinaya_ and also delved into
the _sutras _and _sastras_. Later, when I realized that they were
medicines for salvation and displays of doctrines in written words, I
once and for all threw them away, and searching for the Way, I
practiced meditation. Still later I met great teachers. Then it was,
with my Dharma Eye becoming clear, that I could discern all the old
teachers under Heaven and tell the false ones from the true. It is not
that I understood from the moment I was born of my mother, but that,
after exhaustive investigation and grinding discipline, in an instant I
knew of myself.4

_

        Like a reformed addict, he railed most against his own recent
practices. He proceeded to denounce all the trappings of Buddhism, even
the Ch'an Patriarchs themselves, as he shattered the chains of his
former beliefs:



_Followers of the Way, if you want insight into Dharma as is, just
don't be taken in by the deluded views of others. Whatever you
encounter, either within or without, slay it at once: on meeting a
buddha slay the buddha, on meeting a patriarch slay the patriarch, on
meeting an arhat slay the arhat, on meeting your parents slay your
parents, on meeting your kinsman slay your kinsman, and you attain
emancipation. By not cleaving to things, you freely pass through.5

_

After his enlightenment, he had many exchanges with Huang-po in which
he came off ahead as often as not. It is also interesting that many of
the interactions involved the manual labor of the monastery, an
indication of the significance of work in Ch'an life. One famous joust
between Lin-chi and Huang-po went as follows:



_One day Master Lin-chi went with Huang-po to do some work in which all
the monks participated. Lin-chi followed his master who, turning his
head, noticed that Lin-chi was carrying nothing in his hand.

"Where is your hoe?"

"Somebody took it away."

"Come here: let us discuss something," commanded Huang-po and as Lin-
chi drew nearer, he thrust his hoe into the ground and continued,
"There is no one in the world who can pick up my hoe."

However, Lin-chi seized the tool, lifted it up, and exclaimed, "How
then could it be in my hands?"

"Today we have another hand with us; it is not necessary for me to join
in."

And Huang-po returned to the temple.6



_        This story can be interpreted many ways. John Wu says,
"Obviously he was using the hoe as a pointer to the great function of
teaching and transmitting the lamp of Ch'an. . . . [This was] a
symbolic way of saying that in a mysterious manner the charge was now
in his hands."7 However, as Freud once remarked concerning the
celebrated phallic symbolism of his stogie, "Sometimes, madam, it's
just a cigar," and one suspects that in this little slapstick episode,
the hoe might possibly be just a hoe.

Another exchange between Huang-po and Lin-chi may have more dialectical
significance. According to the story:



_One day Huang-po ordered all the monks of the temple to work in the
tea garden. He himself was the last to arrive. Lin-chi greeted him, but
stood there with his hands resting on the hoe.

"Are you tired?" asked Huang-po

"I just started working; how can you say that I am tired?"

Huang-po immediately lifted his stick and struck Lin-chi, who then
seized the stick, and with a push, made his master fall to the ground.
Huang-po called the supervisor to help him up. After doing so, the
supervisor asked, "Master, how can you let such a madman insult you
like that?" Huang-po picked up the stick and struck the supervisor.
Lin-chi, digging the ground by himself, made this remark: "Let all
other places use cremation; here I will bury you alive._"8_

_

Of Lin-chi's final quip, which tends to take the edge off a really
first-rate absurdist anecdote, John Wu makes the following observation,
"This was a tremendous utterance, the first authentic roaring, as it
were, of a young lion. It was tantamount to declaring that his old
conventional self was now dead and buried, with only the True Self
living in him; that this death may and should take place long before
one's physical decease; that it is when this death has taken place that
one becomes one's True Self which, being unborn, cannot die. From that
time on, there could no longer be any doubt in Huang-po's mind that his
disciple was thoroughly enlightened, destined to carry on and brighten
the torch of Ch'an."9 Whether this is true or not, it does seem clear
that Lin-chi's pronounced personality appealed to old Huang-po, who
loved to match wits with him as he came and went around the monastery.
He even allowed the young master liberties he denied others. For
example, Lin-chi once showed up during the middle of a summer
meditation retreat, something strictly forbidden. He then decided to
leave before it was over, something equally unprecedented:



_One day after half the summer session had already passed, Lin-chi went
up the mountain to visit his master Huang-po whom he found reading a
sutra. Lin-chi said to him:

"I thought you were the perfect man, but here you are apparently a dull
old monk, swallowing black beans [Chinese characters]."

Lin-chi stayed only a few days and then bid farewell to Huang-po, who
said:

"You came here after the summer session had started, and now you are
leaving before the summer session is over."

"I came here simply to visit you, Master!"

Without ado, Huang-po struck him and chased him away. After having
walked a few li, Lin-chi began to doubt his enlightenment in Ch'an, so
he returned to Huang-po for the rest of the summer.10

_

Some time after Lin-chi received the seal of enlightenment from Huang-
po, he decided to go his own way and departed for the province of
Hopei, where he became the priest of a small temple on the banks of a
river. This little temple was called "Overlooking the Ford," or _lin-
chi_ in Chinese, and it was from this locale that he took his name.
After he was there for a time, however, some local fighting broke out,
forcing him to abandon his pastoral riverbank location. (This
disturbance may well have been connected with the disruptions of the
845 persecution of Buddhism.) But even when in the middle of a war he
seems to have always been a man of Ch'an. There is an episode that
strongly resembles the eighteenth-century essayist Dr. Samuel Johnson's
kicking a stone to refute Berkeley's proposition that matter is
nonexistent:



_One day the Master entered an army camp to attend a feast. At the gate
he saw a staff officer. Pointing to an open-air pillar, he asked: "Is
this secular or sacred?"

The officer had no reply.

Striking the pillar, the Master said: "Even if you could speak, this is
still only a wooden post." Then he went in.11

_

Fortunately, Ch'an was not a sect that required a lot of paraphernalia,
and Lin-chi merely moved into the nearby town, where the grand marshal
donated his house for a temple. He even hung up a plaque with the name
"Lin-chi," just to make the master feel at home. But things may have
heated up too much, for Lin-chi later traveled south to the prefecture
of Ho, where the governor, Counselor Wang, honored him as a master.
There is a telling conversation between the two that reveals much about
the teaching of Ch'an at the time. Apparently the Ch'anists had
completely abandoned even any pretense of traditional Buddhism--again a
fortuitous development, considering traditional Buddhism's imminent
destruction.



_One day the Counselor Wang visited the Master. When he met the Master
in front of the Monks' Hall, he asked: "Do the monks of this monastery
read the sutras?"

"No, they don't read sutras," said the Master.

"Then do they learn meditation?" asked the Counselor.

"No, they don't learn meditation," answered the Master.

"If they neither read sutras nor learn meditation, what in the world
are they doing?" asked the Counselor.

"All I do is make them become buddhas and patriarchs," said the
Master.12

_

Lin-chi eventually traveled on, finally settling at the Hsing-hua
temple in Taming prefecture, where he took up his final residence. It
was here that a record of his sermons was transcribed by a "humble
heir" named Ts'un-chiang. The result was _The Record of Lin-chi_, one
of the purest exercises in the dialectics of the nondialectical
understanding. But, as Heinrich Dumoulin observed, "Zen has never
existed in pure experience only, without admixture of theoretical
teachings or methodical practice, as it has sometimes been idealized.
It could not exist in that fashion, for mysticism, like all other human
experience, is dependent on the actual conditions of human life."13
Indeed, Lin-chi was one of the first to develop what might be called a
dialectic of irrationality. He loved categories and analysis in the
service of nonconceptual inquiry, and what he created were guides to
the uncharted seas of the intuitive mind.

Lin-chi is best known for his use of the shout. He shared the concern
of Huang-po and Ma-tsu with the problem of wordless transmission and to
their repertory of beatings and silences he added the yell, another way
to affirm insights that cannot be reasoned. We may speculate that the
shout was rather like a watered-down version of the beating, requiring
less effort but still able to startle at a critical instant.14 He seems
to have been particularly fond of classifying things into groups of
four, and one of his most famous classifications was of the shout
itself. He once demonstrated the shout to a hapless monk as follows:



_The Master asked a monk: "Sometimes a shout is like the jeweled sword
of a spirit King [i.e., extremely hard and durable]; sometimes a shout
is like the golden-haired lion crouching on the ground [i.e., strong,
taut, and powerful]; sometimes a shout is like a weed-tipped fishing
pole [i.e., probing and attracting the unwary]; and sometimes a shout
doesn't function as a shout. How do you understand this?"

As the monk fumbled for an answer, Lin-chi gave a shout.15

_

His philosophy of the shout as a device for cutting off sequential
reasoning was thus demonstrated by example. But the question those who
relate this story never resolve is: Which of the four shouts was the
shout he used on the student? [John Wu in _The Golden Age of Zen
_speculates that this shout was of the first category, since it was
meant to "cut off" the monk's sequential thought, but that seems a
rather simplistic mixing of the metaphorical with the concrete.16)

        Lin-chi also was not averse to the use of the stick in the
pursuit of reality, as the following example illustrates. The story
also shows that the use of the stick was meaningful only if it was
unexpected.



_Once the Master addressed the assembly.

"Listen, all of you! He who wants to learn Dharma must never worry
about the loss of his own life. When I was with Master Huang-po I asked
three times for the real meaning of Buddhism, and three times I was
struck as if tall reeds whipped me in the wind. I want those blows
again, but who can give them to me now?"

A monk came forth from the crowd, answering: "I can give them to you!"

Master Lin-chi picked up a stick and handed it to him. When the monk
tried to grab it, the Master struck him instead.17

_

There also is a story indicating that Lin-chi believed that when the
shout failed to work, the stick might be required.



_The Master took the high seat in the Hall. A monk asked, "What about
the cardinal principle of the Buddha-dharma?"

The Master raised his whisk.

The monk shouted. The Master struck him.

Another monk asked: "What about the cardinal principle of the Buddha-
dharma?"

Again the Master raised his whisk.

The monk shouted. The Master also shouted.

The monk faltered; the Master struck him.18

_

Yet another series of exchanges sounds a similar theme.



_The Master asked a monk, "Where do you come from?"

The monk shouted.

The master saluted him and motioned him to sit down. The monk
hestitated. The Master hit him.

Seeing another monk coming, the Master raised his whisk.

The monk bowed low. The Master hit him.

Seeing still another monk coming, the Master again raised his whisk.
The monk paid no attention. The Master hit him too.19



_He was also challenged by a nun, one of the few recorded

instances of a master actually matching wits with a woman who had taken
Ch'an orders.



_The Master asked a nun: "Well-come or ill-come?"

The nun shouted.

"Go on, go on, speak!" cried the Master, taking up his stick.

Again the nun shouted. The Master hit her.20

_

What Lin-chi also brought to Ch'an was a dialectical inquiry into the
relationship between master and pupil, together with a similar analysis
of the mind states that lead to enlightenment. He seems remarkably
sophisticated for the ninth century, and indeed we would be hard
pressed to find this kind of psychological analysis anywhere in the
West that early. The puzzling, contradictory quality about all this is
that Lin-chi believed fervently in intuitive intelligence, and in the
uselessness of words--even warning that questions were irrelevant:



_Does anyone have a question? If so, let him ask it now. But the
instant you open your mouth you are already way off.21

_

Among his dialectical creations were various fourfold categorizations
of the intangible. We have already seen his four categories of the
shout. He also created the four categories of relationship between
subject and object, also sometimes called the Four Processes of
Liberation from Subjectivity and Objectivity. Some believe this served
to structure the "four standpoints or points of view which Lin-chi used
in instructing his students."22 Lin-chi's original proposition, the
basis of all the later commentary, is provided in _The Record of Lin-
chi _as follows:



_At the evening gathering the Master addressed the assembly, saying:
"Sometimes I take away man and do not take away the surroundings;
sometimes I take away the surroundings and do not take away man;
sometimes I take away both man and the surroundings; sometimes I take
away neither man nor the surroundings._"23_



_As Chang Chung-yuan describes these four arrangements, the first is to
"take away the man but not his objective situation," i.e., to take away
all interpretation and just experience the world without subjective
associations.24 (This is quite similar to the approach of the Japanese
haiku poem, in which a description of something is provided completely
devoid of interpretation or explicit emotional response.)

The second arrangement is to let the man remain but take away
objectivity. As John Wu interprets this, "In the second stage, people
of normal vision, who see mountains as mountains and rivers as rivers,
must be reminded of the part that their own mind contributes to the
appearance of things, and that what they naively take for objectivity
is inextricably mixed with subjectivity. Once aware of subjectivity,
one is initiated into the first stages of Ch'an, when one no longer
sees mountains as mountains and rivers as rivers."25 This is merely the
Ch'an commonplace that "non-attachment or objectivity liberates one's
self from bondage to the outside and thus leads to enlightenment."26 As
Dumoulin describes these, "In the first and second stages, illusion
departs first from the subject and then from the object; clinging to
subjective intellectual perception and to the objective world is
overcome."27

Lin-chi's third stage is to "take away both the man and his objective
situation. In other words, it is liberation from . . . the attachments
of both subjectivity and objectivity. Lin-chi's famous 'Ho!' . . .
often served this purpose."28 In a blow of a master's staff or a shout
there is nothing one can grasp, either objectively or subjectively.
This is the next-to-last stage in the progression toward liberation
from the mind's tyranny.

In the fourth stage we find the final condition, in which objectivity
and subjectivity cease to be distinguishable. What this means is that
there is no intellectuation at all, that the world simply is. As
Dumoulin declares, "reality is comprehended in its final oneness."29 Or
as the story says: Before enlightenment, mountains are mountains and
rivers are rivers; during the study of Zen, mountains are not mountains
and rivers are not rivers; but when there finally is enlightenment,
mountains are again mountains and rivers are rivers. In this final
state the distinction and confrontation of subject and object dissolve,
as we are finally at one with the nameless world.

Another of Lin-chi's famous dialectical categories is his "Fourfold
Relationship possible Between Questioner and Answerer or Between Guest
and Host." The point of the structure he sets up is to elucidate the
interaction of master and novice, but he does so using metaphor of host
and guest--where the host represents the universal Self and the guest
the ego-form self.30 Lin-chi's sermon on the subject went as follows:



_A true student gives a shout, and to start with holds out a

sticky lacquer tray. The teacher, not discerning that this is an

objective circumstance, goes after it and performs a lot of antics with
it. The student again shouts but still the teacher is unwilling to let
go. This is . . . called "the guest examines the host."

Sometimes a teacher will proffer nothing, but the instant a student
asks a question, robs him of it. The student, having been robbed,
resists to the death and will not let go; this is called "the host
examines the guest."

Sometimes a student comes forth before a teacher in conformity with a
state of purity. The teacher, discerning that this is an objective
circumstance, seizes it and flings it into a pit. "What an excellent
teacher!" exclaims the student, and the teacher replies, "Bah! You
can't tell good from bad!" Thereupon the student makes a deep bow; this
is called "the host examines the host."

Or again, a student will appear before a teacher wearing a cangue and
bound with chains. The teacher fastens on still more chains and cangues
for him. The student is so delighted that he can't tell what is what:
this is called "the guest examines the guest._"31_



_In the first category, according to Chang Chung-yuan, the ego meets
the universal Self.32 In the second category the universal Self
encounters the ego-form self. In the third category, the universal Self
of one meets the universal Self of another, and in the fourth category
the ego of one encounters the ego of another. Or if we are to interpret
this in the concrete, in the first encounter, an enlightened master
meets an unenlightened novice; in the second an enlightened novice
meets an unenlightened master (which did happen); in the third an
enlightened master meets an enlightened novice; and in the fourth
category an unenlightened master meets an unenlightened novice, to the
mutual delusion of both.33

Lin-chi has been called the most powerful master in the entire history
of Ch'an, and not without reason. His mind was capable of operating at
several levels simultaneously, enabling him to overlay very practical
instruction with a comprehensive dialectic. He believed in complete
spontaneity, total freedom of thought and deed, and a teaching approach
that has been called the "lightning" method--because it was swift and
unpredictable. He was uncompromising in his approach, and he was also
extremely critical of the state of Ch'an in his time--a criticism
probably justified. He found both monks and masters wanting. It seems
that Ch' an had become fashionable, with the result that there were

many masters who were more followers of the trend than followers of the
Way. So whereas Huang-po often railed against other sects of Buddhism,
Lin-chi reserved his ire for other followers of Ch'an (there being few
other Buddhist sects left to criticize).

He even denounced his own students, who often mimicked his shouting
without perceiving his discernment in its use. He finally had to set
standards for this, announcing to the assembly one day that henceforth
only those who could tell the enlightened from the unenlightened would
have the right to shout.



_        "You all imitate my shouting," he said, "but let me give you a
test now. One person comes out from the eastern hall. Another person
comes out from the western hall. At their meeting, they simultaneously
shout. Do you possess enough discernment to distinguish the guest from
the host [i.e., the unenlightened from the enlightened]? If you have no
such discernment, you are forbidden hereafter to imitate my shouting.34

_

His major concern seems to have been that his students resist
intellection. Lin-chi himself was able to speculate philosophically
while still a natural man, using conceptual thought only when it served
his purpose. But perhaps his students could not, for he constantly had
to remind them that striving and learning were counterproductive.



        _"Followers of Tao!" Lin-chi said, "the way of Buddhism admits
of no artificial effort; it only consists in doing the ordinary things
without any fuss--going to the stool, making water, putting on clothes,
taking a meal, sleeping when tired. Let the fools laugh at me. Only the
wise know what I mean._"35_



_Or as he said at another time:



_The moment a student blinks his eyes, he's already way off. The moment
he tries to think, he's already differed. The moment he arouses a
thought, he's already deviated. But for the man who understands, it's
always right here before his eyes.36

_

The problem, he believed, was that too many teachers had started
"teaching" and explaining rather than forcing students to experience
truth for themselves. Thus these teachers had no right

to criticize their monks, since they themselves had failed in their
responsibility.



_There are teachers all around who can't distinguish the false from the
true. When students come asking about . . . the [objective]
surroundings and the [subjective] mind, the blind old teachers
immediately start explaining to them. When they're railed at by the
students they grab their sticks and hit them, [shouting], "What
insolent talk!" Obviously you teachers yourselves are without an eye so
you've no right to get angry with them.37

_

And finally, in his old age, Lin-chi became something of a monument
himself, a testing point for enlightenment in a world where true
teachers were rare. He even complained about it.



_Hearing everywhere of old man Lin-chi, you come here intending to bait
me with difficult questions and make it impossible for me to answer.
Faced with a demonstration of the activity of my whole body, you
students just stare blankly and can't move your mouths at all; you're
at such a loss you don't know how to answer me. You go around
everywhere thumping your own chests and whacking your own ribs, saying,
"I understand Ch'an! I understand the Way!" But let two or three of you
come here and you can't do a thing. Bah! Carrying that body and mind of
yours, you go around everywhere flapping your lips like winnowing fans
and deceiving villagers.38



_His school prospered, becoming the leading expression of Ch'an in
China as well as a vital force in the Zen that later arose among
Japan's samurai. And his dialectical teachings became the philosophical
basis for later Zen, something he himself probably would have deplored.
(Later teachers seem to have given Lin-chi's categories more importance
than he actually intended, for he professed to loathe systems and was
in fact much more concerned with enlightenment as pure experience.) In
any case, when he decided that his days were through he put on his
finest robes, seated himself in the meditation posture, made a brief
statement, and passed on. The year is said to have been 866 or 867.



Chapter Twelve

TUNG-SHAN AND TS'AO-SHAN:

       FOUNDERS OF SOTO ZEN

_Tung-shan_


Virtually all the masters encountered up to this point have been
traceable to Ma-tsu, descendant in Dharma of the legendary Huai-jang
and his master, the Sixth Patriarch, Hui-neng. This was the line that
became Japanese Rinzai Zen, many centuries later. However, Hui-neng had
another follower, a shadowy figure remembered as Ch'ing-yuan Hsing-ssu
(d. 740) whose line also was perpetuated to present-day Japan.1 His
foremost pupil was Shih-t'ou (700-90), and a common description of the
eighth-cen- tury Ch'an establishment was: "In Kiangsi the master was
Ma-tsu; in Hunan the master was Shih-t'ou. People went back and forth
between them all the time, and those who never met these two great
masters were completely ignorant."2 Shih-t'ou jousted with Ma-tsu, and
they often swapped students. Ma-tsu sent his pupils on their way with a
wink and the advice that Shih-t'ou was "slippery."3 This legendary
master was forebear of three of the five "houses" of Ch'an arising
after the Great Persecution of 845, although the only one of the three
surviving is the Ts'ao-tung, which arose during the later T'ang (618-
907) and early Five Dynasties (907-960) period and remains today as
Japanese Soto.

One of the cofounders of the Ts'ao-tung house was known as Tung-shan
Liang-chieh (807-869), who was born in present day Chekiang but
eventually found his way to what is now northern Kiangsi province.4 As
did most great masters, he took Buddhist orders early, and one of the
most enduring stories of his life has him confounding his elders--an
event common to many spiritual biographies. He began as a novice in the
Vinaya sect, an

organization often more concerned with the letter of the law than its
spirit. One day he was asked to recite the Heart Sutra, but when he
came to the phrase "There is no eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, or mind,"
he wonderingly touched his own face and then inquired of his master, "I
have eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and so forth; how, then, can the sutra
say there are no such things?"5 The Vinaya master was dumbfounded by his
iconoclasm and suggested that his bent of mind would be more readily
cultivated in the Ch'an sect. So off he went to Mt. Sung, where he
subsequently was ordained at the precocious age of twenty-one.

Afterward he traveled across China, typical for young monks of the age.
Ironically enough, considering that his line eventually rivaled Ma-
tsu's, his first stop was the monastery of Nan-ch'uan, one of the
foremost disciples of Ma-tsu. As he arrived, Nan-ch'uan was announcing
a memorial service to be conducted the next day on the anniversary of
his master's death, a standard Chinese custom.



_Nan-ch'uan remarked, "When we serve food for Master Ma-tsu tomorrow, I
do wonder whether he will come for it." None of the monks made a reply
but [Tung-shan] came forth out of the crowd and said, "As soon as he
has companions he will come." Hearing this, Nan-ch'uan praised him:
"Although this man is young, he is worthy of being trained.'' [Tung-
shan] said to him, "Master, you should not make a slave out of an
honorable person._"6_



_Tung-shan studied briefly with Nan-ch'uan making a name for himself in
the process and then traveled on. He later landed at the monastery of a
teacher named Yun-yen, but after a successful period of study he
announced his intention to again continue down the road. Yun-yen,
however, protested losing his star pupil.



_"After you leave here, it will be very hard for us to see each other
again," said Master Yun-yen.

"It will be very hard for us not to see each other again," answered
[Tung-shan]. . . . Then Yun-yen said to him, "You must be very careful,
as you are carrying this great thing."

[Tung-shan] was puzzled. Later when he was crossing the water and saw
his image reflected, he suddenly understood the teaching of Yun-yen.7

_

By the year 860 Tung-shan had a monastery of his own and was besieged
by disciples. He subsequently moved to Tung-shan (Mt. Tung) in what is
today Kiangsi province, the locale that provided his historic name. His
respect for Yun-yen's enigmatic wisdom was explained years later.



_One day, when the Master was conducting the annual memorial service
for Master Yun-yen, a monk asked him:

"What instruction did you receive from the late Master Yun-yen?"

"Although I was there with him, he gave me no instruction," answered
the Master.

"Then why should you conduct the memorial service for him, if he did
not instruct you?" persisted the monk. . . .

"It is neither for his moral character nor his teaching of Dharma that
I respect him. What I consider important is that he never told me
anything openly._"8_

_

Yet Tung-shan does not seem completely against the cultivation of
enlightenment, as were some of the other, more radical Ch'anists. Take,
for example, the following reported encounter:



_A government officer wanted to know whether there was anyone
approaching Ch'an through cultivation. The Master answered: "When you
become a laborer, then there will be someone to do cultivation._"9_

_

The officer's question would have elicited a shout from Lin-chi, a blow
from Huang-po, and advice from Chao-chou to go wash his rice bowl.

Although Tung-shan may have avoided the deliberate absurdities of the
Lin-chi masters, his utterances are often puzzling nonetheless. Part of
the reason is that he preferred the metaphor to the concrete example.
Unlike the repartee of the absurdist Lin-chi masters, his exchanges are
not deliberately illogical. Instead we find a simple reluctance to say
anything straight. But if you follow the symbolic language, you realize
it is merely another clever way of never teaching with words, while
still using language. His frequent speaking in metaphors can be
appreciated by the following exchange, which uses language emeshed in
symbols.

_

Monk: "With what man of Tao should one associate, so that one will hear
constantly what one has never heard?"

The Master: "That which is under the same coverlet with you."

Monk: "This is still what you, Master, can hear yourself. What is it
that one will hear constantly which one has never heard?"

The Master: "It is not the same as wood and stone." . . .

 Monk: "Who is he in our country that holds a sword in his hand?"

The Master: "It is Ts'ao-shan."

Monk: "Whom do you want to kill?"

The Master: "All those who are alive will die."

Monk: "When you happen to meet your parents, what should

you do?"

The Master: "Why should you have any choice?"

Monk: "How about yourself?"

The Master: "Who can do anything to me?"

Monk: "Why should you not kill yourself, too?"

The Master: "There is no place on which I can lay my hands._"10



The Ch'an teachers deliberately avoided specifics, since these might
cause students to start worrying about the precise definition of words
and end up bogged down in conceptual quandries, neglecting their real
nature--which cannot be reached using words.11 But further than this, the
monk thinks he will trap the master by asking him if his injunction to
kill includes his own parents. (Remember Lin-chi's "On meeting your
parents, slay your parents.") But Tung-shan answered by accusing the
monk--indirectly--of making discriminations. As for self-murder, Tung-
shan maintains his immaterial self-nature is indestructible.12

The dialectic of Tung-shan, subsequently elaborated by his star pupil,
Ts'ao-shan, represents one of the last great expressions of Chinese
metaphysical thought. He defined a system of five positions or
relations between the Particular or Relative and the Universal or
Absolute, defined as follows.13

In the first state, called the Universal within the Particular, the
Absolute is hidden and obscured by our preoccupation with the world of
appearances. However, the world of appearances is in fact a part of the
larger world of Absolute reality. When we have achieved a true
understanding of the objective world we realize that it is no more real
than our senses make it, and consequently it represents not absolute
reality but merely our perception. This realization leads to the second
phase.

In the second state, called the Particular within the Universal, we
recognize that objective reality must always be perceived through our
subjective apparatus, just as the Absolute must be approached through
the relative, since all particularities merely exemplify the Absolute.
Even good and bad are part of this same Universality. It is all real,
but simply that--no values are attached, since it is all part of
existence. This, says the scholar John Wu, is the state of
enlightenment.14

In dialectical terms, this rounds out the comparison of the Particular
and the Universal, with each shown to be part of the other. But they
must ultimately be resolved back into sunyata, the Void that
encompasses everything. Neither the Universal or Absolute, nor the
particulars that give it physical form, are the ultimate reality. They
both are merely systems in the all-encompassing Void.

The third and fourth stages he defines exemplify achieving
enlightenment by Universality alone and achieving enlightenment by
Particularity alone. The third stage, enlightenment through
Universality, leads one to meditate on the Absolute, upon the single
wordless truth that defines the particular around us as part of itself.
(It sounds remarkably similar to the Tao.) This meditation is done
without props, language, or any of the physical world (the particular)
surrounding us.

Enlightenment through the Particular, through experience with the
phenomenal world, was the fourth stage. This received the most
attention from the Lin-chi sect--whose masters would answer the question
"What is the meaning of Ch'an?" with "The cypress tree in the
courtyard" or "Three pounds of flax."15

At the fifth stage, enlightenment reaches the Void, the state that
cannot be contained in a concept, since all concepts are inside it.
When you finally reach this state of wordless insight, you realize that
both words and wordlessness are merely part of this larger reality.
Action and nonaction are equally legitimate responses to the world.
Tung-shan demonstrated this when he was asked, "When a snake is
swallowing a frog, should you save the frog's life?" To this he
answered, "To save the frog is to be blind [i.e., to ultimate oneness
and therefore to discriminate between frog and snake]; not to save the
frog is not to let form and shadow appear [i.e., to ignore the
phenomena].16 Perhaps Tung-shan was demonstrating that he was free of
discrimination between either option.17

The question of the subjective and the objective, the Universal and the
Particular, permeated Tung-shan's teachings.



_Once the Master asked a monk what his name was. The monk answered that
his name was so-and-so. The Master then asked: "What one is your real
self?"

"The one who is just facing you."

"What a pity! What a pity! The men of the present day are all like
this. They take what is in the front of an ass or at the back of a
horse and call it themselves. This illustrates the downfall of
Buddhism. If you cannot recognize your real self objectively, how can
you see your real self subjectively?"

"How do you see your real self subjectively?" the monk immediately
asked.

"You have to tell me that yourself."

"If I were to tell you myself, it would be seeing myself objectively.
What is the self that is known subjectively?"

"To talk about it in such a way is easy to do, but to continue our
talking makes it impossible to reach the truth._"18



There also is a poem, known as the Pao-ching San-mei, traditionally
attributed to Tung-shan.19 One quatrain will give the flavor of the
verse:



_The man of wood sings,

The woman of stone gets up and dances,

This cannot be done by passion or learning,

It cannot be done by reasoning._20



This has been interpreted as the idea of Universality penetrating into
Particularity. The wooden man singing and the stone maiden dancing are
explained as evidence of the power of Universality.21 Tung-shan had a
number of distinguishing qualities. He often used Taoist language in
his teachings, quoting Chuang Tzu to make a point. Reportedly he never
used the shout or the stick to shock a novice into self-awareness. And
whereas his dialogues often used metaphors that at first appear
obscure, there are never the deliberate absurdities of the Lin-chi
masters, who frequently answered a perfectly reasonable question with a
deliberate inanity merely to demonstrate the absurdity of words. Unlike
the Lin-chi masters, he seems less concerned with the process of
transmission than with what exactly is transmitted. Tung-shan viewed
words as did Chuang Tzu, namely as the net in which to catch the fish.
Whereas the Lin-chi masters viewed enlightenment as a totality, Tung-
shan teachers believed that enlightenment arrived in stages, and they
were concerned with identifying what these stages were. This was, in
fact, the purpose of his five categories of Particularity and
Universality, which became a part of the historic dialectic of Zen
enlightenment. Ironically, with the emergence of the idea of stages, we
seem back to a concept of "gradual" enlightenment--arrived at because
the Chinese mind could not resist theoretical speculations.

Tung-shan's deathbed scene was almost worthy of comic opera. One day in
the third month of 869 he made known his resolve to die and, shaving
his head and donning his formal robes, ordered the gong to be struck as
he seated himself in meditation. But his disciples began sobbing so
disturbingly that he finally despaired of dying in peace and, opening
his eyes, chided them.



_Those who are Buddhists should not attach themselves to externalities.
This is the real self-cultivation. In living they work hard; in death
they are at rest. Why should there be any grief?_22



He then instructed the head monk to prepare "offerings of food to
ignorance" for everyone at the monastery, intending to shame all those
who still clung to the emotions of the flesh. The monks took a full
week to prepare the meal, knowing it was to be his last supper. And
sure enough, upon dining he bade them farewell and, after a ceremonial
bath, passed on.

The most famous disciple of Tung-shan, Master Ts'ao-shan (840-901), was
born as Pen-chi on the Fukien coast. Passing through an early interest
in Confucianism, he left home at nineteen and became a Buddhist. He was
ordained at age twenty-five and seems to have found frequent occasion
to Visit Tung-shan. Then one day they had an encounter that catapulted
Ts'ao-shan into the position of favored pupil. The exchange began with
a question by Tung-shan:



_"What is your name?"

"My name is [Ts'ao-shan]."

"Say something toward Ultimate Reality."

"I will not say anything."

"Why don't you speak of it?"

"It is not called [Ts'ao-shan]._"23



It is said that Tung-shan gave Ts'ao-shan private instruction after
this and regarded his capability highly. The anecdote, if we may
venture a guess, seems to assert that the Universal cannot be reached
through language, and hence he could only converse about his objective,
physical form.

After several years of study, Ts'ao-shan decided to strike out on his
own, and he announced this intention to Tung-shan. The older master
then inquired:

_

"Where are you going?"

"I go where it is changeless."

"How can you go where it is changeless?"

"My going is no change._"24



Ts'ao-shan subsequently left his master and went wandering and
teaching. Finally, in late summer of 901, the story says that Ts'ao-
shan one evening inquired about the date, and early the next morning he
died.

Although the recorded exchanges between Tung-shan and Ts'ao-shan are
limited to the two rather brief encounters given, the younger master
actually seems to have been the moving force behind the dialectical
constructions of the Ts'ao-tung school. The ancient records, such as
_The Transmission of the Lamp_, all declare that Ts'ao-shan was
inspired by the Five States of Universality and Particularity to become
a great Buddhist. As Dumoulin judges, "It was [Ts'ao-shan] who first,
in the spirit of and in accordance with the master's teachings,
arranged the five ranks in their transmuted form and explained them in
many ways. . . . The fundamental principles, however, stem from [Tung-
shan], who for that reason must be considered to be their originator."25

The ultimate concern of both the Ts'ao-tung and Lin-chi doctrines was
enlightenment. The difference was that Ts'ao-tung masters believed
quiet meditation was the way, rather than the mind-shattering
techniques of Lin-chi. Ts'ao-tung (Soto Zen) strives to soothe the
spirit rather than deliberately instigate psychic turmoil, as sometimes
does the Lin-chi (Rinzai). The aim is to be in the world but not of it;
to occupy the physical world but transcend it mentally, aloof and
serene.

A further difference has been identified by the British scholar Sir
Charles Eliot, who concludes that whereas Lin-chi "regards the
knowledge of the Buddha nature ... as an end in itself, all-satisfying
and all-engrossing, the [Ts'ao-tung] . . . held that it is necessary to
have enlightenment after Enlightenment, that is to say that the inner
illumination must display itself in a good life."26 Thus Eliot suggests
the Ts'ao-tung took something of an interest in what you do, in
distinction to the Lin-chi school, which preferred to focus on inner
wisdom.

The Ts'ao-tung sect, at least in its early forms, was fully as
dialectical in outlook as was the Lin-chi. In this it was merely
carrying on, to some extent, the example of its forebear Shih-t'ou, who
was himself remembered as deeply interested in theoretical and
intellectual speculations. Today the Ts'ao-tung sect is differentiated
from the Lin-chi primarily by its methods for teaching novices. There
is no disagreement about the goal, merely about the path.

It is interesting that the whole business of the Five Ranks seems not
to have survived the Sung Dynasty. Ts'ao-tung's real contribution was
essentially to revive the approach of Northern Ch'an, with its stress
on meditation, intellectual inquiry, stages of enlightenment, and the
idea that Ch'an is not entirely inner- directed but may also have some
place in the world at large. This is the real achievement of Ts'ao-
tung, and the quality that enabled it to survive and become Soto.



Chapter Thirteen

KUEI-SHAN, YUN-MEN, AND FA-YEN:

                   THREE MINOR HOUSES

 _

Yun-men (left)


_The "five houses" or sects of Ch'an that arose after the Great
Persecution of 845 did not all appear simultaneously, nor did they
enjoy equal influence. Whereas the Lin-chi and the Ts'ao-tung were
destined to survive and find their way to Japan, the three other houses
were treated less kindly by history. Nonetheless, in the search for
enlightenment, each of the three other houses contributed techniques,
insights, and original ideas that enriched the Zen tradition. It is
with the stories of the masters who founded the three extinct houses
that we close out the era preceding the Sung Dynasty and the rise of
the koan.



KUEI-SHAN, FOUNDER OF THE KUEI-YANG SECT


This earliest of the five houses was founded by a contemporary of
Huang-po and follower of the Ma-tsu tradition known by the name Kuei-
shan (771-853). Under his original name, Ling-yu, he left home at
fifteen to become a monk, studying under a local Vinaya master in
present-day Fukien province. He later was ordained at Hangchow, where
he assiduously absorbed the _vinaya _and sutras of both Theravada and
Mahayana.1 Then at age twenty-three he traveled to Kiangsi and became a
pupil of the famous Ch'an lawgiver Po-chang Huai-hai.

The moment of Kuei-shan's enlightenment at the hands of Huai-hai is a
Zen classic. As the story goes:



_One day as he was waiting upon [Huai-hai], the latter asked him to
poke the stove, to see whether there was any fire left in it. Kuei-shan
poked but found no fire. [Huai-hai] rose to poke it himself, and
succeeded in discovering a little spark. Showing it to his disciple, he
asked, "Is this not fire?" Thereupon Kuei-shan became enlightened.2



_Just why this seemingly trivial incident should trigger enlightenment
is clearly a matter that must be approached intuitively.3

Kuei-shan received his name from Mt. Kuei, where he was sent to found a
monastery by Po-chang Huai-hai. The circumstances of his selection
reveal almost more than we would wish to know about the Ch'an monastic
world at the beginning of the ninth century. It happened that Huai-hai
was considering the idea of founding a new monastery on Mt. Kuei in
Hunan province. However, he was uncertain whether the venture would
flourish, and consequently he turned for advice to a wandering
fortuneteller named Ssu-ma.4 This seer responded that Mt. Kuei was an
ideal location and would support fifteen hundred monks. However, Huai-
hai himself would not prosper there, since "You are a bony, ascetic man
and it is a fleshy, sensuous mountain." The advice was to find somebody
else.

Huai-hai consented and began calling in his candidates for Ssu-ma to
examine. The first to be summoned was the head monk--whom Ssu-ma asked
to produce a deep cough and then walk several steps. The wizened old
mystic watched carefully and then whispered to Huai-hai that this was
not the man. Next to be called in was Kuei-shan, currently
administrator of the monastery. Ssu-ma took one look and nodded his
approval to Huai-hai. That night Huai-hai summoned Kuei-shan and
assigned his new mission: "Go to Mt. Kuei and found the monastery that
will perpetuate my teachings."

When the head monk discovered he had been passed over he was outraged
and at the next morning's convocation demanded that Huai-hai justify
this slight. The master replied:



_"If you can make an outstanding response in front of the assembly, you
shall receive the appointment." [Huai-hai] then pointed to a pitcher
and said to him, "Do not call this a pitcher. What, instead, should you
call it?" [The head monk] answered, "It cannot be called a wooden
wedge." Master [Huai-hai] did not accept this, and turned to [Kuei-
shan], demanding his answer. [Kuei-shan] kicked the pitcher and knocked
it over. Master [Huai-hai] laughed and said, "Our head monk has lost
his bid for Mount Kuei._"5



The head monk's reply had been intellectualizing wordplay, caught up in
the world of names and categories. Kuei-shan's reply was spontaneous,
wordless, and devoid of distinctions. His was a mind that could
transcend rationality.

Kuei-shan did establish the monastery and from it a short-lived school.
However, Kuei-shan's memory was perpetuated largely through a brilliant
pupil later known as Yang-shan (807-883) owing to his founding a
monastery on Mt. Yang in Kiangsi province. Together their teachings
became known as the Kuei-yang school, the first of the "five houses."

The exchanges between Kuei-shan and Yang-shan reported in _The
Transmission of the Lamp_ are among the most electric in all Ch'an. In
the following they joust over the distinction between function of
wisdom (which is revealed through action) and substance or self-nature
(which is revealed through nonaction).



_Once when all the monks were out picking tea leaves the Master said to
Yang-shan, "All day as we were picking tea leaves I have heard your
voice, but I have not seen you yourself. Show me your original self."
Yang-shan thereupon shook the tea tree.

The Master said, "You have attained only the function, not the
substance." Yang-shan remarked, "I do not know how you yourself would
answer the question." The Master was silent for a time. Yang-shan
commented, "You, Master, have attained only the substance, not the
function." Master Kuei-shan responded, "I absolve you from twenty
blows!_"6



Commentators differ on who won this exchange and whether Kuei-shan was
really satisfied. Another story relates similar fast-witted but serious
repartee.



_Two Ch'an monks came from [a rival] community and said, "There is not
a man here who can understand Ch'an." Later, when all the monks went
out to gather firewood, Yang-shan saw the two, who were resting; he
took a piece of firewood and asked them, "Can you talk (about it)?" As
both remained silent, Yang-shan said to them, "Do not say that there is
no one here who can understand Ch'an."

When he returned to the monastery, Yang-shan reported to the master,
"Today, two Ch'an monks were exposed by me." The master asked, "How did
you expose them?" Yang-shan related the incident and the master said,
"I have now exposed you as well._"7



The translator Charles Luk suggests that Kuei-shan had "exposed" Yang-
shan by showing that he still distinguished between himself and the
other monks.

Yet another story, reminiscent of Nan-ch'uan, further dramatizes the
school's teaching of nondiscrimination. The report recounts a present
that Kuei-shan sent to Yang-shan, now also a master and co-founder of
their school:



_Kuei-shan sent [Yang-shan] a parcel containing a mirror. When he went
to the hall, [Yang-shan] held up the mirror and said to the assembly,
"Please say whether this is Kuei-shan's or Yang-shan's mirror. If
someone can give a correct reply, I will not smash it." As no one
answered, the master smashed the mirror.8

_

Kuei-shan's answer to one pupil who requested that he "explain" Ch'an
to him was to declare:



_If I should expound it explicitly for you, in the future you will
reproach me for it. Anyway, whatever I speak still belongs to me and
has nothing to do with you.9



_This monk, who later became the famous master Hsiang-yen, subsequently
burned his sutras and wandered the countryside in despair. Then one day
while cutting grass he nicked a piece of broken tile against some
bamboo, producing a sharp snap that suddenly triggered his
enlightenment. In elation he hurried back to his cell in the abandoned
monastery where he was living and burned incense to Kuei-shan,
declaring, "If you had broken the secret to me then, how could I have
experienced the wonderful event of today."10

The real contribution of the Kuei-yang sect is agreed to be the final
distinction Yang-shan made between the Ch'an of meditation (based on
the Lankavatara Sutra) and instantaneous Ch'an (that completely
divorced from the sutras). In this final revision of Ch'an history,
"traditional" or "Patriarchal" Ch'an was redefined as the anti-sutra
establishment of the Southern school, while the teaching of the
Lankavatara, which actually had been the basis of the faith until the
middle of the eighth century, was scorned as an aberration. He
emphasized, in a sense, Ch'an's ultimate disowning of Buddhism--through
a new, manufactured "history."

Kuei-shan died in the prescribed manner: After a ritual ablution he
seated himself in the meditation posture and passed on with a smile. He
was buried on Mt. Kuei, home of his monastery. His followers and those
of his pupil Yang-shan composed the Kuei-yang school, an early attempt
to formalize the anti-sutra position of Ma-tsu.11 However, they were
supplanted by other much more successful followers of Huai-hai, such as
Huang-po and Lin-chi, whose school became the real perpetuator of Ma-
tsu's iconoclasm.



THE YUN-MEN SECT

_

_The Master Yun-men (862/4-949) was born in Kiangsu province (some say
Chekiang) to a family whose circumstances forced them to place him in a
Vinaya temple as a novice. But his inquiring mind eventually turned to
Ch'an, and off he went to a master, with his first target being the
famous Mu-chou, disciple of Huang-po. (Mu-chou is remembered as the
monk who sent Lin-chi in for his first three withering interviews with
Huang-po.) For two days running, Yun-men tried to gain entry to see the
master, but each time he was ejected. The third day he succeeded in
reaching Mu-chou, who grabbed him and demanded, "Speak! Speak!" But
before Yun-men could open his mouth, the master shoved him out of the
room and slammed the door, catching his leg and breaking it in the
process. The unexpected bolt of pain shooting through Yun-men's body
suddenly brought his first enlightenment.12

He journeyed on, studying with several famous masters, until finally he
inherited a monastery from a retiring master who sensed his genius.
Yun-men was one of the best-known figures from Ch'an's waning Golden
Age, and stories of his exchanges with monks became a major source of
koans.13 He loathed words and forbade his followers to take notes or
write down his sermons. (However, his talks were secretly recorded by a
follower who attended in a paper robe and kept notes on the garment.)
As did the earlier masters, he struggled mightily with the problem of
how to prevent novices from becoming attached to his words and phrases.

_

[Yun-men] came to the assembly again and said: "My work here is
something that I cannot help. When I tell you to penetrate directly
into all things and to be non-attached to them, I have already
concealed what is within you. Yet you all continue looking for Ch'an
among my words, so that you may achieve enlightenment. With myriad
deviations and artificialities, you raise endless questions and
arguments. Thus, you merely gain temporary satisfactions from verbal
contests, repeatedly quarrel with words, and deviate even further from
Ch'an. When will you obtain it, and rest?_"14



          He firmly believed that all teaching was useless; that all
explanations do more harm than good; and that, in fact, nothing
worthwhile can ever be taught.



_The Master said, "If I should give you a statement that would teach
you how to achieve Ch'an immediately, dirt would already be spread on
top of your head. . . . To grasp Ch'an, you must experience it. If you
have not experienced it, do not pretend to know. You should withdraw
inwardly and search for the ground upon which you stand; thereby you
will find out what Truth is._"15



One of Yun-men's sermons reveals much about the growing pains of Ch'an.
The seriousness of the novices seems to have been steadily
deteriorating, and his characterization of the run-of-the- mill novices
of his time presents a picture of waning dynamism. Success was clearly
bringing a more frivolous student to the monasteries, and we sense here
the warning of a man who rightly feared for the future quality of
Ch'an.



_Furthermore, some monks, idle and not serious in their studies, gather
together trying to learn the sayings of the ancients, and attempt to
reveal their own nature through memorizing, imagining, prophesying.
These people often claim that they understand what Dharma is. What they
actually do is simply talk themselves into endless entanglements and
use meditation to pass the time.16

_

He also felt the traditional pilgrimages from master to master had
become hardly more than a glorified version of sightseeing.



_Do not waste your time wandering thousands of [miles], through this
town and that, with your staff on your shoulder, wintering in one place
and spending the summer in another. Do not seek out beautiful mountains
and rivers to contemplate. . . . [T]he fundamental thing for you to do
is to obtain the essence of Ch'an. Then your travels will not have been
in vain. If you find a way to guide your understanding under a severe
master . . . wake up, hang up your bowl-bag, and break your staff.
Spend ten or twenty years of study under him until you are thoroughly
enlightened.17

_

He also advised that they try to simplify their search, that they try
to realize how uncomplicated Ch'an really is.

_Let me tell you that anything you can directly point at will not lead
you to the right trail. . . . Besides dressing, eating, moving bowels,
releasing water, what else is there to do?18

_

Yun-men was one of the most dynamic masters of the late ninth and early
tenth century, providing new twists to the historic problem of
nonlanguage transmission. His celebrated solution was the so-called
one-word answer. Several of these are preserved in the two major koan
collections of later years. Two of the better-known follow:



_A monk asked Yun-men, "What is the teaching that transcends the Buddha
and patriarchs?" Yun-men said, "A sesame bun._"19_



A monk asked Yun-men, "What is Buddha?" Yun-men replied, "A dried piece
of shit._"20_

_

The "one-word" was his version of the blow and the shout. R. H. Blyth
is particularly fond of Yun-men and suggests he may have had the
keenest intellect of any Ch'an master--and even goes so far as to
declare him the greatest man China has produced.21

At the very least Yun-men was in the great tradition of the
iconoclastic T'ang masters, with a touch that bears comparison to
Huang-po. And he probably was wise in attempting to stop copyists, for
his teachings eventually were reduced to yet another abominable system,
as seemed irresistible to the Chinese followers of the five houses. A
later disciple produced what is known as the "Three propositions of the
house of Yun-men." It is not difficult to imagine the barnyard response
Yun-men would have had to this "systematization" of his thought.22 The
school of this "most eloquent of Ch'an masters" lasted through the Sung
dynasty, but its failure to find a transplant in Japan eventually meant
that history would pass it by. Nonetheless, the cutting intellect of
Yun-men was one of the bright stars in the constellation of Ch'an,
providing what is possibly its purest antirational statement.



THE FA-YEN SECT



The master known as Fa-yen (885-958), founder of the third short-lived
house of Ch'an, need not detain us long. Fa-yen's novel method for
triggering enlightenment was to repeat back the

questioner's own query, thereby isolating the words and draining them
of their meaning. It was his version of the shout, the silence, the
single word. And whereas the Lin-chi school was concerned with the Four
Processes of Liberation from Subjectivity and Objectivity and the
Ts'ao-tung school constructed the five relations between Particularity
and Universality, the Fa-yen school invented the Six Attributes of
Being.23 The Six Attributes of Being (totality and differentiation,
sameness and difference, becoming and disappearing) were adapted from
the doctrine of another Buddhist sect, and in fact later attempts by
one of Fa-yen's disciples to combine Ch'an and Pure Land Buddhism have
been credited with accelerating the disappearance of his school.

According to _The Transmission of the Lamp_, the master remembered as
Fa-yen was born as Wen-i, near Hangchow. He became a Ch'an novice at
age seven and was ordained at twenty. Learned in both Buddhist and
Confucianist literature (though not, significantly enough, in the
Taoist classics), he then got the wanderlust, as was common, and headed
south to seek out more Ch'an teachers. He ended up in Kiangsi province
in the city of Fuchou, where to escape the floodings of a rainstorm he
found himself one evening in a local monastery. He struck up a
conversation with the master there, who suddenly asked him:



_"Where are you going, sir?"

"I shall continue my foot travels along the road."

"What is that which is called foot travel?"

"I do not know."

"Not-knowing most closely approaches the Truth._"24



The _Transmission of the Lamp _states that he was enlightened on the
spot and decided to settle down for a period of study. He eventually
became a famous teacher himself, shepherding as many as a thousand
students at one time.

One of his most often repeated exchanges concerned the question of the
difference between the "moon" (i.e., enlightenment) and the "finger
pointing at the moon," (i.e., the teaching leading to enlightenment).
It was a common observation that students confused the finger pointing
at the moon with the moon itself, which is to say they confused talk
about enlightenment with the state. One day a monk came along who
thought he was smart enough to get around the dilemma.



_A monk asked, "As for the finger, I will not ask you about it. But
what is the moon?"

The Master said, "Where is the finger that you do not ask about?"

So the monk asked, "As for the moon, I will not ask you about it. But
what is the finger?"

The Master said, "The moon!"

The monk challenged him, "I asked about the finger; why should you
answer me, 'the moon'?"

The Master replied, "Because you asked about the finger._"25



At age seventy-four Fa-yen died in the manner of other great masters,
calmly and seated in the meditation posture. Part of the lineage of
Shih-t'ou and an offshoot of the branch of Ch'an that would become
Soto, he was a kindly individual with none of the violence and
histrionics of the livelier masters. However, his school lasted only
briefly before passing into history. Nonetheless, a number of disciples
initially perpetuated his memory, and his wisdom is preserved in
various Sung-period compilations of Ch'an sermons.



Chapter Fourteen


TA-HUI:

MASTER OF THE KOAN


To confront the koan--the most discussed, least understood teaching
concept of the East--is to address the very essence of Zen itself. In
simple terms the koan is merely a brief story--all the encounters
between two monks related here could be koans. During the Sung Dynasty
(960-1279) these stories were organized into collections, commented
upon, and structured into a system of study--which involved meditating
on a koan and arriving at an intuitive "answer" acceptable to a Zen
master. Faced with the threatening intellectualism of the Sung
scholars, Ch'anists created the koan out of the experience of the older
masters, much the way a liferaft might be constructed from the timbers
of a storm-torn ship. But before we examine this raft, it would be well
to look again at the ship.

It will be recalled that Ch'an grew out of both Buddhism and Taoism,
extracting from them the belief that a fundamental unifying quality
transcends all the diversity of the world, including things that appear
to be opposite. However, Ch'an taught that this cannot be understood
using intellectualism, which rationally makes distinctions and relates
to the world by reducing it to concepts and systems. One reason is that
all rationality and concepts are merely part of a larger, encompassing
Reality; and trying to reach this Reality intellectually is like trying
to describe the outside of a building while trapped inside.

There is, however, a kind of thought--not beholden to concepts, systems,
discriminations, or rationality--that can reach this new understanding.
It is intuition, which operates in a mode entirely different from
rationality. It is holistic, not linear; it is unself-conscious and
noncritical; and it doesn't bother with any of the rational systems of
analysis we have invented for ourselves. But since we can't call on it
at our pleasure, the next best thing we can do is clear the way for it
to operate--by shutting off the rational part of the mind. Then
intuition starts hesitantly coming out of the shadows. Now, if we
carefully wait for the right moment and then suddenly create a
disturbance that momentarily short-circuits the rational mind--the way
shock suppresses our sense of pain in the first moments of a serious
accident--we may get a glimpse of the intuitive mind in full flower. In
that instant we intuitively understand the oneness of the world, the
Void, the greater Reality that words and rationality have never allowed
us to experience.

The Zen teachers have a very efficient technique for making all this
happen. They first discredit rationality for a novice by making him
feel foolish for using it. Each time the novice submits a rational
solution to a koan, he receives a humiliating rebuff. After a while the
strain begins to tell. In the same way that a military boot camp
destroys the ego and self-identity of a recruit, the Zen master slowly
erodes the novice's confidence in his own logical powers.

At this point his intuitive mind begins overcoming its previous
repression. Distinctions slowly start to seem absurd, because every
time he makes one he is ridiculed. Little by little he dissolves his
sense of object and subject, knower and known. The fruit now is almost
ready to fall from the tree. (Although enlightenment cannot be made to
happen, it can be made possible.) Enter at this point the unexpected
blow, the shout, the click of bamboo, the broken leg. If the student is
caught unawares, rationality may be momentarily short-circuited and
suddenly he glimpses--Reality.

The irony is that what he glimpses is no different from what he saw
before, only now he understands it intuitively and realizes how
simplistic and confining are rational categories and distinctions.
Mountains are once again mountains; rivers are once again rivers. But
with one vital difference: Now he is not attached to them. He travels
through the world just as always, but now he is at one with it: no
distinctions, no critical judgments, no tension. After all that
preparatory mental anguish there is no apparent external change. But
internally he is enlightened: He thinks differently, he understands
differently, and ultimately he lives differently.

Ch'an began by working out the question of what this enlightenment
really is. Prior to Ma-tsu the search was more for the nature of
enlightenment than for its transmission. This was the doctrinal phase
of Ch'an. As time went by, however, the concern shifted more and more
from defining enlightenment--which the Ch'an masters believed had been
done sufficiently--to struggling with the process. After Ma-tsu, Ch'an
turned its attention to "auxiliary means" for helping along
transmission: paradoxical words and actions, shouts, beatings, and
eventually the koan.1

The koan, then, is the final step in the "auxiliary means." A succinct
analysis of the koan technique is provided by Ruth F. Sasaki in _Zen
Dust_: "Briefly, [koans] consisted of questions the early masters had
asked individual students, together with the answers given by the
students; questions put to the masters by students in personal talks or
in the course of the masters' lectures, together with the masters'
answers; statements of formulas in which the masters had pointed to the
profound Principle; anecdotes from the daily life of the masters in
which their attitudes or actions illustrated the functioning of the
Principle; and occasionally a phrase from a sutra in which the
Principle or some aspect of it was crystallized in words. By presenting
a student with one or another of these koans and observing his reaction
to it, the degree or depth of his realization could be judged. The
koans were the criteria of attainment."2

Called _kung-an _in Chinese (meaning a "case" or a problem), the koan
was a response to two major challenges that beset Ch'an in the Sung
era: First, the large number of students that appeared at Ch'an
monasteries as a result of the demise of other sects meant that some
new means was needed to preserve personalized attention (some masters
reportedly had one thousand or even two thousand followers at a
monastery); and second, there was a noticeable decline in the
spontaneity of both novices and masters. The masters had lost much of
the creative fire of Ch'an's Golden Age, and the novices were caught up
in the intellectual, literary world of the Sung, to the point that
intellectualism actually threatened the vitality of the sect.

The koan, then, was the answer to this dilemma. It systematized
instruction such that large numbers of students could be treated to the
finest antirational tradition of the Ch'an sect, and it rescued the
dynamism of the earlier centuries. Although mention of kung-an occurs
in the Ch'an literature before the end of the T'ang era (618-907), the
reference was to a master's use of a particularly effectual question on
more than one student. This was still an instance of a master using his
own questions or paradoxes. The koan in its true form--that is, the use
of a classic incident from the literature, posed as a conundrum--is said
to have been created when a descendant of Lin-chi, in the third
generation, interviewed a novice about some of Lin-chi's sayings.3 This
systematic use of the existing literature was found effective, and soon
a new teaching technique was in the making.

Examples of classic koans already have been seen throughout this book,
since many of the exchanges of the early masters were later isolated
for use as kung-an. But there are many, many others, Perhaps the best-
known koan of all time is the exchange between Chao-chou (778-897) and
a monk:



_A monk asked Chao-chou. "Does a dog have Buddha nature [i.e., is a dog
capable of being enlightened]?" Chao-chou answered, _"Mu _[a word whose
strict meaning is "nothingness"]._"4



Quick, what does it mean? Speak! Speak! If you were a Ch'an novice, a
master would be glaring at you demanding an immediate, intuitive
answer. (A favored resolution of this, incidentally, is simply "Mu,"
but bellowed with all the force of the universe's inherent Oneness
behind it. And if you try to fake it, the master will know.) Or take
another koan, drawn completely at random.



_When the monks assembled before the noon meal to hear his lecture, the
Master Fa-yen [885-958] pointed at the bamboo blinds. Two monks
simultaneously went and rolled them up. Fa-yen said, "One gain, one
loss._"5



Don't think! Respond instantly! Don't say a word unless it's right,
Don't make a move that isn't intuitive. And above all, don't analyze.

_

Yun-men [862/4-949] asked a monk, "Where have you come here from?" The
monk said, "From Hsi-ch'an." Yun-men said, "What words are being
offered at Hsi-ch'an these days?" The monk stretched out his hands.
Yun-men struck him. The monk said, "I haven't finished talking." Yun-
men then extended his own hands. The monk was silent, so Yun-men struck
him._6



You weren't there. You're not the monk. But now you've got to do
something to show the master you grasp what went on in that exchange.
What was spontaneous to the older masters you must grasp in a
secondhand, systematized situation. And if you can't answer the koan
right (it should be stressed, incidentally, there is not necessarily a
fixed answer), you had best go and meditate, try to grasp it
nonintellectually, and return tomorrow to try again.

Off you go to meditate on "Mu" or "One gain, one loss," and the mental
tension starts building. Even though you know you aren't supposed to,
you analyze it intellectually from every angle. But that just heightens
your exasperation. Then suddenly one day something dawns on you.
Elated, you go to the master. You yell at him, or bark like a dog, or
kick his staff, or stand on your hands, or recite a poem, or declare,
"The cypress tree in the courtyard," or perhaps you just remain silent.
He will know (intuitively) if you have broken through the bonds of
reason, if you have transcended the intellect.

There's nothing quite like the koan in the literature of the world:
historical episodes that have to be relived intuitively and responded
to. As Ruth F. Sasaki notes, "Collections of 'old cases,' as the koans
were sometimes called, as well as attempts to put the koans into a
fixed form and to systematize them to some extent, were already being
made by the middle of the tenth century. We also find a few masters
giving their own alternate answers to some of the old koans and
occasionally appending verses to them. In many cases these alternate
answers and verses ultimately became attached to the original koans and
were handled as koans supplementary to them."7 Ironically, koans became
so useful, indeed essential, in the perpetuation of Ch'an that they
soon were revered as texts. Collections of the better koans appeared,
and next came accretions of supporting commentaries--when the whole
point was supposed to be circumventing reliance on words! But
commentaries always seemed to develop spontaneously out of Ch'an.

Today two major collections of koans are generally used by students of
Zen. These are the Mumonkan (to use the more familiar Japanese name)
and the Hekiganroku (again the Japanese name) or _Blue Cliff Record_.8
Masters may work a student through both these collections as he travels
the road to enlightenment, with a new koan being assigned after each
previous one has been successfully resolved.

The _Blue Cliff Record _was the first of the two collections. It began
as a grouping of one hundred kung-an by a master named Hsueh-tou
Ch'ung-hsien (980-1052) of the school of Yun-men. This master also
attached a small poem to each koan, intended to direct the student
toward its meaning. The book enjoyed sizable circulation throughout the
latter part of the eleventh century, and sometime thereafter a Lin-chi
master named Yuan-wu K'o-ch'in (1063-1135) decided to embellish it by
adding an introduction to each koan and a long-winded commentary on
both the koan and the poem supplied by the previous collector. (In the
case of the poem we now have commentary on commentary--the ultimate
achievement of the theologian's art! However, masters today often omit
Yuan-wu's commentaries, giving their own interpretation instead.9) The
commentator, Yuan-wu, was the teacher of Ta-hui, the dynamic master of
the Lin-chi lineage whom we will meet here.

The Mumonkan, a shorter work, was assembled in 1228 by the Ch'an monk
Wu-men Hui-k'ai (1183-1260) and consists of forty-eight koans, together
with an explanatory comment and a verse. Some of the koans in the
Mumonkan also appear in the _Blue Cliff Record_. The Mumonkan is
usually preferred in the Japanese summer, since its koans are briefer
and less fatiguing.10

The koan was an invention of the Sung Dynasty (960-1279), an era of
consolidation in the Chinese empire after the demise of the T'ang and
passage of a war-torn interlude known as the Five Dynasties (907-60).
Although Sung Ch'an seemed to be booming, Buddhism in general continued
the decline that began with the Great Persecution of 845. For example,
the number of registered monks dropped from around 400,000 in 1021 to
approximately half that number a scant half-century later.11 But the
monks who did come probably had higher education than previously, for
the Sung educational system was the world's best at the time. Colleges
were established nationwide, not just in the sophisticated metropolitan
areas, and scholarship flourished. Whether this was good for Ch'an is
not a simple question. The hardy rural monks who had passed beyond the
Buddhist scriptures made Ch'an what it was. Could the powers of the
antirational be preserved in an atmosphere where the greatest respect
was reserved for those who spent years memorizing the Chinese classics?
The answer to this was to rest with the koan.

The Ch'an master Ta-hui (1089-1163), who perfected the koan technique,
was rumored to be a reincarnation of Lin-chi. Born in Anhwei province,
located about halfway between the older capitals of the north and the
Ch'an centers in the south, he was said to be both pious and
precocious, becoming a devoted monk at age seventeen while assiduously
reading and absorbing the teachings of the five houses.12 At age
nineteen, he began his obligatory travels, roaming from master to
master. One of his first teachers reportedly interviewed him on the
koans in the collection now known as the _Blue Cliff Record_, but he
did so by not speaking a word and thereby forcing Ta-hui to work them
out for himself. Ta-hui also experimented with the Ts'ao-tung
teachings, but early on began to question the straitlaced, quietistic
approach of that house. He finally was directed to the Szechuan teacher
Yuan-wu K'o-ch'in of the Lin-chi school, beginning the association that
would move him to the forefront of the struggle to save Ch'an via the
koan.

Ta-hui experienced his first enlightenment under Yuan-wu, in the
master's temple in the Northern Sung capital of Pien-liang. As the
story is reported:



_One day when Yuan-wu had taken the high seat in the lecture hall, he
said: "A monk asked Yun-men: 'From whence come all the buddhas?' Yun-
men answered: 'The East Mountain walks over the water.' But if I were
asked, I would not answer that way. 'From whence come all the buddhas?'
A fragrant breeze comes of itself from the south, and in the palace
pavilion a refreshing coolness stirs." At these words [Ta-hui] suddenly
attained enlightenment.13

_

After this he grew in experience and wisdom, eventually taking over
many temple duties from Yuan-wu. He soon became a part of the Ch'an
establishment in the north and in 1126 was even presented with an
official robe and title from a minister.

Then suddenly, in the midst of this tranquillity, outside forces
intervened to change dramatically the course of Chinese history. For
many years previous, China had been threatened by nomadic peoples from
the north and west, peoples whom the Chinese haughtily identified as
"barbarians." The Sung emperors, cloistered gentlemen in the worst
sense of the term, had maintained peace in their slowly shrinking
domain by buying off belligerent neighbors and occasionally even ceding
border territories. They thought their troubles finally might be easing
somewhat when their hostile neighbors were overwhelmed by a new warring
tribe from Manchuria. But after a series of humiliating incidents, the
Chinese found themselves with merely a new enemy, this time more
powerful than any before. China was at last on the verge of being
overwhelmed, something it had forestalled for many centuries. Even the
invention of gunpowder, which the Chinese now used to fire rocket-
propelled arrows, could not save them. Before long the barbarians
marched on the capital, and after some years of Chinese attempts at
appeasement, the invaders carried off the emperor and his entire court
to Manchuria. The year was 1127, which marked the end of the Chinese
dynasty now known as the Northern Sung (960-1127).

After this disheartening setback a son of the former emperor moved
south and set up a new capital in the coastal city of Hangchow, whose
charms the Chinese were fond of comparing

favorably with heaven (in the refrain, "Heaven above; Hangchow below").
This new regime, known as the Southern Sung (1127-1279), witnessed yet
another transformation of Ch'an. Among other things, Southern Ch'an
came to resemble eighth-century Northern Ch'an, in its close
association with the court and the intelligentsia.

When political discord forced the Northern Sung government to flee
south, the master Yuan-wu was assigned a monastery in the southern
province of Kiangsi by the emperor, and Ta-hui accompanied him there,
again as head monk. After four years, Ta-hui again decided to migrate--
this time alone--to Szechuan and there to build a secluded hermitage.
After another move he was summoned in 1137 by the prime minister,
himself also a former pupil of Yuan-wu, to come and establish a temple
near the new southern capital of Hangchow. Before long he had collected
almost two thousand disciples and was becoming known as the
reincarnation of Lin-chi, possibly because he was giving new life to
the Lin-chi sect. But then his politics got him in trouble and he was
banished for almost fifteen years to various remote outposts, during
which time he began to write extensively.14 Finally, in 1158, he was
ordered back to Hangchow to take over his old temple. Since by then old
age was encroaching, he was permitted to retire at this temple and live
off imperial patronage. It is said that his pupils swelled to seventeen
hundred when he returned and that when he died in 1163 he left ninety-
four enlightened heirs.15

Ta-hui is regarded today as the great champion of the koan method, and
he was celebrated during his life for a running disagreement he had
with the Ts'ao-tung (later Soto) school. In a sense, this dispute drew
the distinctions that still divide Zen into two camps. The issue seems
to have boiled down to the matter of what one does with one's mind
while meditating. The Ts'ao-tung masters advocated what they called
Silent Illumination (_mo-chao_) Ch'an, which Ta-hui preferred to call
Silent Illumination Heterodox (_mo-chao-hsieh_) Ch'an. The Ts'ao-tung
master Cheng-chueh, with whom he argued, believed that enlightenment
could be achieved through sitting motionless and slowly bringing
tranquillity and empty nonattachment to the mind. The koans were
recognized to be useful in preserving the original spirit of Ch'an, but
their brain-fatiguing convolutions were not permitted to disturb the
mental repose of meditation. Ta-hui, in contrast, believed that this
silent meditation lacked the dynamism so essential to the sudden
experience of enlightenment. His own approach to enlightenment came to
be called Introspecting-the-Koan (_k'an-hua_) Ch'an, in which
meditation focused on a koan.16

 Another of Ta-hui's objections to the Silent Illumination school seems
to have been its natural drift toward quietism, toward the divorcing of
men from the world of affairs. This he believed led nowhere and was
merely renouncing humanity rather than illuminating it.



_These days there's a breed of shaven-headed outsiders [i.e., rival
masters] whose own eyes are not clear, who just teach people to stop
and rest and play dead. . . . They teach people to "keep the mind
still," to "forget feelings" according to circumstances, to practice
"silent illumination." . . . To say that when one has put things to
rest to the point that he is unawares and unknowing, like earth, wood,
tile, or stone, this is not unknowing silence--this is a view of wrongly
taking too literally words that were (only) expedient means to free
bonds.17



_He seemed to be counseling never to forget that meditation is only a
means, not an end. Instead Ta-hui advocated meditating deeper and ever
deeper into a koan, focusing on the words until they "lose their
flavor." Then finally the bottom falls out of the bucket and
enlightenment hits you. This "Introspecting the Koan" form of Ch'an
(called Kanna Zen by the Japanese) became the standard for the Rinzai
sect, whose students were encouraged to meditate on a koan until it
gradually infiltrated the mind. As one commentator has explained, "The
essential is to immerse oneself patiently and wholeheartedly in the
koan, with unwavering attention. One must not be looking for an answer
but looking at the koan. The 'answer,' if it comes, will come of its
own accord."18 As described by Ta-hui:



_Just steadily go on with your koan every moment of your life. . . .
Whether walking or sitting, let your attention be fixed upon it without
interruption. When you begin to find it entirely devoid of flavor, the
final moment is approaching: do not let it slip out of your grasp. When
all of a sudden something flashes out in your mind, its light will
illumine the entire universe, and you will see the spiritual land of
the Enlightened Ones. . . .19

_

The important thing is to concentrate totally on a koan. This
concentration need not necessarily be confined to meditation, as Ta-hui
illustrates using one of the more celebrated one-word statements of
Yun-men.



_A monk asked Yun-Men, "What is Buddha?" Yun-Men said, "A dry piece of
shit." Just bring up this saying. . . .Don't ask to draw realization
from the words or try in your confusion to assess and explain. . . .
Just take your confused unhappy mind and shift it onto "A dry piece of
shit." Once you hold it there, then the mind . . . will naturally no
longer operate. When you become aware that it's not operating, don't be
afraid of falling into emptiness. . . . In the conduct of your daily
activities, just always let go and make yourself vast and expansive.
Whether you're in quiet or noisy places, constantly arouse yourself
with the saying "A dry piece of shit." As the days and months come and
go, of itself your potential will be purified and ripen. Above all you
must not arouse any external doubts besides: when your doubts about "A
dry piece of shit" are smashed, then at once doubts numerous as the
sands of the Ganges are all smashed.20

_

Although Ta-hui was a strong advocate of the koan, he was staunchly
against its being used in a literary sense. Whenever a student starts
analyzing koans intellectually, comparing one against another, trying
to understand rationally how they affect his nonrational intelligence,
he misses the whole point. The only way it can work is if it is fresh.
Only then does it elicit a response from our spontaneous intelligence,
our intuitive mind.

But the Sung trend toward intellectualism was almost irresistible. The
prestige of the Chinese "gentleman"--who could quote the ancient poets,
compose verse himself, and analyze enlightenment--was the great nemesis
of Ch'an.



_Gentlemen of affairs who study the path often understand rationally
without getting to the reality. Without discussion and thought they are
at a loss, with no place to put their hands and feet--they won't believe
that where there is no place to put one's hands and feet is really a
good situation. They just want to get there in their minds by thinking
and in their mouths to understand by talking--they scarcely realize
they've already gone wrong.21

_

Equally bad was the Ch'an student who memorized koans rather than
trying to understand them intuitively.



_A gentleman reads widely in many books basically in order to augment
his innate knowledge. Instead, you have taken to memorizing the words
of the ancients, accumulating them in

your breast, making this your task, depending on them for something to
take hold of in conversation. You are far from knowing the intent of
the sages in expounding the teachings. This is what is called counting
the treasure of others all day long without having half a cent of your
own.22



_Ta-hui rightly recognized in such scholarship an impending destruction
of Ch'an's innate vigor. At one point, in desperation, he even
destroyed the original printing blocks for the best-known koan
collection of the time, the _Blue Cliff Record _compiled by his master,
Yuan-wu.23 But the trend continued nonetheless.

Ch'an was not over yet, however. It turns out that the sect did not
continue to fly apart and diversify as might be suspected, but rather
it actually consolidated. Although the Kuei-yang and Fa-yen houses
fizzled comparatively quickly, the Yun-men lasted considerably longer,
with an identifiable line of transmission lasting virtually throughout
the Sung Dynasty. The Ts'ao-tung house languished for a while, but with
Silent Illumination Ch'an it came back strongly during the Sung
Dynasty. Lin-chi split into two factions in the early eleventh century,
when two pupils of the master Ch'u-yuan (986-1036) decided to go their
own way, One of these masters, known as Huang-lung Hui-nan (1002-1069),
started a school which subsequently was transmitted to Japan by the
Japanese master Eisai, where it became known as Oryo Zen. However, this
school did not last long in China or Japan, becoming moribund after a
few generations. The other disciple of Ch'u-yuan was a master named
Yang-ch'i Fang-hui (992-1049), whose school (known in Japanese as Yogi
Zen) eventually became the only school of Chinese Ch'an, absorbing all
other sects when the faith went into its final decline after the Sung.
Ta-hui was part of this school, and it was the branch of the Lin-chi
sect that eventually took hold in Japan.

In closing our journey through Chinese Ch'an we must note that the
faith continued on strongly through the Sung largely because the
government began selling ordinations for its own profit. Ch'an also
continued to flourish during the Mongol-dominated Yuan Dynasty (1279-
1309), with many priests from Japan coming to China for study. During
the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644), it merged with another school of
Buddhism, the Pure Land Salvationist sect, and changed drastically.
Although Ming-style Chinese Ch'an still persists today, mainly outside
China, its practice bears scant resemblance to the original teachings.
For the practice of the classical Ch'an described here we must now turn
to Japan.



 PART IV



ZEN IN JAPAN



. . . in which Ch'an is imported to Japan by traditional Buddhists
disillusioned with the spiritual decadence of existing Japanese sects.
Through a fortuitous association with the rising military class, Ch'an
is eventually elevated to the most influential religion of Japan.
Before long, however, it evolves into a political and cultural rather
than a spiritual force. Although some Japanese attempt to restore
Ch'an's original vigor by deliberately attacking its "High Church"
institutions, few Japanese Zen teachers respect its original teachings
and practice. Japanese teachers contribute little to the Ch'an (Zen)
experience until finally, in the eighteenth century, a spiritual leader
appears who not only restores the original vitality of the faith, but
goes on to refine the koan practice and revolutionize the relationship
of Zen to the common people. This inspired teacher, Hakuin, creates
modern Zen.



Chapter Fifteen

EISAI:

THE FIRST JAPANESE MASTER


There is a twelfth-century story that the first Japanese monk who
journeyed to China to study Ch'an returned home to find a summons from
the Japanese court. There, in a meeting reminiscent of the Chinese
sovereign Wu and the Indian Bodhidharma some seven hundred years
before, Japan's emperor commanded him to describe the teachings of this
strange new cult. The bemused monk (remembered by the name Kakua)
replied with nothing more than a melody on his flute, leaving the court
flabbergasted.1 But what more ideal expression of China's wordless
doctrine?

As in the China entered by Bodhidharma, medieval Japan already knew the
teachings of Buddhism. In fact, the Japanese ruling classes had been
Buddhist for half a millennium before Ch'an officially came to their
attention. However, contacts with China were suspended midway during
this time, leaving Japanese Buddhists out of touch with the many
changes in China--the most significant being Ch'an's rise to the
dominant Buddhist sect.2 Consequently the Japanese had heard almost
nothing about this sect when contacts resumed in the twelfth century.
To their amazement they discovered that Chinese Buddhism had become
Ch'an. The story of Ch'an's transplant in Japan is also the story of
its preservation, since it was destined to wither away in China.

Perhaps we should review briefly how traditional Buddhism got to Japan
in the first place. During the sixth century, about the time of
Bodhidharma, a statue of the Buddha and some sutras were transmitted to
Japan as a gift/bribe from a Korean monarch seeking military aid. He
claimed Buddhism was very powerful although difficult to understand.
Not all Japanese, however, were overjoyed with the appearance of a new
faith. The least pleased were those employed by the existing religion,
the Japanese cult of Shinto, and they successfully discredited Buddhism
for several decades. But a number of court intrigues were underway at
the time, and one faction got the idea that Buddhism would be helpful
in undermining the Shinto-based ruling clique. Eventually this new
faction triumphed, and by the middle of the seventh century, the
Japanese were constructing Buddhist temples and pagodas.3

Other imports connected with these early mainland contacts were Chinese
writing and the Chinese style of government. The Japanese even
recreated the T'ang capital of Ch'ang-an, consecrated at the beginning
of the eighth century as Nara, their first real city. The growing
Buddhist establishment soon overwhelmed Nara with a host of sects and
temples, culminating in 752 with the unveiling of a bronze meditating
Buddha larger than any statue in the world.

Japan was now awash in thirdhand Buddhism, as Chinese missionaries
patronizingly expounded Sanskrit scriptures they themselves only
vaguely understood. Buddhism's reputation for powerful magic soon
demoralized the simple religion of Shinto, with its unpretentious
shrines and rites, and this benign nature reverence was increasingly
pushed into the background. The impact of Buddhism became so
overwhelming that the alarmed emperor finally abandoned Nara entirely
to the Buddhists, and at the close of the eighth century set up a new
capital in central Japan, known today as Kyoto.

The emperor also decided to discredit the Nara Buddhists on their own
terms, sending to China for new, competing sects. Back came emissaries
with two new schools, which soon assumed dominance of Japanese
Buddhism. The first of these was Tendai, named after the Chinese T'ien-
t'ai school. Its teachings centered on the Lotus Sutra, which taught
that the human Buddha personified a universal spirit, evidence of the
oneness permeating all things. The Tendai school was installed on Mt.
Hiei, in the outskirts of Kyoto, giving birth to an establishment
eventually to number several thousand buildings. The monks on Mt. Hiei
became the authority on Buddhist matters in Japan for several centuries
thereafter, and later they also began meddling in affairs of state,
sometimes even resorting to arms. Tendai was, and perhaps to some
degree still is, a faith for the fortunate few. It did not stress an
idealized hereafter, since it served a class--the idle aristocracy--
perfectly comfortable in the present world. In any case, it became the
major Japanese Buddhist sect during the Heian era (794-1185), a time of
aristocratic rule.

The other important, and also aristocratic, version of Buddhism
preceding Zen was called Shingon, from the Chinese school Chen-yen, a
magical-mystery sect thriving on secrecy and esoteric symbolism. It
appealed less to the intellect than did Tendai and more to the taste
for entertainment among the bored aristocrats. Although Shingon
monasteries often were situated in remote mountainous areas, the
intrigue of their engaging ceremonies (featuring efflorescent
iconography, chants, and complex liturgies) and their evocative
mandalas (geometrical paintings full of symbolism) made this sect a
theatrical success. This so-called Esoteric Buddhism of Shingon grew so
popular that the sober Tendai sect was obliged to start adding
ritualistic complexity into its own practices.4

The Japanese government broke off relations with China less than a
hundred years after the founding of Kyoto, around the middle of the
ninth century. From then until the mid-twelfth century mainland
contacts virtually ceased, and consequently both Japanese culture and
Japanese Buddhism gradually evolved away from their Chinese models. The
Japanese aristocracy became obsessed with aesthetics, finery, and
refined lovemaking accompanied by poetry, perfumes, and flowers.5  They
distilled the vigorous T'ang culture to a refined essence, rather like
extracting a delicate liqueur from a stout potion.

The Buddhist church also grew decadent, even as it grew ever more
powerful and ominous. The priesthood became the appointment of last
resort for otherwise unemployable courtiers, and indeed Buddhism
finally degenerated largely into an entertainment for the ruling class,
whose members were amused and diverted by its rites. This carefree
aristocracy also allowed increasing amounts of wealth and land to slip
into the hands of corrupt religious establishments. For their own part,
the Buddhists began forming armies of monks to protect their new
wealth, and they eventually went on to engage in inter-temple wars and
threaten the civil government.

During this time, the Japanese aristocracy preserved its privileged
position through the unwise policy of using an emerging military class
to maintain order. These professional soldiers seem to have arisen from
the aristocacy itself. Japanese emperors had a large number of women at
their disposal, through whom they scattered a host of progeny, not all
of which could be maintained idle in Kyoto. A number of these were sent
to the provinces, where they were to govern untamed outlying areas.
This continued until one day the court in Kyoto awoke to find that
Japan was in fact controlled by these rural clans and their mounted
warriors, the samurai.6

In the middle of the twelfth century, the samurai effectively seized
Japan, and their strongman invented for himself the title of _shogun_,
proceeding to institute what became almost eight centuries of unbroken
warrior rule. The age of the common man had arrived, and one of the
_shogun's _first acts was to transfer the government away from
aristocratic Kyoto, whose sophisticated society made him uncomfortable,
to a warrior camp called Kamakura, near the site of modern Tokyo. The
rule of Japan passed from perfumed, poetry-writing aesthetes to fierce,
often illiterate swordsmen.

Coincident with this coup, the decadence and irrelevance of traditional
Buddhism had begun to weigh heavily upon a new group of spiritual
reformers. Before long Tendai and Shingon were challenged by new faiths
recognizing the existence and spiritual needs of the common people. One
form this reformation took was the appearance of new sects providing
spiritual comfort to the masses and the possibility of eternal
salvation through some simple act, usually the repetition of a sacred
chant. One, and later two, such sects (Jodo and Jodo Shin) focused on
the Buddhist figure Amida, whose Paradise or "Pure Land" in the
hereafter was open to all those calling upon his name (by chanting a
sort of Buddhist "Hail Mary" called the _nembutsu_, "Praise to Amida
Buddha"). Another simplified sect preached a fundamentalist return to
the Lotus Sutra and was led by a firebrand named Nichiren, who also
created a chant for his largely illiterate followers. A formula
guaranteeing Paradise had particular appeal to the samurai, whose day-
to-day existence was dangerous and uncertain. The scandalized Tendai
monks vigorously opposed this home-grown populist movement,
occasionally even burning down temples to discourage its growth. But
the Pure Land and Nichiren sects continued to flourish, since the
common people finally had a Buddhism all their own.

There were others, however, who believed that the aristocratic sects
could be reformed from within--by importing them afresh from China, from
the source. These reformers hoped that Buddhism in China had maintained
its integrity and discipline during the several centuries of
separation. And by fortunate coincidence, Japanese contacts with the
mainland were being reopened, making it again allowable to undertake
the perilous sea voyage to China. But when the first twelfth-century
Japanese pilgrims reached the mainland, they were stunned to find that
traditional Buddhism had been almost completely supplanted by Ch'an.
Consequently, the Japanese pilgrims returning from China perforce
returned with Zen, since little else remained. However, Zen was not
originally brought back to replace traditional Buddhism, but rather as
a stimulant to restore the rigor that had drained out of monastic life,
including formal meditation and respect or discipline.7

Credit for the introduction of Lin-chi Zen (called Rinzai) in Japan is
traditionally given to the aristocratic priest and traveler Myoan Eisai
(1141-1215).8 He began his career as a young monk in the Tendai complex
near Kyoto, but in the summer of 1168 he accompanied a Shingon priest
on a trip to China, largely to sightsee and to visit the home of the
T'ien-t'ai sect as a pilgrim. However, the T'ien-t'ai school must have
been a mere shadow of its former self by this time, and naturally
enough Eisai became familiar with Ch'an. But he was hardly a firebrand
for Zen, for when he returned to Japan he continued practice of
traditional Buddhism.

Some twenty years later, in 1187, Eisai again journeyed to China, this
time planning a pilgrimage on to India and the Buddhist holy places.
But the Chinese refused him permission to travel beyond their borders,
leaving Eisai no choice but to study there. He finally attached himself
to an aging Ch'an monk on Mt. T'ien-t'ai and managed to receive the
seal of enlightenment before returning to Japan in 1191, quite probably
the first Japanese ever certified by a Chinese Ch'an master. He was
not, however, totally committed to Zen. His Ch'an teacher was also
occupied with other Buddhist schools, and what Eisai brought back was a
Buddhist cocktail blended from several different traditions.9 But he did
proceed to build a temple to the Huang-lung (Japanese Oryo) branch of
the Lin-chi sect on the southernmost Japanese island, Kyushu (the
location nearest China), in the provincial town of Hakata. Almost as
important, he also brought back the tea plant (whose brew was used in
China to keep drowsy monks awake during meditation), thereby
instituting the long marriage of Zen and tea.

Although his provincial temple went unchallenged, later attempts to
introduce this new sect into Kyoto, the stronghold of traditional
Buddhism, met fierce resistance from the establishment, particularly
Tendai. But Eisai contended that Zen was a useful sect and that the
government would reap practical benefits from its protection. His
spirited defense of Zen, entitled "Propagation of Zen for the
Protection of the Country," argued that its encouragement would be good
for Japanese Buddhism and therefore good for Japan.10



_As in India, so in China its teaching has attracted followers and
disciples in great numbers. It propagates the Truth as the ancient
Buddha did, with the robe of authentic transmission passing from one
man to the next. In the matter of religious discipline, it practices
the genuine method of the sages of old. Thus the Truth it teaches, both
in substance and appearance, perfects the relationships of master and
disciple. In its rules of action and discipline, there is no confusion
of right and wrong. . . . Studying it, one discovers the key to all
forms of Buddhism; practicing it, one's life is brought to fulfillment
in the attainment of enlightenment. Outwardly it favors discipline over
doctrine, inwardly it brings the Highest Inner Wisdom. This is what the
Zen sect stands for.11

_

He also pointed out how un-Japanese it would be to deny Zen a hearing:
Japan has been open-minded in the past, why should she reject a new
faith now?



_In our country the [emperor] shines in splendor and the influence of
his virtuous wisdom spreads far and wide. Emissaries from the distant
lands of South and Central Asia pay their respects to his court. Lay
ministers conduct the affairs of government; priests and monks spread
abroad religious truth. Even the truths of the Four Hindu Vedas are not
neglected. Why then reject the five schools of Zen Buddhism?12

_

Eisai was the classic tactician, knowing well when to fight and when to
retire, and he decided in 1199 on a diversionary retreat to Kamakura,
leaving behind the hostile, competitive atmosphere of aristocratic
Kyoto. Through his political connections, he managed to get installed
as head of a new temple in Kamakura, beginning Zen's long association
with the Japanese warrior class.

Eisai seems to have done well in Kamakura, for not long after he
arrived, the current strongman gave him financing for a Zen temple in
Kyoto, named Kennin-ji and completed in 1205. Eisai returned the favor
by assisting in the repair of temples ravaged by the recent wars. It
was reportedly for a later, hard-drinking ruler that Eisai composed his
second classic work, "Drink Tea and Prolong Life," which championed the
medicinal properties of this exotic Chinese beverage, declaring it a
restorative that tuned up the body and strengthened the heart.



_In the great country of China they drink tea, as a result of which
there is no heart trouble and people live long lives. Our country is
full of sickly-looking, skinny persons, and this is simply because we
do not drink tea. Whenever one is in poor spirits, one should drink
tea. This will put the heart in order and dispel all illness. When the
heart is vigorous, then even if the other organs are ailing, no great
pain will be felt. . . . The heart is the sovereign of the five organs,
tea is the chief of the bitter foods, and bitter is the chief of the
tastes. For this reason the heart loves bitter things, and when it is
doing well all the other organs are properly regulated. . . . When,
however, the whole body feels weak, devitalized, and depressed, it is a
sign that the heart is ailing. Drink lots of tea, and one's energy and
spirits will be restored to full strength.13

_

This first Zen teacher was certainly no Lin-chi. He was merely a Tendai
priest who imported Lin-chi's sect from China hoping to bring
discipline to his school; he established an ecumenical monastery at
which both Zen and esoteric Tendai practices were taught; he consorted
with leaders whose place was owed to a military coup d'etat; and he
appeared to advocate Zen on transparently practical, sometimes almost
political, grounds. He compromised with the existing cults to the end,
even refusing to lend aid to other, more pure-minded advocates of Ch'an
who had risen in Kyoto in the meantime.14 But Eisai was a colorful
figure whom history has chosen to remember as the founder of Zen in
Japan, as well as (perhaps equally important) the father of the cult of
tea.

Eisai ended his days as abbot of the Kyoto temple of Kennin-ji and
leader of a small Zen community that was careful not to quarrel with
the powers of Tendai and Shingon, which also had altars in the temple.
Eisai's "Zen" began in Japan as a minor infusion of Buddhism's original
discipline, but through an accommodation with the warrior
establishment, he accidentally planted the seeds of Ch'an in fertile
soil. Gradually the number of Zen practitioners grew, as more and more
of the samurai recognized in Zen a practical philosophy that accorded
well with their needs. As Paul Varley has explained: "Zen . . .
stresses cultivation of the intuitive faculties and places a high
premium on discipline and self-control. It rejects rational decision-
making as artificial and delusory, and insists that action must come
from emotion. As such, Zen proved particularly congenial to the
medieval samurai, who lived with violence and imminent death and who
sought to develop such things as 'spontaneity of conduct' and a
'tranquility of heart' to meet the rigours of his profession. Under the
influence of Zen, later samurai theorists especially asserted that the
true warrior must be constantly prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice
of his life in the service of his lord--without a moment's reflection or
conscious consideration."15

It can only be ironic that what began in China as a school of
meditation, then became an iconoclastic movement using koans to beat
down the analytical faculties finally emerged (in an amalgam with other
teachings) in Japan as a psychological mainstay for the soldiers of a
military dictatorship. There was, however, another Japanese school of
Zen that introduced its practice in a form more closely resembling
original Ch'an. This was the movement started by Dogen, whose life we
may now examine.



Chapter Sixteen

DOGEN:

FATHER OF JAPANESE SOTO ZEN


The Soto master Dogen (1200-53) is probably the most revered figure in
all Japanese Zen. Yet until recently he has been comparatively unknown
abroad, perhaps because that great popularizer of Zen in the West, D.
T. Suzuki, followed the Rinzai school and managed to essentially ignore
Dogen throughout his voluminous writings. But it was Dogen who first
insisted on intensive meditation, who produced the first Japanese
writings explaining Zen practice, and who constructed the first real
Zen monastery in Japan, establishing a set of monastic rules still
observed. Moreover, the strength of his character has inspired many Zen
masters to follow. Indeed, it is hard to contradict the scholar
Dumoulin, who declared him "the strongest and most original thinker
that Japan has so far produced."1

Born January 2 of the year 1200 an illegitimate son of a noble Fujiwara
mother and a princely father, Dogen's circumstances from the start were
aristocratic.2 Around him swirled the literary life of the court, the
powerful centuries-old position of the Fujiwara, and the refined
decadence of ancient Kyoto. Although his father died when he was two,
his privileged education continued at the hands of his mother and half-
brother. He most certainly learned to read and write classical Chinese,
as well as to versify and debate--all skills that he would one day put
to extensive use. His poetic sensitivity (something traditionally
prized by the Japanese above logic and precision of thought) was
encouraged by all he met in the hothouse atmosphere of ancient Kyoto.
This idyllic, protected life was shattered at age seven with the sudden
death of his mother. But she set the course of his life when, at the
last, she bade him become a monk and reach out to suffering mankind. A
popular tradition has it that at his mother's funeral Dogen sensed in
the rising incense the impermanence of all things. After the shock of
his mother's death he was adopted by an uncle as family heir and set on
the way to a reluctant career in statecraft. But as he approached age
twelve, the time when a formal ceremony would signify his entry into
the male circle of aristocracy, his reservations overwhelmed him and he
slipped away to visit another uncle, a priest living in the foothills
of Mt. Hiei. When Dogen begged to be allowed to turn his back on the
aristocratic world of Kyoto and fulfill his mother's dying wish by
becoming a monk the family was dismayed. But finally they relented, and
he was ordained the following year as a Tendai brother on Mt. Hiei.

Already a scholar of the Chinese classics, he now turned to the
literature of Tendai Buddhism. But soon he was snagged on a problem
that has haunted theologians East and West for many centuries. In
Christian terms it is the Calvinist question of whether man is already
saved by predestination or whether he must earn his salvation. Dogen
formulated this in a Buddhist context as follows:



_As I study both the exoteric and the esoteric schools of Buddhism,
they maintain that man is endowed with the Dharma-nature by birth. If
this is the case, why had the Buddhas of all ages--undoubtedly in
possession of enlightenment--to seek enlightenment and engage in
spiritual practice_?3



In other words, if man already has the Buddha nature, why must he
struggle to realize it by arduous disciplines? Conversely, if the
Buddha nature must be acquired, how can it be inherent in all things,
as was taught?

This perplexing paradox, which no one in Japan's Tendai "Vatican" on
Mt. Hiei could resolve, finally drove Dogen wandering in search of
other teachers. He initially stopped at Eisai's temple, Kennin-ji, long
enough to be taught the basics of Rinzai Zen practice, but then he
traveled on. Eventually, though, he returned to Kennin-ji, and in 1217,
began Zen study under Eisai's disciple, Myozen (1184-1225). Of his
relationship with this Rinzai master he later declared:



_Ever since I awakened to the Bodhi-mind and sought the supreme Truth I
made many visits to Buddhist masters throughout the country. It was
thus that I happened to meet the Venerable Myozen at Kennin-ji. Nine
years quickly passed as I studied the Way under him. During that period
I had the opportunity to learn from him, to some extent, the training
methods of the Rinzai Zen sect. To the Venerable Myozen, leading
disciple of my late master Eisai, was rightly transmitted the highest
supreme Law and he was unparalleled among his fellow disciples in
learning and virtue.4



_Dogen may have been impressed as much by the legend of Eisai as by the
shouting and beating of the Rinzai sect, for he often sprinkled stories
about Eisai through his writings and sermons thereafter.

But Dogen still could not find contentment, even with the Rinzai he
received at Kennin-ji, and at age twenty-three he resolved to go to
China and experience Ch'an teachings firsthand. So in the spring of
1223 he and Myozen shipped out for China, intending to visit Buddhist
establishments there. (Another reason for his hasty decision to go to
China for study may have been a series of political upheavals involving
armed monks, which resulted in some of his high-placed relations being
banished--while a series of executions took place.)5

After a rough but speedy voyage across the East China Sea, they arrived
at Ming-chou, down the coast from the Sung capital of Hangchow. Myozen
could not wait and headed straight for the Ch'an complex on Mt. T'ien-
t'ung. However, the more cautious Dogen chose to stay aboard ship until
midsummer, easing himself into Chinese life slowly. But even there he
experienced an example of Ch'an fervor and devotion that impressed him
deeply, if only because it was so different from what he had seen in
Japan. This lesson was at the hands of a sixty-year-old Chinese cook
from a Ch'an monastery who visited the ship to purchase some Japanese
mushrooms. Dogen became involved in an animated conversation with the
old monk and, since his monastery was over ten miles away, out of
courtesy invited him to stay the night on board ship. However, the old
tenzo monk (one in charge of monastery meals) insisted on returning,
saying duty called. But, Dogen pressed, surely there must be others who
could cook in such a large monastery, and besides cooking was hardly
the point of Zen. As Dogen later recalled his own words:



_"Venerable sir! Why don't you do_ zazen _[Zen meditation] or study the
koan of ancient masters? What is the use of working so hard as a tenzo
monk?"

On hearing my remarks, he broke into laughter and said, "Good
foreigner! You seem to be ignorant of the true training and meaning of
Buddhism." In a moment, ashamed and surprised at his remark, I said to
him, "What are they?"

"If you understand the true meaning of your question, you will have
already realized the true meaning of Buddhism," he answered. At that
time, however, I was unable to understand what he meant.6_



Such were the exchanges between Japanese Buddhist scholars and Ch'an
monastery cooks in the early thirteenth century.

In midsummer of 1223, Dogen finally moved ashore and entered the temple
on Mt. T'ien-t'ung called Ching-te-ssu. His intense study brought no
seal of enlightenment, but it did engender severe disappointment with
the standards of Ch'an monasteries in China. Although the school that
Dogen found was a branch of Lin-chi traceable back to the koan master
Ta-hui, different from the fading school Eisai had encountered, Dogen
later would denounce impartially the general run of all Ch'an masters
he met in China.



_Although there are in China a great number of those who profess
themselves to be the descendants of the Buddhas and patriarchs, there
are few who study truth and accordingly there are few who teach truth.
. . . Thus those people who have not the slightest idea of what the
great Way of the Buddhas and patriarchs is now become the masters of
monks. . . . Reciting a few words of Lin-chi and Yun-men they take them
for the whole truth of Buddhism. If Buddhism had been exhausted by a
few words of Lin-chi and Yun-men, it could not have survived till
today.7

_

After studying for two years while simultaneously nosing about other
nearby monasteries, Dogen finally decided to travel, hoping others of
the "five houses" had maintained discipline. (He also seems to have
experienced some discrimination as a foreigner in China.) But the
farther he went, the more despondent he became; nowhere in China could
he find a teacher worthy to succeed the ancient masters. He finally
resolved to abandon China and return to Japan.

But at this moment fate took a turn that--in retrospect--had enormous
importance for the future of Japanese Buddhism. A monk he met on the
road told him that T'ien-t'ung now had a new

abbot, a truly enlightened master namd Ju-ching (1163-1228). Dogen
returned to see and was received warmly, being invited by Ju-ching to
ignore ceremony and approach him as an equal. The twenty-five-year-old
Japanese monk was elated, and settled down at last to undertake the
study he had come to China for. The master Ju-ching became Dogen's
ideal of what a Zen teacher should be, and the habits--perhaps even the
eccentricities--of this aging teacher were translated by Dogen into the
model for monks in Japan.

Ju-ching was, above all things, uncompromising in his advocacy of
meditation or _zazen_. He might even have challenged Bodhidharma for
the title of its all-time practitioner, and it was from Ju-ching's
Ch'an (which may also have included koan study) that Dogen took his
cue. Although Ch'an was still widespread, Ju-ching seems to have been
the only remaining advocate of intensive meditation in China, and a
chance intersection of history brought this teaching to Japan.
Significantly, he was one of the few Ts'ao-tung masters ever to lead
the important T'ien-t'ung monastery, traditionally headed by a member
of the Lin-chi school. Ju-ching was a model master: strict but kindly;
simple in habits, diet, dress; immune to the attractions of court
recognition; and an uncompromising advocate of virtually round-the-
clock meditation.

But he never asked anything of his monks he did not also demand of
himself, even when advanced in years. He would strike nodding monks to
refresh their attention, while lamenting that age had so diminished the
strength in his arm it was eroding his ability to create good monks.
Ju-ching would meditate until eleven in the evening and then be up
again by two-thirty or three the next morning, back at _zazen_. He
frequently developed sores on his backside from such perpetual sitting,
but nothing deterred him. He even declared the pain made him love
_zazen _all the more.

The story of Dogen's final enlightenment at the hands of Ju-ching is a
classic of Japanese Zen. In the meditation hall one early morning all
the monks were sitting in meditation when the man next to Dogen dozed
off--a common enough occurrence in early-morning sessions. But when Ju-
ching came by on a routine inspection and saw the sleeping monk, he was
for some reason particularly rankled and roared out, "_Zazen _means the
dropping away of mind and body! What will you get by sleeping?" Dogen,
sitting nearby, was at first startled, but then an indescribable calm,
an ecstatic joy washed over him. Could it be that this was the moment
he had been hoping for? Could it be that the fruit had been ready to
fall from the tree, with this just the shake needed?

Dogen rushed to Ju-ching's room afterward and burned incense, to
signify his enlightenment experience. Throwing himself at the master's
feet, he declared, "I have experienced the dropping away of mind and
body."

Ju-ching immediately recognized his enlightenment to be genuine (modern
masters reportedly can discern a novice's state merely by the way he
rings a gong) and he replied, "You have indeed dropped body and mind."

"But wait a minute," Dogen cautioned. "Don't sanction me so easily. How
do you really know I've achieved enlightenment?"

To which Ju-ching replied simply, "Body and mind have dropped away."

Dogen bowed in acknowledgment of his acknowledgment. And thus, in May
1225, was the greatest Zen teacher in Japan enlightened. In the fall
Ju-ching conferred upon Dogen the seal of patriarchal succession of his
line of the Ts'ao-tung sect.8

Dogen stayed on for two more years studying under Ju-ching, but finally
he decided to return again to Japan. When they parted, Ju-ching gave
his Japanese protege the patriarchal robe, his own portrait (called
_chinso_, a symbol of transmission), and bade him farewell. So did
Dogen return to Japan in the fall of 1227, taking with him the koan
collection _Blue Cliff Record_, which he copied his last night in
China. But he also brought the fire of a powerful idea, pure
meditation, that formed the basis for the Japanese Soto school of Zen.

Dogen returned to Eisai's old temple of Kennin-ji, where he proceeded
to write the minor classic _A Universal Recommendation for Zazen_,
introducing the idea of intense meditation to his countrymen.



_You should pay attention to the fact that even the Buddha Sakyamuni
had to practice_ zazen _for six years. It is also said that Bodhidharma
had to do _zazen _at Shao-lin temple for nine years in order to
transmit the Buddha-mind. Since these ancient sages were so diligent,
how can present-day trainees do without the practice of _zazen_? You
should stop pursuing words and letters and learn to withdraw and
reflect on yourself. When you do so, your body and mind will naturally
fall away, and your original Buddha-nature will appear.9

_

It was the opening shot in a campaign to make pure Zen the meaningful
alternative to the decadent traditional Buddhism of the aristocracy and
the new Salvationist sect of Pure Land. But first the Japanese had to
be taught how to meditate, so he wrote a meditation "handbook" that
explained exactly how and where to undertake this traditional Buddhist
practice. His directions are worth quoting at length.



_Now, in doing _zazen _it is desirable to have a quiet room. You should
be temperate in eating and drinking, forsaking all delusive
relationships. Setting everything aside, think neither of good nor
evil, right nor wrong. Thus, having stopped the various functions of
your mind, give up the idea of becoming a Buddha. This holds true not
only for _zazen _but for all your daily actions.

Usually a thick square mat is put on the floor where you sit and a
round cushion on top of that. You may sit in either the full or half
lotus position. In the former, first put your right foot on your left
thigh and then your left foot on your right thigh. In the latter, only
put your left foot on the right thigh. Your clothing should be worn
loosely but neatly. Next, put your right hand on your left foot and
your left palm on the right palm, the tips of the thumbs lightly
touching. Sit upright, leaning to neither left nor right, front nor
back. Your ears should be on the same plane as your shoulders and your
nose in line with your navel. Your tongue should be placed against the
roof of your mouth and your lips and teeth closed firmly. With your
eyes kept continuously open, breathe quietly through your nostrils.
Finally, having regulated your body and mind in this way, take a deep
breath, sway your body to left and right, then sit firmly as a rock.
Think of nonthinking. How is this done? By thinking beyond thinking and
nonthinking. This is the very basis of _zazen_._10



This first little essay was meant to provide Japan a taste of the real
Zen he had experienced in China, and it was the beginning of an
astounding literary output. Dogen asserted that since the Buddha had
meditated and Bodhidharma had meditated, the most valuable thing to do
is meditate. Not surprisingly, he received a cold response from the
other schools in Kyoto, both the Tendai sects and the other "Zen"
teachers who, like Eisai, taught a "syncretic" Zen of compromise with
establishment Buddhism. His rigid doctrine was socially awkward for the
syncretic Zen monks at Kennin-ji--who seasoned their practice with
chants and esoteric ceremonies--and Dogen finally decided to spare them
further embarrassment by retiring to a mountain retreat.

Off he went to another temple, An'yoin, where he began to elaborate on
the role of meditation in Zen practice, writing another essay, entitled
"Bendowa" or "Lecture on Training," designed to provide a more
dialectical defense for zazen. Written in the form of eighteen
questions and answers, the "Lecture on Training" was intended to
further justify the intense meditation he had described earlier. This
essay later became the initial section of a massive book today known as
the _Shobogenzo _(_Treasure of Knowledge Regarding the True Dharma_),
which was guarded as a secret treasure of the Soto school for many
centuries.



_Question: . . . For most people the natural way to enlightenment is to
read the scriptures and recite the nembutsu [Praise to Amida Buddha].
Since you do nothing more than sit cross-legged, how can this mere
sitting be a means of gaining enlightenment?



Answer: . . . Of what use is it to read the scriptures and recite the
_nembutsu_? It is useless to imagine that the merits of Buddhism come
merely from using one's tongue or voice; if you think such things
embrace all of Buddhism, the Truth is a long way from you. You should
only read the scriptures so as to learn that the Buddha was teaching
the necessity of gradual and sudden training and that from this you can
realise enlightenment; do not read them so as to make a show of wisdom
with useless intellection. . . . Just to continually repeat the
_nembutsu_ is equally useless, for it is a frog who croaks both day and
night in some field. . . . They who do nothing . . . more than study
the scriptures . . . never understand this, so just stop it and thereby
cure your delusions and doubts. Just follow the teachings of a true
master and, through the power of _Zazen_, find the utterly joyful
enlightenment of Buddha.11

_

It is not surprising to find Dogen firm in the belief that meditation
is superior to the practices of two competing movements: the
traditional sutra veneration of the Tendai sect and the Pure Land
schools' chanting of the nembutsu to Amida Buddha. But what about the
Rinzai Zen teaching that enlightenment is sudden and cannot be induced
by gradual practice? He next attacks this position:



_Question: Both in India and China, from the beginning of time to the
present day, some Zen teachers have been enlightened by such things as
the sound of stones striking bamboos, whilst the color of plum blossoms
cleared the minds of others. The [Buddha] was enlightened at the sight
of the morning star, whilst [his follower] Ananda understood the Truth
through seeing a stick fall. As well as these, many Zen teachers of the
five schools after the Sixth Patriarch were enlightened by only so much
as a word. Did all of them practise _Zazen_?



Answer: From olden times down to the present day, all who were ever
enlightened, either by colors or sounds, practised _Zazen _without
_Zazen_ and became instantaneously enlightened.12_



What exactly is he saying here? It would seem that he is convoluting
the early teaching of the Southern sect, which proposed that
"meditation" is a mind process that might also be duplicated by other
means. Dogen seems to be arguing that zazen is efficacious since all
who became enlightened were really "meditating" in daily life, whether
they realized it or not. The Southern school claimed that _dhyana_
could be anything and therefore it seemed ancillary; Dogen claims it
could be anything and therefore it is essential.

Dogen also came back to his original doctrinal dilemma, the question
that had sent him wandering from teacher to teacher in Japan while
still a youth: Why strive for enlightenment if all creatures are
Buddhas to begin with? He finally felt qualified to address his own
quandary.



_Question: There are those who say that one has only to understand that
this mind itself is the Buddha in order to understand Buddhism, and
that there is no need to recite the scriptures or undergo bodily
training. If you understand that Buddhism is inherent in yourself, you
are already fully enlightened and there is no need to seek for anything
further from anywhere. If this is so, is there any sense in taking the
trouble to practice _Zazen_?_

_Answer: This is a very grievous mistake, and even if it should be true
and the sages should teach it, it is impossible for you to understand
it. If you would truly study Buddhism, you must transcend all opinions
of subject and object. If it is possible to be enlightened simply by
knowing that the self is, in its self-nature, the Buddha, then there
was no need for Shakyamuni to try so diligently to teach the Way.1



_Whether this answer resolves the paradox will be left to the judgment
of others. But for all his intensities and eccentricities, Dogen was
certainly a powerful new thinker, clearly the strongest dialectician in
the history of Japanese Zen. He was also a magnetic personality who
attracted many followers, and by 1233 he had so outgrown the space at
An'yoin that a larger temple was imperative (which became available
thanks to his aristocratic connections). His next move was to Kosho-ji,
a temple near Kyoto, where he spent the succeeding ten years in intense
literary creativity, where he constructed the first truly independent
Zen monastery in Japan, and where he found a worthy disciple, Koun Ejo
(1198-1280), who served as head monk and ultimately as his successor.
It was here, beginning in 1233, that Dogen finally recreated Chinese
Ch'an totally in Japan, right down to an architectural replica of a
Sung-style monastery and an uncompromising discipline reminiscent of
his old Chinese master Ju-ching.

After settling in at Kosho-ji he began, in late 1235, a fundraising
drive for the purpose of building the first Zen-style monks' hall
(_sodo_) in Japan. He believed that this building, viewed by the
lawgiver Po-chang Huai-hai as the heart of a Ch'an monstery, was
essential if he were to effectively teach meditation. The doors would
be open to all, since the onetime aristocrat Dogen was now very much a
man of the people, welcoming rich and poor, monks and laymen, men and
women.14

When the meditation hall opened in 1236, Dogen signaled the occasion by
posting a set of rules for behavior reminiscent of Huai-hai's laws set
down in eighth-century China. A quick skim of these rules tells much
about the character of the master Dogen.



_No monk shall be admitted to this meditation hall unless he has an
earnest desire for the Way and a strong determination not to seek fame
and profit. . . . All monks in this hall should try to live in harmony
with one another, just as milk blends well with water. . . . You should
not walk about in the outside world; but if unavoidable, it is
permissible to do so once a month. . . . Keep the supervisor of this
hall informed of your whereabouts at all times. . . .Never speak ill of
others nor find fault with them. . . . Never loiter in the hall. . . .
Wear only robes of plain material. . . . Never enter the hall drunk
with wine. . . . Never disturb the training of other monks by inviting
outsiders, lay or clerical, into the hall. . . .15



_Dogen maintained this first pure Zen monastery for a decade, during
which time he composed forty more sections of his classic Shobogenzo.
And during this time the tree of Zen took root in Japanese soil firmly
and surely.

But things could not go smoothly forever. Dogen's powerful friends at
court protected him as long as they could, but eventually his
popularity became too much for the jealous Tendai monks on Mt. Hiei to
bear. To fight their censure he appealed to the emperor, claiming (as
had Eisai before him) that Zen was good for Japan. But the other
schools immediately filed opposing briefs with the emperor and the
court, culminating in a judiciary proceeding with distinguished clerics
being convened to hear both sides. As might have been expected they
ruled against Dogen, criticizing him for being obsessed with _zazen
_and ignoring the sutras, etc. It probably was this political setback
that persuaded him to quit the Kyoto vicinity in 1243 and move to the
provinces, where he could teach in peace.16

He camped out in various small Tendai monasteries (where he wrote
another twenty-nine chapters of the _Shobogenzo_) until his final
temple, called Eihei-ji, or Eternal Peace, was completed in the
mountains of present-day Fukui prefecture. This site became the center
of Soto Zen in Japan, the principal monastery of the sect. Dogen
himself was approaching elder statesmanhood, and in 1247 he was
summoned to the warrior headquarters of Kamakura by none other than the
most powerful man in Japan, the warrior Hojo Tokiyori. The ruler wanted
to learn about Zen, and Dogen correctly perceived it would be unhealthy
to refuse the invitation.

The warriors in Kamakura would most likely have been familiar with the
syncretic Rinzai Zen of Eisai, which focused on the use of the koan.
For his own part, Dogen did not reject the koan out of hand (he left a
collection of three hundred); rather he judged it a device intended to
create a momentary glimpse of satori, or enlightenment, whose real
value was mainly as a metaphor for the enlightenment experience--an
experience he believed could be realized in full only through gradual
practice.



_In the pursuit of the Way [Buddhism] the prime essential is sitting
(_zazen_). . . . By reflecting upon various "public-cases" (koan) and
dialogues of the patriarchs, one may perhaps get the sense of them but
it will only result in one's being led astray from the way of the
Buddha, our founder. Just to pass the time in sitting straight, without
any thought of acquisition, without any sense of achieving
enlightenment--this is the way of the Founder. It is true that our
predecessors recommended both the koan and sitting, but it was the
sitting that they particularly insisted upon. There have been some who
attained enlightenment through the test of the koan, but the true cause
of their enlightenment was the merit and effectiveness of sitting.
Truly the merit lies in the sitting.17

_

Dogen spent the winter of 1247-48 in Kamakura teaching meditation, and
was in turn offered the post of abbot in a new Zen monastery being
built for the warrior capital. But Dogen politely declined, perhaps
believing the Salvationist sects and the syncretic Zen of Eisai were
still too strong among the samurai for his pure meditation to catch
hold.18 Or possibly he sensed his health was beginning to fail and he
wanted to retire to his beloved mountain monastery, where the politics
of Kyoto and Kamakura could not reach.

Maybe Dogen's many nights of intense meditation in heat and cold had
taken their toll, or the long hours of writing and rewriting his manual
of Zen had sapped his strength. In any case, his health deteriorated
rapidly after Kamakura until finally, in 1253, all realized that the
end was near. He appointed the faithful head monk Ejo his successor at
Eihei-ji, and on the insistence of his disciples was then taken to
Kyoto for medical care. However, nothing could be done, and on August
28 he said farewell, dying in the grand tradition--sitting in _zazen_.

In the long run, Dogen seems the one we should acknowledge as the true
founder of Zen in Japan; pure Zen first had to be introduced before it
could grow. But at the time of Dogen's death it was not at all obvious
that Soto Zen, or any Zen for that matter, would ever survive to become
an independent sect in Japan.19 Perhaps Dogen felt this too, for his
later writings became increasingly strident in their denunciation of
the Salvationist sects and the syncretic Rinzai schools. He thought of
himself as above sectarianism, claiming that _zazen _was not a sect but
rather an expression of pure Buddhism. And perhaps it was after all
only an accident that the teacher who had taught him to meditate
happened to be a member of the Ts'ao-tung school.

After Dogen's death, his small community persevered in the mountains,
isolated and at first preserving his teaching. But

eventually internal disputes pulled the community apart, and the temple
fell inactive for a time. Furthermore, his teaching of intensive
meditation was soon diluted by the introduction of rituals from the
esoteric schools of traditional Buddhism. In this new form it began to
proselytize and spread outward, particularly in provincial areas, where
its simplicity appealed to common folk.20 It also welcomed women,
something not necessarily stressed in all the Buddhist sects. Although
Soto was by this time pretty much a thing of the past in China, with
the last recognized Chinese Soto master dying about a century after
Dogen, the school prospered in Japan, where today it has three
followers for every one of Rinzai.

Ch'an still had Rinzai masters in China, however, and in the next phase
of Zen they would start emigrating to teach the Japanese in Kamakura.
The result was that Soto became the low-key home-grown Zen, while
Rinzai became a vehicle for importing Chinese culture to the warrior
class. It is to this dynamic period of warrior Rinzai Zen that we must
now look for the next great masters.



Chapter Seventeen

IKKYU:

ZEN ECCENTRIC


The earliest Japanese masters brought Ch'an from China in the hope that
its discipline would revitalize traditional Buddhism. Since Eisai's
temple was the first to include Ch'an practice, he has received credit
for founding Japanese Rinzai Zen. History, however, has glorified
matters somewhat, for in fact Eisai was little more than a Tendai
priest who dabbled a bit in Ch'an practice and enjoyed a gift for
advancing himself with the Kamakura warlords. Nor was Dogen inspired to
establish the Soto sect in Japan. He too was merely a reformer who
chanced across a Chinese Soto master devoted to meditation. It was the
powerful discipline of meditation that Dogen sought to introduce into
Japan, not a sectarian branch of Zen. Only later did Dogen's movement
become a proselytizing Zen sect. These and other thirteenth-century
Japanese reformers imported Ch'an for the simple reason that it was the
purest expression of Buddhism left in China. During the early era Zen
focused on Kyoto and Kamakura and was mainly a reformation within the
Tendai school. The Japanese understanding of Ch'an was hesitant and
inconclusive--to the point that few Japanese of the mid-thirteenth
century actually realized a new form of Buddhism was in the making.1

Over the next century and a half, however, a revolution began, as Zen
at first gradually and then precipitously became the preoccupation of
Japan's ruling class. The Zen explosion came about via a combination of
circumstances. We have seen that the warrior ruler Hojo Tokiyori (1227-
63) was interested in the school and offered Dogen a temple in
Kamakura, an invitation Dogen refused. However, in 1246 an emigre Ch'an
master from the Chinese mainland named Lan-ch'i (1212-78) appeared in
Japan uninvited, having heard of Japanese interest in Ch'an. He went
first to Kyoto, where he found Zen still subject to hostile
sectarianism, and then to Kamakura, where he managed in 1249 to meet
Tokiyori. The Japanese strongman was delighted and proceeded to have
the temple of another sect converted to a Zen establishment, making
Lan-ch'i abbot. Shortly after, Tokiyori completed construction of a
Sung-style Zen monastery in Kamakura, again putting Lan-ch'i in charge.
This Chinese monk, merely one of many in his native China, had become
head of the leading Zen temple in Japan. When word got back, a host of
enterprising Chinese clerics began pouring into the island nation
seeking their fortune.2

Thus began the next phase of early Japanese Zen, fueled by the invasion
of Chinese Ch'an monks. This movement occupied the remainder of the
thirteenth century and was spurred along by unsettled conditions in
China--namely the imminent fall of the Southern Sung Dynasty to the
Mongols and a concurrent power struggle within Ch'an itself, which
induced monks from the less powerful establishments to seek greener
pastures.3 In 1263 a senior Ch'an cleric named Wu-an (1197-1276) arrived
in Kamakura and was also made an abbot by Tokiyori.4 The first monk,
Lan-ch'i, thereupon moved to Kyoto and began proselytizing in the old
capital. Wu-an subsequently certified Tokiyori with a seal of
enlightenment, making the military strongman of Japan an acknowledged
Ch'an master. Tokiyori's interest in Zen did not go unnoticed by the
warriors around him, and his advocacy, combined with the influx of
Chinese monks appearing to teach, initiated the Zen bandwagon in
Kamakura.

Tokiyori died in 1263, and his young son Tokimune (1251--84), who came
to power five years later, initially showed no interest in Zen
practice. But he was still in his teens in 1268 when there appeared in
Japan envoys from Kublai Khan demanding tribute. The Mongols were at
that moment completing their sack of China, and Japan seemed the next
step. Undeterred, the Japanese answered all Mongol demands with haughty
insults, with the not-unexpected result that in 1274 Kublai launched an
invasion fleet. Although his ships foundered in a fortuitous streak of
bad weather, the Japanese knew that there would be more. It was then
that Tokimune began strengthening his discipline through Zen meditation
and toughening his instincts with koans. He studied under a newly
arrived Chinese master whose limited Japanese necessitated their
communicating through a translator. (When the enlightened Chinese found
cause to strike his all-powerful student, he prudently pummeled the
interpreter instead.)5 The samurai also began to take an interest in
Zen, which naturally appealed to the warrior mentality because of its
emphasis on discipline, on experience over education, and on a rough-
and-tumble practice including debates with a master and blows for the
loser--all congenial to men of simple, unschooled tastes. For their own
part, the perceptive Chinese missionaries, hampered by the language
barrier, rendered Zen as simplistic as possible to help the faith
compete with the Salvationist sects among the often illiterate
warriors.

In 1281 the Mongols launched another invasion force, this time 100,000
men strong, but they were held off several weeks by the steel-nerved
samurai until a typhoon (later named the Kamikaze or "Divine Wind")
providentially sank the fleet. The extent to which Zen training aided
this victory can be debated, but the courage of Tokimune and his
soldiers undoubtedly benefited from its rigorous discipline. The
Japanese ruler himself gave Zen heavy credit and immediately began
building a commemorative Zen monastery in Kamakura.

By the time of Tokimuni's premature death in 1284, Rinzai Zen had been
effectively established as the faith of the Kamakura rulers. His
successor continued the development of Zen establishments, supported by
new Chinese masters who also began teaching Chinese culture
(calligraphy, literature, ink painting, philosophy) to the Kamakura
warriors along with their Zen. Since the faith was definitely beginning
to boom, the government prudently published a list of restrictions for
Zen monasteries, including an abolition of arms (a traditional problem
with the other sects) and a limit on the number of pretty boys
(novices) that could be quartered in a compound to tempt the monks. The
maximum number of monks in each monastery also was prescribed, and
severe rules were established governing discipline. Out of this era in
the late thirteenth century evolved an organization of Zen temples in
Kyoto and Kamakura based on the Sung Chinese model of five main
monasteries (called the "five mountains" or _gozan_) and a network of
ten officially recognized subsidiary temples. Furthermore, Chinese
culture became so fashionable in Kamakura that collections of Sung art
began appearing among the illiterate provincial warriors--an early
harbinger of the Japanese evolution of Zen from asceticism to
aesthetics.6

The creation of the _gozan _system at the end of the thirteenth century
gave Zen a formal role in the religious structure of Japan. Zen was now
fashionable and had powerful friends, a perfect

combination to foster growth and influence. On the sometimes pointed
urging of the government, temples from other sects were converted to
Zen establishments by local authorities throughout Japan.7 The court and
aristocracy in Kyoto also began taking an interest in pure, Sung-style
Rinzai. Temples were built in Kyoto (or converted from other sects),
and even the cloistered emperors began to meditate (perhaps searching
less for enlightenment than for the rumored occult powers). When the
Kamakura regime collapsed in the mid-fourteenth century and warriors of
the newly ascendent Ashikaga clan returned the seat of government to
Kyoto, the old capital was already well acquainted with Zen's political
importance. However, although Rinzai Zen had made much visible headway
in Japan--the ruling classes increasingly meditated on koans, and
Chinese monks operated new Sung-style monasteries--the depth of
understanding seems disappointingly superficial overall. The _gozan
_system soon turned so political, as monasteries competed for official
favor, that before long establishment Zen was almost devoid of
spiritual content. In many ways, Japanese Zen became decadent almost
from the start. The immense prestige of imported Chinese art and ideas,
together with the powerful role of the Zen clerics as virtually the
only group sufficiently educated to oversee relations with the
continent, meant that early on, Zen's cultural role became as telling
as its spiritual place.

Perhaps the condition of Zen is best illustrated by noting that the
most famous priest of the era, Muso Soseki (1275-1351), was actually a
powerful political figure. This Zen prelate, who never visited China,
came to prominence when he served first an ill-fated emperor--
subsequently deposed--and later the Ashikaga warrior who deposed him.
Muso was instrumental in the Japanese government's establishment of
regular trade with the mainland. He was also responsible for a revision
of the _gozan _administrative system, establishing (in 1338) official
Zen temples in all sixty-six provinces of Japan and spreading the power
base of the faith. Although Muso is today honored as an important
Japanese master, he actually preferred a "syncretic" Zen intermingled
with esoteric rites and apparently understood very little of real Zen.
A prototype for many Zen leaders to come, he was a scholar,
aesthetician, and architect of some of the great cultural monuments in
Kyoto, personally designing several of the capital's finest temples and
landscape gardens.

Thus by the mid-fourteenth century Zen had become hardly more than an
umbrella for the import of Chinese technology, art,

and philosophy.8 The monks were, by Muso's own admission, more often
than not "shaven-headed laymen" who came to Zen to learn painting and
to write a stilted form of Chinese verse as part of a _gozan _literary
movement. The overall situation has been well summarized by Philip
Yampolsky: "The monks in temples were all poets and literary figures..
. . [T]he use of koans, particularly those derived from the [_Blue
Cliff Record_], became a literary and educational device rather than a
method for the practice of Zen."9 He further notes that ". . . with the
_gozan _system frozen in a bureaucratic mold, priests with
administrative talents gained in ascendency. In the headquarters
temples men interested in literary pursuits withdrew completely from
temple affairs and devoted themselves exclusively to literature. To be
sure, priests gave lectures and continued to write commentaries. But
the _gozan _priests seemed to concern themselves more and more with
trivialities. By the mid-fifteenth century Zen teaching had virtually
disappeared in the temples, and the priests devoted themselves mainly
to ceremonial and administrative duties."10 Authentic Zen practice had
become almost completely emasculated, overshadowed by the rise of a
Zen-inspired cultural movement far outstripping Chinese prototypes.

The political convolutions of fourteenth-century Japan, as well as the
organizational shenanigans of the official Rinzai Zen sect, need not
detain us further.11 We need only note that the _gozan _system, which so
effectively gave Zen an official presence throughout Japan, also meant
that the institution present was Zen in name only. Significantly,
however, a few major monasteries elected not to participate in the
official system. One of the most important was the Daitoku-ji in Kyoto,
which managed, by not becoming part of the establishment, to maintain
some authenticity in its practice. And out of the Daitoku-ji tradition
there came from time to time a few Zen monks who still understood what
Zen was supposed to be about, who understood it was more than painting,
gardens, poetry, and power. Perhaps the most celebrated of these
iconoclastic throwbacks to authentic Zen was the legendary Ikkyu Sojun
(1394-1481).

The master Ikkyu, a breath of fresh air in the stifling, hypocritical
world of institutionalized Zen, seems almost a reincarnation of the
early Ch'an masters of the T'ang.12 However, his penchant for drinking
and womanizing is more reminiscent of the Taoists than the Buddhists.
Historical information on Ikkyu and his writings is spread among
various documents of uneven reliability. The major source is a pious
chronicle allegedly compiled by his disciple Bokusai from firsthand
information. Whereas this document has the virtue of being
contemporaneous with his life, it has the drawback of being abbreviated
and selectively edited to omit unflattering facts. Then there is a
collection of tales from the Tokugawa era (1615-1868) which are heavily
embellished when not totally apocryphal. The picaresque character
created in the Tokugawa Tales led one commentator to liken Ikkyu to the
fabulous Sufi philosopher-vagabond Nasrudin, who also became a vehicle
to transmit folk wisdom.13 These tales seem to have developed around
Ikkyu simply because his devil-may-care attitude, combined with his
antischolarly pose, made him a perfect peg on which to hang all sorts
of didactic (not to mention Rabelaisian) anecdotes. Finally, there is a
vast body of his own poetry and prose, as well as a collection of
calligraphy now widely admired for its spontaneity and power.

Bokusai's chronicle identifies Ikkyu's mother as a lady-in-waiting at
the imperial palace of Emperor Gokomatsu, who chose from time to time
to "show her favor." When she was discovered to be with child, the
empress had her sent away, charging that she was sympathetic to a
competing political faction. Consequently, the master Ikkyu was born in
the house of a commoner on New Year's Day of the year 1394, the natural
son of an emperor and a daughter of the warrior class.

At age five his mother made him acolyte in a Zen monastery, a move some
suggest was for his physical safety, lest the shogun decide to do away
with this emperor's son as a potential threat. His schooling in this
_gozan _era was aristocratic and classical, founded on Chinese
literature and the Buddhist sutras. By age eleven he was studying the
Vimalakirti Sutra and by thirteen he was intensively reading and
writing Chinese poetry. One of his works, written at age fifteen and
entitled "Spring Finery," demonstrates a delicate sensibility
reminiscent of John Keats:



_How many passions cling to this wanderer's sleeves?

Multitudes of falling blossoms mark the passion of Heaven and Earth.

A perfumed breeze across my pillow; Am I asleep or awake?

Here and now melt into an indistinct Spring dream.14

_

The poet here has returned from a walk only to find the perfume of
flowers clinging to his clothes, confusing his sense of reality and
place. It recalls Keats' nightingale--"Fled is that music:--Do I

wake or sleep?" In this early poem we catch a glimpse of the sensualist
Ikkyu would one day become.

At age eighteen he became a novice to a reclusive monk of the Myoshin-
ji branch of Zen in Kyoto; but when his mentor died two years later he
wandered for a time disconsolate and suicide-prone. Then at twenty-two
he decided to try for an interview with Kaso Soton (1352-1428), the
Daitoku-ji-trained master known to be the sternest teacher in Japan. As
was traditional, the master at first shut him out and refused an
audience. Ikkyu resolved to wait outside until death, "taking the dew
for his roof and the grasses for his bed." He slept at night under an
empty boat and stood all day in front of Kaso's retreat. After Kaso
repeatedly failed to discourage him, even once dousing him with water,
the master relented and invited Ikkyu in for an interview. They were
made for each other and for many years thereafter Ikkyu and Kaso
"pursued deep matters tirelessly."

Ikkyu came to revere Kaso, probably one of the few authentic masters of
the age, and he stayed to serve this teacher for almost a decade, even
though life with Kaso was arduous. Since they lived near a major lake,
Ikkyu would each night meditate in a borrowed fisherman's boat until
dawn. When his purse "went flat," he would journey to the capital and
sell incense or cheap clothing to poor housewives--afterwards returning
to the monastery in the same straw sandals, hat, and cloak.15 After
three years Kaso gave him the Zen name Ikkyu, a recognition of his
progress.

Ikkyu's enlightenment occurred in his twenty-sixth year when, while
meditating in the boat, he was startled by the cry of a crow. He rushed
back at dawn and reported this to his master.

Kaso responded, "You have reached the stage of an _arhat _[one who has
overcome ego], but not that of a Master, novice."

Ikkyu replied, "Then I'm perfectly happy as an _arhat _and don't need
to be a Master."

Kaso responded, "Well, then, you really are a Master after all."16

Although it was customary for monks to receive a certificate from their
master attesting to their enlightenment, the matter of Ikkyu's
certificate is problematical. He himself refused to give out
certificates, and he is depicted in Bokusai's chronicle as periodically
taking out his own and requesting it be destroyed by his disciples--
after which it seemed to miraculously appear again several years later.
The quantity of invention and accretion attached to Ikkyu's
disappearing certificate has fostered speculation that he never, in
fact, actually received a seal.

In any case, he probably would have destroyed his own seal of
enlightenment in later years. His life grew progressively more
unconventional with time, just the opposite of most. Beginning as a
classicist in the finest Kyoto tradition, he had gone on to become a
spiritual recluse in the mountains under a harsh meditation master.
After all this training he then took the road, becoming a wandering
monk in the traditional T'ang mode.

Well, almost in the traditional mode. He seemed to wander into brothels
and wine shops almost as often as into Zen temples. He consorted with
high and low, merchant and commoner, male and female. Our record of
these explorations, both geographic and social, is in his writings,
particularly his poetry. He also harbored a vendetta against the
complacency and corruption of Japanese Zen and its masters,
particularly the new abbot of Daitoku-ji, an older man named Yoso who
had once been a fellow disciple of his beloved Kaso.

When Ikkyu was forty-six he was invited by Yoso to head a subtemple in
the Daitoku-ji compound. He accepted, much to the delight of his
admirers, who began bringing the temple donations in gratitude.
However, after only ten days Ikkyu concluded that Daitoku-ji too had
become more concerned with ceremony than with the preservation of Zen,
and he wrote a famous protest poem as a parting gesture--claiming he
could find more of Zen in the meat, drink, and sex traditionally
forbidden Buddhists.



_For ten days in this temple my mind's been in turmoil,

My feet are entangled in endless red tape.

If some day you get around to looking for me,

Try the fish-shop, the wine parlor, or the brothel.17

_

Ikkyu's attack on the commercialization of Zen was not without cause.
The scholar Jan Covell observes that in Ikkyu's time, "Rinzai Zen had
sunk to a low point and enlightenment was 'sold,' particularly by those
temples associated with the Shogunate. Zen temples also made money in
sake-brewing and through usury. In the mid-fifteenth century one Zen
temple, Shokoku-ji, furnished all the advisers to the Shogunate's
government and received most of the bribes. The imperial-sanctioned
temple of Daitoku-ji was only on the fringe of this corruption, but
Ikkyu felt he could not criticize it enough."18

Ironically, Ikkyu also attacked the writing of "Zen" poetry--in his
poems. He was really attacking the literary _gozan _movement, the
preoccupation of monks who forsook Zen to concentrate on producing
forgettable verse in formal Chinese. They put their poetry before,
indeed in place of, Zen practice. Ikkyu used his poetry (later
collected as the "Crazy Cloud Poems" or _Kyoun-shu_) as a means of
expressing his enlightenment, as well as his criticism of the
establishment. It also, as often as not, celebrated sensual over
spiritual pleasures.

Whereas the T'ang masters created illogic and struggled with intuitive
transmission, Ikkyu cheerfully gave in to the existential life of the
senses. In the introduction to one poem he told a parable explaining
his priorities.

_

Once upon a time there was an old woman who supported a retired hermit
for some twenty years. For a long time, she sent a young girl to serve
his food. One day she told the girl to throw her arms around the monk
and ask him how he felt. When the girl did so, the monk told her, "I am
like a withered tree propped up against a cold boulder after three
winters without warmth." The girl went back to the old woman and made
her report. "Twenty years wasted feeding a phony layman!" exclaimed the
woman. Then she ran him off and burnt his hut to the ground.



The grandmotherly old woman tried to give that rascal a ladder.

To provide the pure monk with a nice bride.

If tonight I were to be made such a proposition,

The withered willow would put forth new spring growth.19_



A particularly lyrical exploration of sensuality is found in a poem
entitled "A Woman's [Body] has the Fragrance of Narcissus," which
celebrates the essence of sexuality.



_One should gaze long at [the fairy] hill then ascend it.

Midnight on the Jade bed amid [Autumn] dreams

A flower opening beneath the thrust of the plum branch.

Rocking gently between the fairy's thighs.20_



Ikkyu's amours seem to have produced a number of natural progeny. In
fact, there is the legend that one of Ikkyu's most devoted followers, a
monk named Jotei, was in fact his illegitimate son. According to the
Tokugawa Tales, there was a once-rich fan

maker in Sakai whose business had declined to the point that he had to
sell his shop and stand on the streetcorner hawking fans. Then one day
Ikkyu came by carrying some fans decorated with his own famous
calligraphy and asked the man to take them on commission. Naturally
they all sold immediately and, by subsequent merchandising of Ikkyu's
works, the man's business eventually was restored. In gratitude he
granted Ikkyu his daughter, from which union sprang Ikkyu's natural
son, Jotei.

This story is questionable but it does illustrate the reputation Ikkyu
enjoyed, both as artist and lover. Furthermore, he wrote touching and
suspiciously fatherly poems to a little girl named Shoko.



_Watching this four-year-old girl sing and dance,

I feel the pull of ties that are hard to dismiss,

Forgetting my duties I slip into freedom.

Master Abbot, whose Zen is this_?21_

_

When Ikkyu was in his seventies, during the disastrous civil conflict
known as the Onin war, he had a love affair with a forty-year-old
temple attendant named Mori. On languid afternoons she would play the
Japanese _koto _or harp and he the wistful-sounding _shakuhachi_, a
long bamboo flute sometimes carried by monks as a weapon. This late-
life love affair occasioned a number of erotic poems, including one
that claims her restoration of his virility (called by the Chinese
euphemism "jade stalk") cheered his disciples.



_How is my hand like Mori's hand?

Self confidence is the vassal, Freedom the master.

When I am ill she cures the jade stalk

And brings joy back to my followers.22

_

Ikkyu also left a number of prose fables and sermons that portray a
more sober personality than does his often iconoclastic verse. One
classic work, written in 1457 and called "Skeletons," has become a Zen
classic. In the section given below he explores the Buddhist idea of
the Void and nothingness:



_Let me tell you something. Human birth is analogous to striking up a
fire--the father is flint, the mother is stone and the child is the
spark. Once the spark touches a lamp wick it continues to exist through
the "secondary support" of the fuel until that is exhausted. Then it
flickers out. The lovemaking of the parents is the equivalent of
striking the spark. Since the parents too have "no beginning," in the
end they, too, will flicker out. Everything grows out of empty space
from which all forms derive. If one lets go the forms then he reaches
what is called the "original ground." But since all sentient beings
come from nothingness we can use even the term "original ground" only
as a temporary tag.23

_

It seems unfortunate that Ikkyu's prose is not better known today.24 In
fact the best-known accounts of Ikkyu are the apocryphal tales that
attached to him during the Tokugawa era. A typical episode is the
following, entitled "Ikkyu Does Magic," in which the picaresque Zen-man
uses his natural resources to thwart the bluster of a haughty priest
from one of the scholarly aristocratic sects--just the thing guaranteed
to please the common man.

Once Ikkyu was taking the Yodo no Kawase ferry on his way to Sakai.
There was a _yamabushi _[mountain ascetic of Esoteric Buddhism] on
board who began to question him.



_"Hey, Your Reverence, what sect are you?"

"I belong to the Zen sect," replied Ikkyu.

"I don't suppose your sect has miracles the way our sect does?"

"No, actually we have lots of miracles. But if it's miracles, why don't
you show the sort of miracles that your people have?"

"Well," said the _yamabushi_, "By virtue of my magic powers I can pray
up Fudo [a fierce guardian deity of Buddhism] before your very eyes and
make him stand right there on the prow of the boat."

And, with the beads of his rosary the man began to invoke first Kongo
and then Seitaka [Esoteric Buddhist deities]. At this, all the
passengers began to look back and forth wondering what was going to
happen. Then, just as he had said, there on the prow of the boat, the
form of Fudo appeared surrounded by a halo of dancing flames.

Then the _yamabushi _made a ferocious face and told him, "You'd all
better offer him a prayer." This made the other passengers very uneasy--
all that is but Ikkyu, who was completely unruffled.

"Well," spat out the _yamabushi_, "How about you, Zen monk? How are you
going to deal with my miracle?"

"By producing a miracle of my own. From my very body I will cause water
to issue forth and extinguish the flames of your Fudo. You'd better
start your prayers up again." And Ikkyu began to pee mightily all over
the flames until at last the _yamabushi's _magic was counteracted and
the entire image melted away. Thereupon the passengers on the boat all
bowed to Ikkyu for his wonderful display.25_



Ironically, the real-life Ikkyu spent his twilight years restoring
Daitoku-ji after its destruction (along with the rest of Kyoto) from
the ten-year Onin war (1467-77), by taking over the temple and using
his contacts in the merchant community to raise funds. He had over a
hundred disciples at this time, a popularity that saddened him since
earlier (and, he thought, more deserving) masters had had many fewer
followers. Thus in the last decade of his life he finally exchanged his
straw sandals and reed hat for the robes of a prestigious abbot over a
major monastery. His own ambivalence on this he confessed in a poem:



_Fifty years a rustic wanderer,

Now mortified in purple robes.26

_

Ikkyu's contributions to Zen culture are also significant. He helped
inspire the secular Zen ritual known today as the tea ceremony, by
encouraging the man today remembered as its founder. He also supported
one of the best-known dramatists of the No theater and was himself a
master calligrapher, an art closely akin to painting in the Far East
and regarded by many as even more demanding.27 He even created a soybean
dish (_natto_) now a staple of Zen monastic cuisine.

But as his biographer James Sanford has pointed out, the real life of
this truly great Japanese master has all but eluded us. His poetry is
in classical Chinese and virtually unknown; his prose lies largely
unread; and the Tokugawa legend of Ikkyu is almost entirely apocryphal.
This last travesty has extended even to fictionalizing his role as a
child at the monastery; there is now a popular television cartoon
series in Japan about the irrepressible acolyte Ikkyu. Sanford
speculates that his attraction for contemporary Japanese is that, in
the legend of Ikkyu, "it is possible for the modern Japanese mind to
re-discover 'native' examples of, and justification for, individualism--
a term and concept whose full assimilation into modern Japanese culture
has for over fifty years been blocked by a legacy of residual Neo-
Confucian norms left over from [Japan's repressive past]."28

It does seem true that the Zen-man Ikkyu represents a safety valve in
Japanese society, both then and now. He brought the impulsive candor of
Zen to the world of affairs, demonstrating by example that after
enlightenment it is necessary to return to a world where mountains are
again mountains, rivers again rivers. And by rejecting official "Zen,"
Ikkyu may well have been the most Zenlike of all Japanese masters.



Chapter Eighteen

HAKUIN:

JAPANESE MASTER OF THE KOAN


The closing era of the Japanese middle ages, in the decades following
Ikkyu's death, is now known as the Century of the Country at War. Japan
became a land of quarreling fiefdoms, and Zen, too, drifted for want of
leadership and inspiration. The eventual reunification of the country
late in the sixteenth century was led by a brutal military strategist
named Oda Nobunaga (1534-82). As part of his takeover he obliterated
the militaristic Buddhist complex on Mt. Hiei by one day simply
slaughtering all its monks and burning the establishment to the ground,
thereby ending permanently the real influence of Buddhism in Japanese
politics. Nobunaga was succeeded by an even more accomplished
militarist, Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1536-98), who brought to the shogunate
a flair for diplomacy and cunning compromise. Hideyoshi solidified
Japan only to have yet another warlord, Tokugawa Ieyasu (1542-1616),
maneuver its rule into the hands of his own family--inaugurating the two
and a half centuries of totalitarian isolationism known today as the
Tokugawa era (1615-1868). He also moved the capital to the city whose
modern name is Tokyo, at last leaving historic Kyoto in repose.

Under the Tokugawa a new middle class of urban merchants and craftsmen
arose, and with it came a version of Zen for common people, with
masters who could touch the concerns of the working class. Among these
beloved masters must certainly be remembered the monk Takuan (1573-
1645) from Ikkyu's rebuilt Daitoku-ji temple, who introduced Zen
teachings to this new audience, and the wandering teacher Bankei (1622-
93), whose kindly, mystical interpretation of oneness through _zazen
_earned him wide fame. Overall, however, Rinzai Zen remained
spiritually dormant until the middle of the Tokugawa era, when there
appeared one of the most truly inspired Zen teachers of all time.

The master Hakuin (1686-1769) was born as Sugiyama Iwajiro in Hara, a
small village at the base of Mt. Fuji. He was the youngest of five
children in a family of modest means, an origin that may have helped
him understand the concerns of the poor. As he tells his story, he was
seven or eight when his mother took him to hear a priest from the
Salvationist Nichiren sect preach on the tormenting Buddhist hells. He
was terrified and secretly began day and night reciting the Lotus Sutra
(which claims to protect from the perils of fire or water those who
chant the proper incantation). The fear of hell, with its boiling
caldrons, so permeated his young mind that he even became leary of the
traditional Japanese bath, then often taken in a round tub fired from
the bottom with wood. He claimed this fear of the bath finally
convinced him to become a monk.



_One day when I was taking a bath with my mother, she asked that the
water be made hotter and had the maid add wood to the fire. Gradually
my skin began to prickle with the heat and the iron bath-cauldron began
to rumble. Suddenly I recalled the descriptions of the hells that I had
heard and I let out a cry of terror that resounded through the
neighborhood.

From this time on I determined to myself that I would leave home to
become a monk. To this my parents would not consent, yet I went
constantly to the temple to recite the sutras. . . .1_



But after several years of study and chanting, he was dismayed to find
he still felt pain (when he tested himself one day with a hot poker).
He resolved to intensify his devotion and at age fifteen he entered a
local Zen temple (against his parents' wishes) and was ordained as a
monk. Hakuin pursued his study of the Lotus Sutra, the primary
scripture venerated at this temple (an illustration of how far Japanese
Zen had traveled from its tradition of meditation and koans), but after
a year he concluded it was just another book, no different from the
Confucian classics. He therefore began to drift from temple to temple
until, at nineteen, he experienced another spiritual crisis. In a book
of religious biographies he came across the story of the Chinese monk
Yen-t'ou (828-87), who had been attacked and murdered by bandits,
causing him to emit screams heard a full three miles away. Hakuin was
plunged into depression.



_I wondered why such an enlightened monk was unable to escape the
swords of thieves. If such a thing could happen to a man who was like a
unicorn or phoenix among monks, a dragon in the sea of Buddhism, how
was I to escape the staves of the demons of hell after I died? What use
was there in studying Zen_?2



He thereupon took up his staff and set out as an itinerant seeker, only
to meet disappointment after disappointment--until finally he decided to
put his future in the hands of chance. One day as the abbot of a temple
was airing its library outside, Hakuin decided to select a book at
random and let it decide his fate. He picked a volume of biographies of
Chinese Ch'an worthies and opening it read of an eleventh-century Lin-
chi master who kept awake in meditation by boring into his own thigh
with a wood drill. The story galvanized Hakuin, and he vowed to pursue
Zen training until enlightenment was his.

Hakuin claims that at age twenty-four he had his first really moving
satori experience. He was in a temple in Niigata prefecture, meditating
on the "Mu" koan (Q: "Does a dog have Buddha-nature? A: "Mu!"), and so
intense was his concentration that he even forgot sleeping and eating.
Then one day . . .

_

Suddenly a great doubt manifested itself before me. It was as though I
were frozen solid in the midst of an ice sheet extending tens of
thousands of miles. A purity filled my breast and I could neither go
forward nor retreat. To all intents and purposes I was out of my mind
and the _Mu _alone remained. Although I sat in the Lecture Hall and
listened to the Master's lecture, it was as though I were hearing a
discussion from a distance outside the hall. At times it felt as though
I were floating through the air.

This state lasted for several days. Then I chanced to hear the sound of
the temple bell and I was suddenly transformed. It was as if a sheet of
ice had been smashed or a jade tower had fallen with a crash.3_



Elated with his transformation, he immediately trekked back to an
earlier master and presented a verse for approval. The master, however,
was not impressed.



_The Master, holding my verse up in his left hand, said to me: "This
verse is what you have learned from study. Now show me what your
intuition has to say," and he held out his right hand.

I replied: "If there were something intuitive that I could show you,
I'd vomit it out," and I made a gagging sound.

The Master said: "How do you understand Chao-chou's _Mu_?"

I replied: "What sort of place does _Mu _have that one can attach arms
and legs to it?"

The Master twisted my nose with his fingers and said: "Here's some
place to attach arms and legs." I was nonplussed and the Master gave a
hearty laugh.4

_

Again and again he tried to extract a seal from this master, but always
in vain. One of these fruitless exchanges even left him lying in a mud
puddle.



_One evening the Master sat cooling himself on the veranda. Again I
brought him a verse I had written. "Delusions and fancies," the Master
said. I shouted his words back at him in a loud voice, whereupon the
Master seized me and rained twenty or thirty blows with his fists on
me, and then pushed me off the veranda.

This was on the fourth day of the fifth month after a long spell of
rain. I lay stretched out in the mud as though dead, scarcely breathing
and almost unconscious. I could not move; meanwhile the Master sat on
the veranda roaring with laughter.5

_

He finally despaired of receiving the seal of enlightenment from this
teacher, although he did have further spiritual experiences under the
man's rigorous guidance--experiences Hakuin interpreted, perhaps
rightly, as _satori_. Feeling wanderlust he again took to the road,
everywhere experiencing increasingly deep _satori_. In southern Ise he
was enlightened when suddenly swamped in a downpour. Near Osaka he was
further enlightened one evening in a temple monks' hall by the sound of
falling snow. In Gifu prefecture he had an even deeper experience
during walking meditation in a monks' hall. He also had a mental and
physical collapse about this time, no doubt resulting from the strain
of his intensive asceticism. After his father's death in 1716, he
studied in Kyoto for a time, but the next year he returned to the
Shoin-ji temple near his original home at Hara. Weary of life at
thirty-two, he still was undecided about his future. Back at the temple
where he had started, he no longer had any idea of what to do. Then a
revelation appeared:



_One night in a dream my mother came and presented me with a purple
robe made of silk. When I lifted it, both sleeves seemed very heavy,
and on examining them I found an old mirror, five or six inches in
diameter, in each sleeve. The reflection from the mirror in the right
sleeve penetrated to my heart and vital organs. My own mind, mountains
and rivers, the great earth seemed serene and bottomless. . . . After
this, when I looked at all things, it was as though I were seeing my
own face. For the first time I understood the meaning of the saying,
"The [enlightened spirit] sees the Buddha-nature within his eye._"6_

_

With this dream he finally achieved full _satori_. He resolved that the
old ramshackle temple would be his final home. He had found
enlightenment there and there he would stay, his own master at last.

And sure enough, Hakuin never moved again. Instead, the people of
Japan--high and low--came to see him. His simple country temple became a
magnet for monks and laymen seeking real Zen. By force of his own
character, and most certainly without his conscious intention, he
gradually became the leading religious figure in Japan. By the end of
his life he had brought the koan practice back to a central place in
Zen and had effectively created modern Rinzai.

Hakuin was the legitimate heir of the Chinese koan master Ta-hui, and
the first teacher since to actually expand the philosophical dimensions
of Zen. It will be recalled that Ta-hui advocated "Introspecting-the-
Koan" meditation, called _k'an-hua _Ch'an in Chinese and Kanna Zen in
Japanese, which he put forth in opposition to the "Silent Illumination"
meditation of the Soto school. Hakuin himself claimed that he first
tried the quietistic approach of tranquil meditation (albeit on a
koan), but he was unable to clear his mind of all distractions.



_When I was young the content of my koan meditation was poor. I was
convinced that absolute tranquility of the source of the mind was the
Buddha Way. Thus I despised activity and was fond of quietude. I would
always seek out some dark and gloomy place and engage in dead sitting.
Trivial and mundane matters pressed against my chest and a fire mounted
in my heart. I was unable to enter wholeheartedly into the active
practice of Zen.7

_

Thus Hakuin concluded that merely following Ta-hui's injunction to
meditate on a koan was not the entire answer. He then decided the only
way that Zen could be linked meaningfully to daily life was if a
practitioner could actually meditate while going about daily affairs.

This idea was rather radical, although it probably would not have
unduly disturbed the T'ang masters. Hakuin was again extending both the
definition of enlightenment, as it intersects with the real world, and
the means of its realization. He was saying to meditate on a koan in
such a manner that you can continue your daily life but be oblivious to
its distractions. He invoked the Chinese masters to support the idea.



_The Zen Master Ta-hui has said that meditation in the midst of
activity is immeasurably superior to the quietistic approach. . . .
What is most worthy of respect is a pure koan meditation that neither
knows nor is conscious of the two aspects, the quiet and the active.
This is why it has been said that the true practicing monk walks but
does not know he is walking, sits but does not know he is sitting.8

_

Hakuin redefined meditation to include a physically active aspect as
well as merely a quiet, sitting aspect. And under this new definition
anyone, even laymen, could meditate at any time, in any place. Hakuin
did not exclude sitting in meditation; he tried to broaden the
definition to include the kind of thing he believed would really
produce meaningful enlightenment. In addition, meditation in action
takes away the excuse of most laymen for not practicing introspection--
and what is more, it brings respect from others.



_Do not say that worldly affairs and pressures of business leave you no
time to study Zen under a Master, and that the confusions of daily life
make it difficult for you to continue your meditation. Everyone must
realize that for the true practicing monk there are no worldly cares or
worries. Supposing a man accidentally drops two or three gold coins in
a crowded street swarming with people. Does he forget about the money
because all eyes are upon him? ... A person who concentrates solely on
meditation amid the press and worries of everyday life will be like the
man who has dropped the gold coins and devotes himself to seeking them.
Who will not rejoice in such a person_?9



Hakuin realized that meditating in the middle of distractions was
initially more difficult--with fewer short-term rewards--than sitting
quietly alone. However, if you want to make the heightened awareness of
Zen a part of your life, then you must meditate in daily life from the
very first. Just as you cannot learn to swim in the ocean by sitting in
a tub, you cannot relate your Zen to the world's pressures, stress, and
tensions if it is forever sheltered in silent, lonely isolation. If
this is difficult at first, persevere and look toward the ultimate
rewards.

_

Frequently you may feel that you are getting nowhere with practice in
the midst of activity, whereas the quietistic approach brings
unexpected results. Yet rest assured that those who use the quietistic
approach can never hope to enter into meditation in the midst of
activity. Should by chance a person who uses this approach enter into
the dusts and confusions of the world of activity, even the power of
ordinary understanding which he had seemingly attained will be entirely
lost. Drained of all vitality, he will be inferior to any mediocre,
talentless person. The most trivial matters will upset him, an
inordinate cowardice will afflict his mind, and he will frequently
behave in a mean and base manner. What can you call accomplished about
a man like this_?10



Quietistic meditation is easier, naturally, but a person who practices
it will turn out to be just as insecure and petty as someone not
enlightened at all. What is equally important, "leisure-time"
meditation that separates our spiritual life from our activities is
merely hiding from reality. You cannot come home from the job and
suddenly turn on a meditation experience. He cites the case of someone
who excuses himself to meditate, but who is then so harried and tense
it does no good.



_Even should there be such a thing as . . . reaching a state where the
great illumination is released by means of dead sitting and silent
illumination . . . people are so involved in the numerous duties of
their household affairs that they have scarcely a moment in which to
practice concentrated meditation. What they do then is to plead illness
and, neglecting their duties and casting aside responsibilities for
their family affairs, they shut themselves up in a room for several
days, lock the door, arrange several cushions in a pile, set up a stick
of incense, and proceed to sit. Yet, because they are exhausted by
ordinary worldly cares, they sit in meditation for one minute and fall
asleep for a hundred, and during the little bit of meditation that they
manage to accomplish, their minds are beset by countless delusions.11

_

But what is worse, these people then blame their careers, assuming they
need more isolation. But this is like the aspiring ocean swimmer in the
tub mistakenly desiring less water.



_[They] furrow their brows, draw together their eyebrows, and before
one knows it they are crying out: "Our official duties interfere with
our practice of the Way; our careers prevent our Zen meditation. It
would be better to resign from office, discard our seals, go to some
place beside the water or under the trees where all is peaceful and
quiet and no one is about, there in our own way to practice _dhyana
_contemplation, and escape from the endless cycle of suffering." How
mistaken these people are_!12



Having determined meditation in the midst of activity is the only
meaningful practice, he next addressed the question of how to go about
it. He explained that we can do it by making our activities into
meditation.



_What is this true meditation? It is to make everything: coughing,
swallowing, waving the arms, motion, stillness, words, action, the evil
and the good, prosperity and shame, gain and loss, right and wrong,
into one single koan.13

_

He gave an example of how to change the implements of daily living into
a Buddhist metaphor, in this case by a warrior's making his clothes,
sword, and saddle into a meditation hall of the mind.



_Make your skirt and upper garments into the seven- or nine- striped
monks' robe; make your two-edged sword into your resting board or desk.
Make your saddle your sitting cushion; make the mountains, rivers, and
great earth the sitting platform; make the whole universe your own
personal meditation cave. . . . Thrusting forth the courageous mind
derived from faith, combine it with the true practice of
introspection.14

_

If meditation bears no relationship to life, what good is it? It is
merely self-centered gratification. This he condemned, pointing out
that if everyone did nothing but meditate on his own inner concerns,
society at large would fall apart. And ultimately Zen would be blamed.
Furthermore, this inner-directed preoccupation with self-awareness is
bad Zen.

Hakuin similarly taught that a Zen which ignored society was hollow and
meaningless, and its monks of no use to anybody. He was particularly
stern with conventional Zen students, who were content in their own
enlightenment and ignored the needs of others. "Meditation in action"
for the monk meant the same as for a layman, with one significant
difference. Whereas the layman could bring meditation to his obligatory
life of affairs, the monk must bring the life of the world to his
meditation. Just to hide and meditate on your own original nature
produces inadequate enlightenment, while also shutting you off from any
chance to help other people, other sentient beings. The ancient masters
knew, said Hakuin, that a person truly enlightened could travel through
the world and not be distracted by the so-called five desires (wealth,
fame, food, sleep, and sex). The enlightened being is aware of, but not
enticed by, sensual gratification.



_The Third Patriarch [Seng-ts'an, d. 606] has said: "If one wishes to
gain true intimacy with enlightenment, one must not shun the objects of
the senses." He does not mean here that one is to delight in the
objects of the senses but, just as the wings of a waterfowl do not get
wet even when it enters the water, one must establish a mind that will
continue a true koan meditation without interruption, neither clinging
to nor rejecting the objects of the senses.15

_

But Hakuin asked something of a Zen novice even more difficult than
that asked by the Chinese masters of old--who merely demanded that a
monk reject the world, turn his back, and shut out its distractions. In
contrast, Hakuin insists that he meditate while out in the world,
actively immersing himself in its attractions. The older Ch'an masters
advised a monk to ignore the world, to treat it merely as a backdrop to
his preoccupation with inner awareness; Hakuin says to test your
meditation outside, since otherwise it serves for nothing. And today
Rinzai monks are expected to silently meditate during all activities,
including working in the yard of the monastery, harvesting vegetables,
or even walking through the town for their formal begging.

Hakuin not only redefined meditation, he also revitalized koan practice
among full-time Zen monks and ultimately brought on a renaissance of
Rinzai Zen itself. He formalized the idea of several stages of
enlightenment (based on his own experience of increasingly deep satori)
as well as a practice that supported this growth. But most of all
Hakuin was dismayed by what he considered to be the complete
misunderstanding of koan practice in Japan. Monks had memorized so many
anecdotes about the ancient Chinese masters that they thought they
could signify the resolution of a koan by some insincere theatrics.



_[0]f the monks who move about like clouds and water, eight or nine out
of ten will boast loudly that they have not the slightest doubt about
the essential meaning of any of the seventeen hundred koans that have
been handed down. . . . If you test them with one of these koans, some
will raise their fists, others will shout "_katsu_," but most of them
will strike the floor with their hands. If you press them just a little
bit, you will find that they have in no way seen into their own
natures, have no learning whatsoever, and are only illiterate, boorish,
sightless men.16

_

Hakuin breathed new life back into koan theory. For instance, he seems
the first Japanese master to take a psychological interest in the koan
and its workings. He believed a koan should engender a "great doubt" in
the mind of a novice, and through this great doubt lead him to the
first enlightenment or _kensho_.17 Initially he had advocated the "Mu"
koan for beginners, but late in life he came up with the famous "What
is the sound of one hand clapping?"18 As he described this koan in a
letter to a laywoman:



_What is the Sound of the Single Hand? When you clap together both
hands a sharp sound is heard; when you raise the one hand there is
neither sound nor smell. . . .

This is something that can by no means be heard with the ear. If
conceptions and discriminations are not mixed within it and it is quite
apart from seeing, hearing, perceiving, and knowing, and if, while
walking, standing, sitting, and reclining, you proceed
straightforwardly without interruption in the study of this koan, then
in the place where reason is exhausted and words are ended, you will
suddenly . . . break down the cave of ignorance.. . . At this time the
basis of mind, consciousness, and emotion is suddenly shattered.19

_

But this is not the end; rather it is the beginning. After a disciple
has penetrated this koan, he receives koans of increasing difficulty.
From Hakuin's own experience he knew that _satori _experiences could be
repeated and could become ever deeper and more meaningful. Although he
himself never chose to overtly systematize and categorize koans, his
heirs did not hesitate to do so, creating the structure that is modern
Rinzai Zen.

How did Zen finally emerge, after all the centuries and the
convolutions? As Hakuin's descendants taught Zen, a monk entering the
monastery was assigned a koan chosen by the master. He was expected to
meditate on this koan until his _kensho_, his first glimmer of satori,
which might require two to three years. After this a new phase of study
began. The monk was then expected to work his way through a program of
koans, requiring as much as a decade more, after which he might
meditate on his own, in seclusion, for a time longer.20

The master worked with monks individually (a practice reputedly left
over from the time when Chinese-speaking masters had to communicate in
writing) via a face-to-face interview (_senzen_) reminiscent of a
Marine Corps drill instructor harassing a recruit. The monk would bow
to the master, seat himself, and

submit his attempt at resolution of the koan. The master might either
acknowledge his insight, give him some oblique guidance, or simply
greet him with stony silence and ring for the next recruit--signifying
an unsatisfactory answer.

Hakuin made his disciples meditate; he made them struggle through koan
after koan; he made monastic discipline as rigorous as possible; and he
taught that it is not enough merely to be interested in yourself and
your own enlightenment. But he insisted that if you follow all his
teachings, if you meditate the right way and work through increasingly
difficult koans, you too can find the enlightenment he found, an
enlightenment that expressed itself in an enormous physical vitality.



_Even though I am past seventy now my vitality is ten times as great as
it was when I was thirty or forty. My mind and body are strong and I
never have the feeling that I absolutely must lie down to rest. Should
I want to I find no difficulty in refraining from sleep for two, three,
or even seven days, without suffering any decline in my mental powers.
I am surrounded by three- to five-hundred demanding students, and even
though I lecture on the scriptures or on the collections of the
Masters' sayings for thirty to fifty days in a row, it does not exhaust
me.21

_

Hakuin was a prolific writer and always aware of his audience. For his
lay followers, he wrote in simple Japanese and related his teachings to
the needs and limitations of secular life. For his monk disciples he
wrote in a more scholarly style. And finally, we have many long elegant
letters composed for various dignitaries of government and the
aristocracy.

He also was an artist of note, producing some of the most powerful Zen-
style paintings of any Japanese. Like his writings, these works are
vigorous, impulsive, and dynamic. He seems to have been an inspiration
for many later Zen artists, including Sengai (1750-1837) and the Zen
poet Ryokan (1758-1831).22

Hakuin died in his sleep at age eighty-three. During his life he had
reestablished Rinzai Zen in Japan in a form fully as rigorous as ever
practiced in the monasteries of T'ang and Sung China, and he had
simultaneously discovered a way this Zen could be made accessible to
laymen, through meditation in activity. Whereas previous Japanese
teachers had let koan practice atrophy in order to attract a greater
number of followers, Hakuin simultaneously made Zen both more authentic
and more popular. His genius thereby saved traditional Zen in its
classical form, while at last making it accessible and meaningful in
modern life.



Chapter Nineteen

REFLECTIONS


What is the resilience of Zen that has allowed it to survive and
flourish over all the centuries, even though frequently at odds
philosophically with its milieu? And why have the insights of obscure
rural teachers from the Chinese and Japanese Middle Ages remained
pertinent to much of modern life in the West? On the other hand, why
has there been a consistent criticism of Zen (from early China to the
present day) condemning it as a retreat from reality--or worse, a
preoccupation with self amidst a world that calls for social
conscience?

These questions are complex, but they should be acknowledged in any
inquiry into Zen thought. They are also matters of opinion: those
wishing to see Zen as unwholesome are fixed in their critical views,
just as those committed to Zen practice are unshakably steadfast. What
follows is also opinion, even though an attempt has been made to
maintain balance.



SOCIAL CONSCIENCE IN ZEN



A distinguished modern Zen master was once asked if Zen followers
looked only inward, with no concern for others. He replied that in Zen
the distinction between oneself and the world was the first thing to be
dissolved. Consequently, mere self-love is impossible; it resolves
naturally into a love of all things. Stated in this way, Zen teachings
become, in a twinkling, a profound moral philosophy. Where there is no
distinction between the universe and ourselves, the very concept of the
ego is inappropriate. We cannot think of ourselves without
simultaneously thinking of others. Zen is not, therefore, an obsession
with the self, but rather an obsession with the universe, with all
things--from nature to the social betterment of all. Although Zen
initially forces a novice to focus on his own mind, this is only to
enable him or her to attain the insight to merge with all things, great
and small. True Zen introspection eventually must lead to the
dissolution of the self. When this occurs, we no longer need the
chiding of a Golden Rule.

It is fair to question whether this particular view of social
conscience, which might be described as more "passive" than "active,"
adequately refutes the charge of "me-ism" in Zen. But perhaps less is
sometimes more in the long run. There is no great history of Zen
charity, but then there have been few if any bloody Zen Crusades and
little of the religious persecution so common to Western moral systems.
Perhaps the humanism in Zen takes a gentler, less flamboyant form. In
the scales of harm and help it seems as noble as any of the world's
other spiritual practices.



ZEN AND CREATIVITY



Zen gained from Taoism the insight that total reliance on logical
thought stifles the human mind. Logic, they found, is best suited to
analyzing and categorizing--functions today increasingly delegated to
the computer. Whereas the logical mode of thought can only manipulate
the world view of given paradigm, intuition can inspire genuine
creativity, since it is not shackled by the nagging analytical mind,
which often serves only to intimidate imaginative thought. Zen
struggled relentlessly to deflate the pomposity of man's rationality,
thereby releasing the potential of intuition. Although much research
has arisen in recent times to pursue the same effect--from
"brainstorming" to drugs--Zen challenged the problem many centuries ago,
and its powerful tools of meditation and the koans still taunt our
modern shortcuts.



ZEN AND MIND RESEARCH



That Zen ideas should find a place in psychoanalysis is not surprising.
Meditation has long been used to still the distraught mind. Japanese
researchers have studied the effects of meditation on brain activity
for many years, and now similar studies are also underway in the West.
The connection between Zen "enlightenment" and a heightened state of
"consciousness" has been examined by psychologists as diverse as Erich
Fromm and Robert Ornstein. But perhaps most significantly, our recent
research in the hemispheric specialization of the brain--which suggests
our left hemisphere is the seat of language and rationality while the
right dominates intuition and creativity-- appears to validate
centuries-old Zen insights into the dichotomy of thought. Zen
"research" on the mind's complementary modes may well light the path to
a fuller understanding of the diverse powers of the human mind.



ZEN AND THE ARTS



At times the ancient Chinese and Japanese art forms influenced by Zen
seem actually to anticipate many of the aesthetic principles we now
call "modern." Sixteenth-century Zen ceramics could easily pass as
creations of a contemporary potter, and ancient Chinese and Japanese
inks and calligraphies recall the modern monochrome avant-garde. Zen
stone gardens at times seem pure abstract expressionism, and the Zen-
influenced landscape gardens of Japan can manipulate our perception
using tricks only recently understood in the West. Japanese haiku
poetry and No drama, created under Zen influence, anticipate our modern
distrust of language; and contemporary architecture often echoes
traditional Japanese design--with its preference for clean lines, open
spaces, emphasis on natural materials, simplicity, and the integration
of house and garden.

Aesthetic ideals emerging from Zen art focus heavily on naturalness, on
the emphasis of man's relation to nature. The Zen artists, as do many
moderns, liked a sense of the materials and process of creation to come
through in a work. But there is a subtle difference. The Zen artists
frequently included in their works devices to ensure that the message
reached the viewer. For example, Zen ceramics are always intended to
force us to experience them directly and without analysis. The trick
was to make the surface seem curiously imperfect, almost as though the
artist were careless in the application of a finish, leaving it uneven
and rough. At times the glaze seems still in the process of flowing
over a piece, uneven and marred by ashes and lumps. There is no sense
of "prettiness": instead they feel old and marred by long use. But the
artist consciously is forcing us to experience the piece for itself,
not as just another item in the category of bowl. We are led into the
process of creation, and our awareness of the piece is heightened--just
as an unfinished painting beckons us to pick up a brush, This device of
drawing us into involvement, common to Zen arts from haiku to ink
painting, is one of the great insights of Zen creativity, and it is
something we in the West are only now learning to use effectively.



ZEN AND PERCEPTION



One of the major insights of Zen is that the world should be perceived
directly, not as an array of embodied names. As noted, the Zen arts
reinforce this attitude by deliberately thwarting verbal or analytical
appreciation. We are forced to approach them with our logical faculties
in abeyance. This insistence on direct perception is one of the
greatest gifts of Zen. No other major system of thought champions this
insight so clearly and forthrightly. Zen would have our perception of
the world, indeed our very thoughts, be nonverbal. By experiencing
nature directly, and by thinking in pure ideas rather than with
"internalized speech," we can immeasurably enrich our existence. The
dawn, the flower, the breeze are now experienced more exquisitely--in
their full reality. Zen worked hard to debunk the mysterious power we
mistakenly ascribe to names and concepts, since the Zen masters knew
these serve only to separate us from life. Shutting off the constant
babble in our head is difficult, but the richness of experience and
imagery that emerges is astounding. It is as though a screen between us
and our surroundings has suddenly dropped away, putting us in touch
with the universe.



THE ZEN LIFE



The heart of Zen is practice, "sitting," physical discipline. For those
wishing to experience Zen rather than merely speculate about it, there
is no other way. Koans can be studied, but without the guidance of
practice under a master, they are hardly more than an intellectual
exercise. Only in formal meditation can there be the real beginning of
understanding. Zen philosophy, and all that can be transmitted in
words, is an abomination to those who really understand. There's no
escaping the Taoist adage, "Those who speak do not know, those who know
do not speak." Words can point the way, but the path must be traveled
in silence.

                                    *    *    *

NOTES



PREFACE TO ZEN



1.	Chang Chung-yuan, Tao: A New Way of Thinking (New York: Perennial
Library, 1977), p. 4.

2.	Ibid., p. 6.

3.	Ibid., p. 50.

4.	Ibid., p. 145.

5.	Ibid., p. 153.

6.	Quoted in Max Kaltenmark, Lao Tzu and Taoism (Stanford, Calif.:
Stanford University Press, 1969), p. 20.

7.	Burton Watson, Introduction to The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1968), p. 7.

8.	Arthur Waley, Three Ways of Thought in Ancient China (Garden City, N.
Y.: Doubleday, undated reprint of 1939 edition), p. 15.

9.	Gai-fu Feng and Jane English, trans., Chuang Tsu (New York: Vintage
Books, 1974), p. 55.

10.	Ibid. 309

11.	Wm. Theodore de Bary, Wing-tsit Chan, and Burton Watson, Sources of
Chinese Tradition, Vol. 1 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1960),
p. 240.

12.	Ibid., pp. 243-244.

13.	Quoted by Fung Yu-lan, A Short History of Chinese Philosophy (New
York: Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., 1948), p. 230.

14.	Quoted in ibid., p. 235.

15.	D. Howard Smith, Chinese Religions (New York: Holt, Rinehart and
Winston, 1968), p. 106.

16.	Frederick J. Streng, Emptiness: A Study in Religious Meaning
(Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1967), pp. 159-60.

17.	Arthur F. Wright, Buddhism in Chinese History (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 1959), p. 63.

18.	Walter Liebenthal, Chao Lun: The Treatises of Seng-chao (Hong Kong:
hong Kong University Press, 1968), p. 62.

242 / NOTES 10, 11)1(1,, pp. fifi f)7.

20.	Helnrich Dumoulin, A History of Zen Badtihism (Boston: Beacon Press,
1000), |i. 60,

21.	Quoted by Fung Yu Ian, Short History of (Chinese Philosophy, p, 252,

1.	BODHIDHARMA: FIRST PATRIARCH OF ZEN
2.


1.	Translated by D. T. Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism, First Series
(New York: Grove Press, 1961), p. 1 79. This is a translation of a
passage from the Records of the Transmission of the Lamp compiled in
1004 by Tao-yuan. A simpler version of the story can be found in the
original source document, the Further Biographies of Eminent Priests
(Hsu kao-seng chuan), prepared around the year 645 by Tao hsuan, and
translated In Cat's Yawn, published by the First Zen Institute of
America, New York, 194 7. The story is repeated also in the Ch'uan fg-
pao chi, prepared ca, 700 10 by Tu Fei,

2.	The fact that this episode does not appear in the earliest story of
Bodhidharma's life makes one skeptical about its authenticity. It is
known that Emperor Wu welcomed another famous Indian missionary,
Paramartha, who landed in Canton in 540 (Smith, Chinese Religions, p.
120). This monk espoused the Idealistic school of Buddhism, which was
at odds with the school of Ch'an. It seems possible that the story of
Bodhidharma's meeting was constructed to counter the prestige that Wu's
Interest undoubtedly gave the Idealistic school.

3.	The Buddhist concept of Merit might be likened to a spiritual
savings account, Merit accrues on the record of one's good deeds and
provides several forms of reward in this world and the next, The Idea
that good deeds do not engender Merit seems to have been pioneered by
Tao-sheng (ca, 360 434), the Chinese originator of the idea of Sudden
Enlightenment, "Emptiness" is, of course, the teaching of the Middle
Path of Nagarjuna, The implication that Emperor Wu was startled by this
concept is worth a raised eyebrow, Sunyata or "emptiness" was hardly
unknown In the Buddhist schools of the time.

This whole story is suspect, being first found In the Ch'uan fa-pao chi
of Tu Fei (ca. 700 10), but not in the earlier biography, the Hsu kao-
seng chuan (Further Biographies of Eminent Priests I, compiled by Tao-
hsuan around 645, There is, incidentally, another competing story of a
monk named Bodhidharma in China, He was described as a Persian and was
reported in Yang I Isuan-chih's Buddhist Monasteries In Loyang (Lo-yang
Ch'leh-lan-chi), written In 547, to have been associated with the Yung-
ning monastery, which would have been possible only between the years
516 and 528. This Persian figure apparently claimed to be 150 years in
age, and he most probably came to China via the trading port of Canton
used by Persians. This fact has been used by some to cast doubt on the
more accepted story of a South Indian monk named Bodhidharma arriving
at Canton between 520 and 525. Perhaps a legendary Persian was
transformed into a legendary Indian by the _Dhyana_ school, or perhaps
it was a different individual.

4.	This is the conclusion of the leading Zen scholar today, Philip
Yampolsky, in The Platform Sutra of The Sixth Patriarch (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1967), p. 10.

5.	English translations of various versions of this essay may be found
In Cat's Yawn by the First Zen Institute of America; In I). T, Suzuki,
Essays in Zen Buddhism, First Series; and in John C. H. Wu, The Golden
Age of Zen (Taipei: United Publishing Center, 1907). Concerning this
essay, Philip Yampolsky (private communication) has noted, "Whereas a
version exists In The Transmission of the Lamp, various texts have been
found in the Tun-huang documents and elsewhere, so that a more complete
version is available. It is considered authentic,"

6. Suzuki, Essays in Ann Buddhism, First Series, p. 180.

7.	Ibid., pp. 180-81.

8.	This point is enlarged considerably in an essay attributed to
Bodhidharma but most likely apocryphal, which Is translated In D. T,
Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism, Third Series (New York: Samuel Weiser,
Inc., 1971) pp. 24-30,

9.	Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism, First Series, p. 181.

10.	Suzuki, Ibid.

11.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, pp. 40 50.

12.	Ibid., p. 50.

13.	Ibid., p. 50.

14.	Suzuki translates the passage from the Vajrasamadhi Sutra in
Essays in Zen Buddhism, First Series, pp. 183-84. Portions are as
follows: "Said the Buddha: The two entrances are 'Entrance by Reason'
and 'Entrance by Conduct,' 'Entrance by Reason' means to have a deep
faith in that all sentient beings are identical in essence with the
true nature which is neither unity nor multiplicity; only it is
beclouded by external objects, The nature in itself neither departs nor
comes. When a man in singleness of thought abides in chueh-kuan, he
will clearly see into the Buddha-nature, of which we cannot say whether
it exists or exists not, and in which there is neither selfhood nor
otherness. . . ." Suzuki translates the term chueh-kuan as being
"awakened" or "enlightened,"

15.	Hu Shih, "The Development of Zen Buddhism in China," Chinese Social
and Political Science Review, 15,4 (January 1932), p. 483, Philip
Yampolsky (private communication) has questioned this generalization of
Hu Shih, noting, "There were few practicing 'Zen' Buddhists, but other
Chinese Buddhists probably meditated seriously, although not
exclusively."

16.	Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism, First Series, p, 186.

17.	See Hu Shih, "Development of Zen Buddhism in China," p. 482: "But
the whole system of _dhyana_ practice, even in its concise form as
presented in the translated manuals, was not fully understood by the
Chinese Buddhists. . . . The best proof of this is the following
quotation from Hui-chiao, the scholarly historian of Buddhism and
author of the first series of Buddhist Biographies which was finished
in 519. In his general summary of the biographies of practitioners of
_dhyana_, Hui-chiao said: 'But the apparent utility of _dhyana_ lies in
the attainment of magic powers. . .'.'"

18.	Suzuki (Essays in Zen Buddhism, First Series, p. 191), points out,
"Nagarjuna says in his famous commentary on the Prajnaparamita sutra,
'Moral conduct is the skin, meditation is the flesh, the higher
understanding is the bone, and the mind subtle and good is the marrow.'
" Since this commentary must have been common knowledge, the interest
in Bodhidharma's alleged exchange with his disciples lies in his
recasting of a common coinage.

19.	From the Ch'uan fa-pao chi (ca. 700-10) of Tu Fei, as described by
Yampolsky, The Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriach. This story happens
to parallel closely the posthumous capers ascribed to certain famous
religious Taoists of the age.

20.	Dumoulin, History of Zen Buddhism, p. 72.

21.	Hu Shih, "Development of Zen Buddhism in China," p. 52.
22.


2. HUI-K'O: SECOND PATRIARCH OF ZEN



1.	Translated in Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism, First Series, p.190.

2.	He is well documented in Tao-hsuan's Hsu kao-seng chuan or Further
Biographies of Eminent Priests (A.D. 645). Selected portions of this
biography are related in Yampolsky, Platform Sutra of the Sixth
Patriarch; and Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism, First Series, which form
the basis for much of the historical information reported here. Other
useful sources are Dumoulin, History of Zen Buddhism; and Chou Hsiang-
kuang, _Dhyana_ Buddhism in China (Allahabad, India: Indo-Chinese
Literature Publications, 1960).

3.	The Further Biographies of Eminent Priests by Tao-hsuan declares that
bandits were responsible for severing his arm, but the 710 Chuan fa-pao
chi of Tu Fei piously refutes this version, presumably since efforts
were starting to get underway to construct a Zen lineage, and dramatic
episodes of interaction were essential. This later work was also the
first to report that Bodhidharma was poisoned and then later seen
walking back to India.

4.	As reported by Dumoulin (History of Zen Buddhism, p. 73), this story,
which is typical of later Ch'an teaching methods, first appears some
five hundred years after Bodhidharma's death, in the Ching-te ch'uan-
teng-lu (1004).

5.	Dumoulin, History of Zen Buddhism, p. 74.

6.	D. T. Suzuki, Studies in the Lankavatara Sutra (London: Routledge &
Kegan Paul, 1930) pp. 4-7.

7.	Ibid, p. 59.

8.	D. T. Suzuki, Manual of Zen Buddhism (New York: Grove Press, 1960),
pp. 50-51.

9.	D. T. Suzuki, The Lankavatara Sutra (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul,
1932), p. 79.

10.	Ibid., p. 81.

11.	Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism, First Series, p. 193.

12.	Ibid., p. 194.

13.	Ibid., pp. 194-95.

14.	Chou Hsiang-kuang, _Dhyana_ Buddhism in China, p. 24.



3. SENG-TS'AN, TAO-HSIN, FA-JUNG, AND HUNG-JEN: FOUR EARLY MASTERS



1.	As usual, the biography can be traced in three sources. The earliest,
the Hsu kao-seng chuan of Tao-hsuan (645), apparently does not mention
Seng-ts'an, or if it does so it gives him a different name. However, in
the Ch'uan fa-pao chi of Tu Fei (710) he receives a perfunctory
biography. The more embellished tale, giving exchanges and a copy of
his supposed poem, is to be found in the later work, the Ching-te
ch'uan-teng-lu (1004).

Dumoulin (History of Zen Buddhism) provides a discussion of the
earliest historical notices of Seng-ts'an. The 710 version of the
history is translated in Cat's Yawn (p. 14) and the 1004 version is
repeated in Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism, First Series.

2.	Suzuki, who recounts this last story in Essays in Zen Buddhism, First
Series (p. 195), points out identical insights in the third chapter of
the Vimalakirti Sutra.

3.	Reportedly Hui-k'o also transmitted his copy of the Lankavatara to
Seng-ts'an, declaring that after only four more generations the sutra
would cease to have any significance (Yampolsky, Platform Sutra of the
Sixth Patriarch, p. 11). As things turned out, this was more or less
what happened, as the Lankavatara was replaced in the Ch'an schools by
the more easily understood Diamond Sutra. The Lankavatara school was
destined to be short-lived and to provide nothing more than a sacred
relic for the dynamic Ch'an teachers who would follow.

4.	Suzuki points out (Essays in Zen Buddhism, First Series, p. 196) that
the Chinese word _hsin _can mean mind, heart, soul, and spirit,
beingall or any at a given time. He provides a full translation of the
poem, as does R. H. Blyth in Zen and Zen Classics, Vol. 1 (Tokyo:
Hokuseido Press, 1960).

5.	Blyth, Zen and Zen Classics, Vol. 1, p. 100.

6.	Ibid., p. 101.

7.	Ibid., p. 103.

8.	A detailed discussion of this era may be found in Woodbridge Bingham,
The Founding of the T'ang Dynasty (New York: Octagon Books, 1970).

9.	His biography may be found in C. P. Fitzgerald, Son of Heaven (New
York: AMS Press Inc., 1971), reprint of 1933 Cambridge University Press
edition.

10.	See Dumoulin, History of Zen Buddhism, p. 78.

11.	This story is translated in Cat's Yawn, p. 18.

12.	Dumoulin, History of Zen Buddhism, pp. 78-79.

13.	Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism, Third Series, p. 28.

14.	A lucid account of Fa-jung may be found in Chang Chung-yuan, trans.,
Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism (New York: Random House, 1969;
paperback edition, Vintage, 1971), which is a beautiful translation of
portions of The Transmission of the Lamp (Ching-te ch'uan-teng-lu), the
text from 1004. This text was a major source for the abbreviated
biography given here.

15.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 19.

16.	Ibid., p. 5.

17.	A version of this exchange is given in Suzuki, Essays in Zen
Buddhism, First Series, p. 202.

18.	See Yampolsky, Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch, p. 16.



4. SHEN-HSIU AND SHEN-HUI: GRADUAL" AND "SUDDEN" MASTERS



1.	For an excellent biography see C. P. Fitzgerald, The Empress Wu
(Vancouver: University of British Columbia, 1968). Curiously, nowhere
in this biography is there mention of her lionizing of the Ch'an master
Shen-hsiu, something that figures largely in all Ch'an histories.

2.	A biography of Shen-hsiu from Ch'an sources may be found in
Yampolsky, Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch. Further details may
be found in Hu Shih, "Ch'an (Zen) Buddhism in China: Its History and
Method," Philosophy East and West, 3, 1 (April 1953), pp. 3-24. See
also Kenneth Ch'en, Buddhism in China (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1964).

3.	Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism, First Series, p. 214.

4.	Two books that give something of the intellectual atmosphere of T'ang
China are biographies of its two leading poets: Arthur Waley, The
Poetry and Career of Li Po (London: George Allen & Unwin, Ltd., 1950);
and A. R. Davis, Tu Fu (New York: Twayne Publishers, Inc., 1971).

5.	For a detailed biography of Shen-hui, see Yampolsky, Platform Sutra
of the Sixth Patriarch.

6.	The scholar who brought the significance of Shen-hui to the attention
of the world was Hu Shih, whose landmark English-language papers on Zen
are "Ch'an (Zen) Buddhism in China: Its History and Method" and "The
Development of Zen Buddhism in China." These works draw upon the
manuscripts discovered this century in the Tun-huang caves in the
mountains of far northwest China. These manuscripts clarified many of
the mysteries surrounding the early history of Ch'an, enabling scholars
for the first time to distinguish between real and manufactured
history--since some of the works were written before Ch'an historians
began to embroider upon the known facts. A brief but useful account of
the finding of these caves and the subsequent removal of many of the
manuscripts to the British Museum in London and the Bibliotheque
Nationale in Paris may be found in Cat's Yawn. The best discussion of
the significance of these finds and of Hu Shih's lifelong interpretive
work is provided by Yampolsky, Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch.

Regarding the circumstances of this sermon, Walter Liebenthal ("The
Sermon of Shen-hui," Asia Major, N.S. 3, 2 [1952], p. 134) says, "There
are only two opportunities to deliver addresses in the ritual of
Buddhist monasteries, one during the uposatha ceremony held monthly
when the pratimoksa rules are read to the members of the community and
they are admonished to confess their sins, one during the initiation
ceremony held once or twice a year. For the purpose of initiation
special platforms are raised, one for monks and one for nuns, inside
the compounds of some especially selected monasteries."

7.	Quoted in Hilda Hookham, A Short History of China (New York: St.
Martin's Press, Inc., 1972; paperback edition, New York: New American
Library, 1972), p. 175.

8.	Discussions of the adventures of An Lu-shan may be found in most
general surveys of Chinese history, including Hookham, Short History of
China, Wolfram Eberhard, A History of China (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1960); Kenneth Scott Latourette, The Chinese: Their
History and Culture (New York: Macmillan, 1962); John A. Harrison, The
Chinese Empire (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., 1972); and
Rene Grousset, The Rise and Splendour of the Chinese Empire (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1962).

9.	This is the interpretation of Hu Shih. For translations of the major
works of Shen-hui, see Walter Liebenthal, "The Sermon of Shen-hui," pp.
132-55; and Wm. Theodore de Bary, ed., Sources of Chinese Tradition,
Vol. 1., pp. 356-60. Also see Edward Conze, ed., Buddhist Texts Through
the Ages (Oxford: Bruno Cassirer, 1954), excerpted in Wade Baskin, ed.,
Classics in Chinese Philosophy (Totowa, N. J.: Littlefield, Adams,
1974). A short translation is also provided in Suzuki, Essays in Zen
Buddhism, Third Series, pp. 37 ff. The fullest translation of the works
of Shen-hui found in the Tun-huang caves is in Jacques Gernet,
Entret/ens du Maitre de _Dhyana_ Chen-houei du Ho-tso (Hanoi:
Publications de l'ecole frangaise d'Extreme-Orient, Vol. 31, 1949). An
English translation of a portion of this text may be found in Wing-tsit
Chan, A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1963).

10.	Liebenthal, "Sermon of Shen-hui," pp. 136 ff.

11.	Ibid., p. 144.

12.	Ibid., pp. 146, 147, 149.

13.	See Hu Shih, "Ch'an (Zen) Buddhism in China."

14.	Hu Shih, "Development of Zen Buddhism in China," p. 493.

15.	Hu Shih, "Ch'an (Zen) Buddhism in China," p. 11.

16.	The differences between the Northern and Southern schools of Ch'an
during the eighth century are explored in the works of Hu Shih, Philip
Yampolsky, and Walter Liebenthal noted elsewhere in these notes. Other
general surveys of Chinese religion and culture that have useful
analyses of the question include Wing-tsit Chan, Source Book in Chinese
Philosophy, pp. 425 ff., D. Howard Smith, Chinese Religions; and Fung
Yu-lan, Short History of Chinese Philosophy.

17.	A study of the last distinguished member of Shen-hui's school, the
scholar Tsung-mi (780-841), may be found in Jeffrey Broughton, "Kuei-
feng Tsung-mi: The Convergence of Ch'an and the Teachings" (Ph. D.
dissertation, Columbia University, 1975).

18.	    D. T. Suzuki, "Zen: A Reply to Hu Shih," Philosophy East and
West, 3, 1 (April 1953), pp. 25-46.
19.



5. HUI-NENG: THE SIXTH PATRIARCH AND FATHER OF MODERN ZEN



1.	A number of English translations of the Platform Sutra are in
existence. Among the most authoritative must certainly be counted
Yampolsky, Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch; and Wing-tsit Chan,
The Platform Scripture (New York: St. John's University Press, 1963). A
widely circulated translation is in A. F. Price and Wong Mou-Lam, The
Diamond Sutra and the Sutra of Hui-Neng (Berkeley, Calif.: Shambhala,
1969). Another well-known version is found in Charles Luk, Ch'an and
Zen Teaching: Third Series (New York: Samuel Weiser, Inc., 1971). Two
lesser-known translations are Paul F. Fung and George D. Fung, The
Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch on the Pristine Orthodox Dharma (San
Francisco: Buddha's Universal Church, 1964); and Hsuan Hua, The Sixth
Patriarch's Dharma Jewel Platform Sutra (San Francisco: Buddhist Text
Translation Society, 1971).

2.	From the Diamond Sutra, contained in Dwight Goddard, ed., A Buddhist
Bible (Boston: Beacon Press, 1970), p. 102. Another version may be
found in Price and Wong, Diamond Sutra and the Sutra of Hui-neng. An
extended commentary may be found in Charles Luk,

Ch'an and Zen Teaching, First Series, pp. 149-208. Later Ch'anists have
maintained that Hung-jen taught both the Diamond Sutra and the
Lankavatara Sutra, the respective scriptures of what came to be called
Southern and Northern schools of Ch'an. However, most scholars today
believe that his major emphasis was on the Lankavatara Sutra, not the
Diamond Sutra as the legend of Hui-neng would have.

3.	From Price and Wong, Diamond Sutra and the Sutra of Hui-neng, p. 15.

4.	Ibid., p. 18.

5.	The earliest version of the Platform Sutra is that found in the Tun-
huang caves and translated by Yampolsky and Chan. This manuscript
Yampolsky dates from the middle of the ninth century. A much later
version, dated 1153, was found in a temple in Kyoto, Japan, in 1934.
This is said to be a copy of a version dating from 967. The standard
version up until this century was a much longer work which dates from
1291. As a general rule of thumb with the early Ch'an writings, the
shorter the work, the better the chance it is early and authentic. For
this reason, the shorter Tun-huang works are now believed to be the
most authoritative and best account of the thoughts of the Sixth
Patriarch.

6.	Yampolsky, Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch, p. 69.

7.	The most obvious problem with attribution of the Platform Sutra to
Hui-neng is that many of the sections of the sermon appear almost
verbatim in The Sermon of Shen-hui, indicating that either one was a
copy of the other or they had a common source (which could have been
the simple setting down of a verbal tradition). It has been pointed out
that Shen-hui, who praises Hui-neng to the skies in his sermon, never
claims to be quoting the master. Instead, he pronounces as his own a
number of passages that one day would be found in the work attributed
to Hui-neng. The scholar Hu Shih has drawn the most obvious conclusion
and has declared that Shen-hui and his school more or less created the
legend of Hui-neng--lock, stock, and sutra. Others refuse to go this
far, preferring instead to conclude that Shen-hui and Hui-neng are
merely two representatives of the same school.

8.	Yampolsky, Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch, p. 157.

9.	Yampolsky, Ibid., p. 140

10.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 82.

11.	See especially "Intimations of Immortality":

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us,
our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, and cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing
clouds of glory do we come . . .

12.	Yampolsky, Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch, pp. 141-42.

13.	Ibid., p. 117.

14.	From ibid., pp. 138-39. For interpretive comment see D. T. Suzuki,
The Zen Doctrine of No Mind (New York: Samuel Weiser, 1972).

15.	Yampolsky, Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch, pp. 116-17.
16.


6. MA-TSU: ORIGINATOR OF "SHOCK" ENLIGHTENMENT



1.	See Broughton, Kuei-feng Tsung-mi: The Convergence of Ch'an and the
Teachings. It was also around this time that the idea of twenty-eight
Indian Patriarchs of Zen, culminating in Bodhidharma, was finally
ironed out and made part of the Zen tradition.

2.	See Arthur Waley, The Life and Times of Po Chu-i (London: Allen &
Unwin, 1949).

3.	Hu Shih, "Development of Zen Buddhism in China," p. 497.

4.	Hu-Shin, "Ch'an (Zen) Buddhism in China," p. 18.

5.	For some of Huai-jang's attributed teachings, see Charles Luk, The
Transmission of the Mind Outside the Teaching (New York: Grove Press,
1975), pp. 32-37. The reliability of this text should be questioned,
however, if we accept Philip Yampolsky's essay in Platform Sutra of the
Sixth Patriarch, p. 53: "Huai-jang (677-744) . . . is known as a
disciple of Hui-neng. Information about him is based on sources
composed much later than his death; no mention is made of him in any
eighth-century work. . . ."

6.	Jeffrey Broughton ("Kuei-feng Tsung-mi," p. 27) points out that Ma-
tsu's master's technique for achieving "no-mind" was to chant a phrase
until running out of breath, at which time the activities of the mind
would seem to terminate--a reaction the more skeptical might call
physiological. Breath control and breath exercises, it will be
recalled, have always figured largely in Indian meditative practices.

7.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 148. The
discussion of Ma-tsu in this volume supplied valuable background for
the analysis provided here.

8.	Hu Shih, "Development of Zen Buddhism in China," p. 498.

9.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 130.

10.	Ibid., p. 149.

11.	Ibid.

12.	Ibid.

13.	There are many translations of the Mumonkan. One of the more recent
and scholarly is by Zenkai Shibayama, Zen Comments on the Mumonkan (New
York: New American Library, 1975).

14.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 150.

15.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 95.

16.	The most recent and the most detailed translation of the Blue Cliff
Record is by Thomas and J. C. Cleary, The Blue CI iff Record, 3 vols.
(Berkeley, Calif.: Shambhala, 1977).

17.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 151.

18.	Ibid., p.151.

19.	This story is recounted in Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 100.

20.	Ibid., p. 102.

21.	Recounted in Ibid., p. 102.

22.	See Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'ari Buddhism, pp.
150-52.

23.	Ibid., p. 150.

24.	See Luk, Transmission of the Mind Outside the Teaching, p. 46.
25.



7. HUAI-HAI: FATHER OF MONASTIC CH'AN



1.	This location is given by John Blofeld in The Zen Teaching of Hui-Hai
on Sudden Illumination (London: Ryder & Co., 1962; paperback reprint,
New York: Weiser, 1972), p. 29. Charles Luk (Transmission of the Mind
Outside the Teaching, p. 50) says: "Huai-hai, the Dharma-successor of
Ma Tsu, was also called Pai Chang [Po Ch'ang] after the mountain where
he stayed at Hung Chou (now Nanchang, capital of Kiangsi province). Pai
Chang means: Pai, one hundred, and Chang, a measure of ten feet, i.e.,
One-thousand-foot mountain." However, Luk identifies the birthplace of
Huai-hai as Chang Lo in modern Fukien province, as does Chou Hsiang-
kuang in _Dhyana_ Buddhism in China.

2.	This story is repeated in various places, including Wu, Golden Age of
Zen; and Blofeld, Zen Teaching of Hui Hai on Sudden Illumination. This
latter reference is as part of a document known as the Tsung-ching
Record, being a recorded dialogue of the master taken down by a monk
named Tsung-ching, who was a contemporary of Huai-hai.

3.	This story is Case 53 of the Hekiganroku or Blue Cliff Record, a Sung
Dynasty period collection of Ch'an stories and their interpretation.
The best current translation is probably in Cleary and Cleary, Blue
Cliff Record, Vol. 2, p. 357.

4.	See Luk, Transmission of the Mind Outside the Teaching, p. 46.

5.	Stories involving him may be found in the Mumonkan, Cases 2 and 40,
and in the Hekiganroku or Blue Cliff Record, Cases 53, 70, 71, 72. The
most complete accounting of anecdotes may be found in Blofeld, Zen
Teachings of Hui-Hai on Sudden Illumination; and Thomas Cleary, Sayings
and Doings of Pai-chang (Los Angeles: Center Publicatons, 1979).

6.	Kenneth K. S. Ch'en, (The Chinese Transformation of Buddhism
[Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1973], p. 95) says, "Besides
the Vinaya controlling the conduct of the Buddhist clergy, the basic
code governing Buddhist and Taoist monks and nuns during the T'ang
Dynasty was the Tao-seng-ke (Rules concerning Buddhist and Taoist
clergy), formulated during the Chen-kuan era, probably 637. This Tao-
seng-ke is no longer extant, however, but the Japanese work Soni-ryo,
which governs the conduct of the community of monks and nuns in Japan,
was based on it. Therefore a study of the Soni-ryo would give us a good
idea of the contents of the Tao-seng-ke. . . . [Certain] provisions of
the T'ang codes superseded the monastic code and called for penalties
for offenses which went beyond those specified in the Soni-ryo or the
Buddhist Vinaya."

7.	For a scholarly discussion of the economic role of Buddhism in T'ang
China, see D. C. Twitchett, "Monastic Estates in T'ang China," Asia
Major, (1955-56), pp. 123-46. He explains that the T'ang government was
always a trifle uneasy about the presence of un-taxed monastic
establishments, and not without reason. Buddhism in T'ang China was big
business. The large monasteries were beneficiaries of gifts and
bequests from the aristocracy, as well as from the palace itself.
(Eunuchs, along with palace ladies, were particularly generous.) Laymen
often would bequeath their lands to a monastery, sometimes including in
the will a curse on anyone who might later wish to take the land away
from the church. These gifts were thought to ensure better fortunes in
the world to come, while simultaneously resolving tax difficulties for
the donor. For the monasteries themselves this wealth could only
accumulate, since it never had to be divided among sons. After An Lu-
shan's rebellion, a flavor of feudalism had penetrated Chinese society,
and huge tracts came to be held by the Buddhist monasteries, to which
entire estates were sometimes donated. As a result, the Buddhists had
enormous economic power, although we may suspect the iconoclastic
_dhyana_ establishments in the south enjoyed little of it.

8.	See Dumoulin, History of Zen Buddhism, pp. 102-03.

9.	See Heinrich Dumoulin and Ruth Fuller Sasaki, The Development of
Chinese Zen (New York: First Zen Institute of America, 1953), p.13.
Interestingly, the Vinaya sect, founded by Tao-hsuan (596-667), was
primarily concerned with the laws of monastic discipline. The
familiarity of Ch'an teachers with the concerns of this sect may have
contributed to the desire to create rules for their own assemblies.

10.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 109.

11.	See D. T. Suzuki, The Zen Monk's Life (New York: Olympia Press,
1972); Eshin Nishimura, Unsui: A Diary of Zen Monastic Life (Honolulu:
University Press of Hawaii, 1973); Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism,
First Series, pp. 314-362; and Koji Sato, The Zen Life (New York:
Weatherhill/Tankosha, 1977). A succinct summary of Zen monastic life is
also provided by Sir Charles Eliot in Japanese Buddhism (London:
Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1935), p. 406.

12.	See Blofeld, Zen Teaching ofHui Hai on Sudden Illumination, p. 52.

13.	Ibid., pp. 60-61.

14.	Ibid., p.	48.

15.	Ibid., p.	133.

16.	Ibid., p.	77.

17.	Ibid., p.	55.

18.	Ibid., p.	56.

19.	Ibid., p.	78.

20.	Ibid., p.	54.



8. NAN-CH'UAN AND CHAO-CHOU: MASTERS OF THE IRRATIONAL



1.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 153.

2.	Ibid., p. 178.

3.	According to a biographical sketch of Nan-ch'uan given by Cleary and
Cleary in Blue Cliff Record, p. 262.

4.	See Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 160.
This was also incorporated in the Blue Cliff Record as Case 40 (Ibid.,
p. 292), where the Sung-era commentary is actually more obscure than
what it attempts to explain.

5.	See Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 136.

6.	Ibid., p. 136.

7.	Blyth, Zen and Zen Classics, Vol. 3, p. 57.

8.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 159.

9.	Ibid., p. 157. This anecdote is also Case 69 of the Blue Cliff
Record.

10.	Ibid., p. 161.

11.	Ibid.

12.	Ibid., p. 162.

13.	Ibid., p. 164. Translation of a T'ang text, "The Sayings of Chao-
chou," is provided by Yoel Hoffman, Radical Zen (Brookline, Mass.:
Autumn Press, 1978).

14.	Recounted by Garma C. C. Chang in The Practice of Zen (New York:
Harper & Row, 1959), p. 24. This is also Case 14 of the Mumonkan and
Cases 63 and 64 of the Blue Cliff Record.

15.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 127. This is also Case 19 of the Mumonkan.

16.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 159.

17.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 129.

18.	Ibid., p. 133.

19.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 169.

20.	Ibid., p. 140.

21.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 136.

22.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 171.

23.	This is Case 1 of the Mumonkan, here quoted from a very readable new
translation by Katsuki Sekida, Two Zen Classics: Mumonkan 6-
Hekiganroku (New York: Weatherhill, 1977), p. 27.

24.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, pp. 144-45.

25.	Blyth, Zen and Zen Classics, Vol. 3, p. 77.

26.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 145.

27.	Ibid., p. 139.

28.	Ibid., p. 146.

29.	Ibid., p. 144.
30.


9. P'ANG AND HAN-SHAN: LAYMAN AND POET



1.	See Burton Watson, Cold Mountain (New York: Columbia University
Press, 1970), p. 13. This concept of the Zen layman has longbeen a part
of Zen practice in Japan, and for this reason both Layman P'ang and the
poet Han-shan are favorite Ch'an figures with the Japanese. In fact,
the eighteenth-century Japanese master Hakuin wrote a commentary on
Han-shan.

2.	See Ruth Fuller Sasaki, Yoshitaka Iriya, and Dana R. Frasier, The
Recorded Sayings of Layman P'ang (New York: Weatherhill, 1971), p. 18.

3.	See Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 145.
This story is famous and found in many sources.

4.	As evidenced by a common saying of the time: "In Kiangsi the Master
is Ma-tsu; in Hunan the Master is Shih-t'ou. People go back and forth
between them all the time, and those who do not know these two great
Masters are completely ignorant." Yampolsky, Platform Sutra of the
Sixth Patriarch, p. 55.

5.	Sasaki et al., Recorded Sayings of Layman P'ang, p. 46.

6.	See Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 145.

7.	See Ibid., p. 175.

8.	Sasaki et al., Recorded Sayings of Layman P'ang, p. 47.

9.	Luk, Transmission of the Mind Outside the Teaching, p. 42.

10.	Sasaki et al., Recorded Sayings of Layman P'ang, p. 58.

11.	Ibid., p. 69.

12.	Ibid., p. 71

13.	Ibid., p.47.

14.	Ibid., p. 88.

15.	Ibid., pp. 54-55. The translators explain the last two verses as
follows: "This is derived from the old Chinese proverb: 'To win by a
fluke is to fall into a fluke' (and thus to lose by a fluke)."
Concerning the meaning of this exchange, it would seem that water is
here being used as a metaphor for the undifferentiated Void, which
subsumes the temporary individuality of its parts the way the sea is
undifferentiated, yet contains waves. When Tan-hsia accepts this
premise a little too automatically, P'ang is forced to show him (via a
splash) that water (and by extension, physical manifestations of the
components of the Void) can also assume a physical reality that
impinges on daily life. Tan-hsia tries feebly to respond by returning
the splash, but he clearly lost the exchange.

16.  Ibid. p. 73.

17.  See Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p.
176. Also see Sasaki et al., Recorded Sayings of Lay man P'ang, p. 75.

18.  Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 177.

19. Sasaki et al., Recorded Sayings of Layman P'ang, p. 42. Watson,
Cold Mountain, p. 50. Watson explains that the

20.  Arthur Waley, "27 Poems by Han-shan," Encounter, 3, 3 (September
1954), p. 3.

21.	opening line about taking along books while hoeing in the field was
"From the story of an impoverished scholar of the former Han Dynasty
who was so fond of learning that he carried his copies of the Confucian
classics along when he went to work in the fields." The last line is
"An allusion to the perch, stranded in a carriage rut in the road, who
asked the philosopher Chuang Tzu for a dipperful of water so that he
could go on living."
22.
23.	Ibid., p. 56.
24.
23.  Waley, "27 Poems by Han-shan," p. 6.

24.  From Wu Chi-yu, "A Study of Han Shan," T'oung Pao, 45, 4-5 (1957),
p. 432.

26.	Gary Snyder, "Han-shan," In Cyril Birch, ed., Anthology of
Chinese Literature, (New York: Grove Press, 1965), p. 201.
27.
28.	See Ibid., pp. 194-96.
29.
27.  See Watson, Cold Mountain, p. 14. Watson says, "Zen commentators
have therefore been forced to regard Han-shan's professions of
loneliness, doubt, and discouragement not as revelations of his own
feelings but as vicarious recitals of the ills of unenlightened men
which he can still sympathize with, though he himself has transcended
them. He thus becomes the traditional Bodhisattva figure--compassionate,
in the world, but not of it." Watson rejects this interpretation.

28.  Ibid., p. 67.

29.  Ibid., p. 88.

30.  Ibid., p. 78.

31.  Ibid., p. 81.

32.  Ibid., pp. 11-12.

33.  Snyder, "Han-shan," p. 202.



10. HUANG-PO: MASTER OF THE UNIVERSAL MIND



1.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 102.

2.	This probably was during the last decade of the eighth century, since
Ma-tsu died in 788.

3.	This volume actually consists of two books, known as the Chun-chou
Record (843) and the Wan-iing Record (849). They are translated and
published together by John Blofeld as The Zen Teaching of Huang Po.
(New York: Grove Press, 1958). This appears to have been the source for
biographical and anecdotal material later included in The Transmission
of the Lamp, portions of which are translated in Chang Chung-yuan.
Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism. Another translation of
biographical, didactic, and anecdotal material may be found in Charles
Luk, Transmission of the Mind Outside the Teaching, whose source is
unattributed but which possibly could be a translation of the 1602 work
Records of Pointing at The Moon, a compilation of Ch'an materials.

4.	Blofeld, Zen Teaching of Huang Po, p. 28.

5.	Ibid., p. 27.

6.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 103.

7.	Ibid.

8.	Ibid., p. 90.

9.	Ibid., p. 103.

10.	Blofeld, Zen Teaching of Huang Po, p. 99.

11.	This gesture of defeat is reported elsewhere to have been a triple
prostration. Huang-po apparently claimed victory in these exchanges
when he either kept silent or walked away.

12.	Wan-ling is reported by Chang Chung-yuan to be the modern town of
Hsuan-ch'eng in southern Anhwei province (Original Teachings of Ch'an
Buddhism, p. 123). According to The Transmission of the Lamp the prime
minister built a monastery and invited Huang-po to come lecture there,
which the master did. The monastery was then named after a mountain
where the master had once lived.

13.	Ibid., p. 104.

14.	Ibid.

15.	Blofeld, Zen Teaching of Huang Po, p. 55.

16.	Ibid., p. 130.

17.	Ibid., pp. 81-82.

18.	Ibid., p. 44

19.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 87.

20.	Blofeld, Zen Teaching of Huang Po, p. 53.

21.	Ibid., p. 39.

22.	Ibid., p. 46.

23.	Ibid., p. 37.

24.	Ibid.

25.	Ibid., p. 40.

26.	Ibid., p. 61.

27.	Ibid., p. 26.

28.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 85.

29.	Blofeld, Zen Teachings of Huang Po, p. 50.

30.	See Wu, Golden Age of Zen.

31.	Chang Chung-yuan reports some disagreement over the actual date of
Huang-po's death. It seems that he is reported to have died in 849 in
Records of Buddhas and Patriarchs in Various Dynasties, whereas the
year of his death is given as 855 in the General Records of Buddhas and
Patriarchs.

32.	Excerpts from the Han Yu treatise are provided in Edwin O.
Reischauer, Ennin's Travels in T'ang China (New York: Ronald Press,
1955), pp. 221 ff. This recounting of a visit by a ninth-century
Japanese monk to China reveals indirectly how lacking in influence the
Ch'anists actually were. In a diary of many years Ch'an is mentioned
only rarely, and then in tones of other than respect. He viewed the
Ch'anists warily and described them as "extremely unruly men at heart"
(p. 173). However, his trip in China was severely disturbed by the
sudden eruption of the Great Persecution, making him so fearful that he
actually destroyed the Buddhist art he had collected throughout the
country.

33.	See Hu Shih, "Ch'an (Zen) Buddhism in China."

34.	See Ibid.

35.	Kenneth Ch'en, in "The Economic Background of the Hui-Ch'ang
Suppression of Buddhism," Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, 19
(1956), points out that the imperial decree required the turning in
only of statues made from metals having economic value. Those made from
clay, wood, and stone could remain in the temples. He uses this to
support his contention that the main driving force behind the Great
Persecution was the inordinate economic power of the Buddhist
establishments.
36.


11. LIN-CHI: FOUNDER OF RINZAI ZEN



1.	A discussion of the five houses of Ch'an may be found in Dumoulin,
History of Zen Buddhism, pp. 106-22; and Dumoulin and Sasaki,
Development of Chinese Zen, pp. 17-32. Useful summaries of their
teachings also may be found in Chou Hsiang-kuang, _Dhyana_ Buddhism in
China.

2.	Accounts of Lin-chi's life are found in The Record of Lin-chi, The
Transmission of the Lamp, The Five Lamps Meeting at the Source, and
Finger Pointing at the Moon. The most reliable source is probably The
Record of Lin-chi, since this was compiled by his follower(s). The
definitive translation of this work certainly must be that by Ruth F.
Sasaki, The Recorded Sayings of Ch'an Master Lin-chi Hui-chao of Chen
Prefecture, (Kyoto, Japan: Institute of Zen Studies, 1975) and recently
re-issued by Heian International, Inc., South San Francisco, Calif.
Another version, The Zen Teachings of Rinzai, translated by Irmgard
Schloegl (Berkeley, Calif.: Shambhala, 1976), is less satisfactory. The
Lin-chi excerpts from The Transmission of the Lamp may be found in
Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism. Excerpts from
The Five Lamps Meeting at the Source and Finger Pointing at the Moon
are provided in Charles Luk, Ch'an and Zen Teaching, Second Series
(Berkeley: Shambhala, 1971). Translations of his sermons, sayings, etc.
together with commentary may also be found in Wu, Golden Age of Zen;
Chou Hsiang-kuang, _Dhyana_ Buddhism in China; and Blyth, Zen and Zen
Classics, Vol. 3.

3.	R. H. Blyth is suspicious that Lin-chi's story was enhanced somewhat
for dramatic purposes, claiming (Zen and Zen Classics, Vol. 3, p. 151),
"As in the case of the Sixth Patriarch, [Lin-chi's] enlightenment is
recounted 'dramatically,' that is to say minimizing his previous
understanding of Zen in order to bring out the great change after
enlightenment."

4.	Sasaki, Recorded Sayings of Lin-chi, pp. 24-25.

5.	Ibid., p. 25.

6.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, pp. 117-18.

7.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 194.

8.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 118.

9.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 195.

10.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 119.

11.	Sasaki, Recorded Sayings of Lin-chi, p. 43.

12.	Ibid., p. 45.

13.	Dumoulin, History of Zen Buddhism, p. 122.

14.	Of Lin-chi's shout, R. H. Blyth says (Zen and Zen Classics, Vol. 3,
p. 154): "[The shout] is a war-cry, but the fight is a sort of shadow-
boxing. The universe shouts at us, we shout back. We shout at the
universe, and the echo comes back in the same way. But the shouting and
the echoing are continuous, and, spiritually speaking, simultaneous.
Thus the [shout] is not an expression of anything; it has no
(separable) meaning. It is pure energy, without cause or effect, rhyme
or reason."

15.	After Sasaki, Recorded Sayings of Lin-chi, p. 47.

16.	See Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 201.

17.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, pp. 121-22.

18.	Sasaki, Recorded Sayings of Lin-chi, p. 4.

19.	Ibid., p. 41.

20.	Ibid., p. 48.

21.	Ibid., p. 2.

22.	Ibid., p. 70.

23.	Ibid., p. 6.

24.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 98.

25.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, pp. 204-05.

26.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 99.

27.	Dumoulin, Development of Chinese Zen, p. 22.

28.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 99.

29.	Dumoulin, Development of Chinese Zen, p. 23.

30.	See Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings ofCh'an Buddhism, p. 95.

31.	Sasaki, Recorded Sayings o/Lin-chi, pp. 27-28.

32.	See Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 95.

33.	Heinrich Dumoulin (Development of Chinese Zen, p. 22) notes that
this is merely playing off the well-known "four propositions" of Ind
ian Buddhist logic: existence, nonexistence, both existence and
nonexistence, and neither existence nor nonexistence.

34.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 202.

35.	Ibid., p. 203.

36.	Sasaki, Recorded Sayings of Lin-chi. p. 29.

37.	Ibid., p. 24.

38.	Ibid., p. 38.
39.



12. TUNG-SHAN AND TSAO-SHAN: FOUNDERS OF SOTO ZEN



1.	Philip Yampolsky, in Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch, alleges
that Hsing-ssu was resurrected from anonymity because Shih-t'ou (700-
90) was in need of a connection to the Sixth Patriarch. The mysterious
master Hsing-ssu comes into prominence well over a hundred years after
his death; his actual life was not chronicled by any of his
contemporaries. Neither, for that matter, was the life of his pupil
Shih-t'ou, although the latter left a heritage of disciples and a
burgeoning movement to perpetuate his memory.

2.	Ibid., p. 55.

3.	The stories attached to Shih-t'ou are varied and questioned by most
authorities. For example, there is the story that he was enlightened by
reading Seng-chau's Chao-Jun (The Book of Chao) but that his philosophy
came from Lao Tzu.

4.	See Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 58.

5.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 171.

6.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 58.

7.	Ibid., p. 60.

8.	Ibid., pp. 61-62.

9.	Ibid., pp. 64-65.

10. Ibid., p. 76.

11.	This is elaborated by Luk, Ch'an and Zen Teaching, Second Series, p.
166.

12.	Ibid., p. 174.

13.	Extended discussions of this concept are provided by Chang Chung-
yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, pp. 41-57; and by Wu,
Golden Age of Zen, pp. 177-82.

14.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 179.

15.	See Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 49.

16.	See Luk, Chan and Zen Teaching, Second Series, p. 139.

17.	See Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 50.

18.	Ibid., p. 69.

19.	When R. H. Blyth translates this poem in Zen and Zen Classics, Vol.
2, called the Hokyozammai in Japanese, he includes a grand dose of
skepticism concerning its real authorship, since he believes the poem
unworthy of the master (p. 152).

20.	Ibid., p. 157.

21.	See Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 48.

22.	Ibid., p. 70.

23.	Ibid., p. 71.

24.	Ibid., p. 72.

25.	Dumoulin, Development of Chinese Zen, p. 26.

30.	Eliot, Japanese Buddhism, p. 168.
31.


13. KUEI-SHAN, YUN-MEN, AND FA-YEN: THREE MINOR HOUSES



1.	Accounts of the lives and teachings of the masters of the Kuei-yang
school can be found in a number of translations, including Chang Chung-
yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism; and Luk, Ch'an and Zen
Teachings, Second Series. Both provide translations from The
Transmission of the Lamp. Other sources appear to be used in Wu, Golden
Age of Zen, which includes a lively discussion of Kuei-shan and the
Kuei-yang sect.

2.	Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 159.

3.	Charles Luk (Ch'an and Zen Teaching, Second Series, p. 58) makes a
valiant try at explication when he says, "[Huai-hai] wanted him to
perceive 'that which gave the order' and 'that which obeyed it.' . . .
[Huai-hai] continued to perform his great function by pressing the
student hard, insisting that the latter should perceive 'that' which
arose from the seat, used the poker, raised a little fire, showed it to
him and said, 'Is this not fire?' . . . This time the student could
actually perceive the reply by means of his self-nature. . . . Hence
his enlightenment."

4.	See Ibid., p. 58. Ssu-ma seems to have had a good record in
predicting monastic success, and he was much in demand. Although the
reliance

on a fortuneteller seems somewhat out of character for a Ch'an master,
we should remember that fortunetelling and future prediction in China
are at least as old as the I Ching.

5.   Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism,      p.
202.

6.    Ibid., p. 204.

7.    Luk, Ch'an and Zen Teaching, Second Series, p. 67.

8.    Ibid., p. 78.

9.    Wu, Golden Age of Zen, p. 167.

10.	Ibid., p. 167.

11.	John Wu (Golden Age of Zen, p. 165) says, "The style of the house of
Kuei-yang has a charm all of its own. It is not as steep and sharp-
edged as the houses of Lin-chi and Yun-men, nor as close-knit and
resourceful as the house of Ts'ao-tung nor as speculative and broad as
the house of Fa-yen, but it has greater depth than the others."

12.	See Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 269.
Other translations of Yun-men anecdotes, as well as interpretations and
appreciations, can be found in Luk, Ch'an and Zen Teaching, Second
Series; Chou, _Dhyana_ Buddhism in China; Wu, Golden Age of Zen; and
Blyth, Zen and Zen Classics, Vol. 2.

13.	He had six koans out of forty-eight in the Mumonkan and eighteen
koans out of a hundred in the Hekiganroku. Perhaps his extensive
representation in the second collection is attributable to the fact
that its compiler, Ch'ung-hsien (980-1025), was one of the last
surviving representatives of Yun-men's school.

14.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism p. 284.

15.	Ibid., p. 286.

16.	Ibid., p. 229.

17.	Ibid., p. 228.

18.	Ibid., p. 229.

19.	Sekida, Two Zen Classics: Mumonkan & Hekiganroku, p. 349. This koan
is from Hekiganroku, Case 77.

20.	From the Mumonkan, Case 21. The Chinese term used was kan-shin
chueh, which Chang Chung-yuan (Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p.
300) characterizes as follows: "This may be translated either of two
ways: a piece of dried excrement or a bamboo stick used for cleaning as
toilet tissue is today."

21.	Blyth, Zen and Zen Classics, Vol. 2, p. 142.

22.	Those with insatiable curiosity may consult Wu, Golden Age of Zen,
pp. 244 ff.

23.	Translations of his teachings from The Transmission of the Lamp are
provided by Chang Chung:yuan in Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism and
by Charles Luk in Ch'an and Zen Teachings, Second Series. A translation
of a completely different source, which varies significantly on all the
major anecdotes, is provided in John Wu, Golden Age of Zen. A
translation, presumably from a Japanese source, of some of his
teachings is supplied by R. H. Blyth in Zen and Zen Classics, Vol. 2.
Heinrich Dumoulin offers a brief assessment of his influence in his two
books: Development of Chinese Zen and History of Zen Buddhism.

24.	Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an Buddhism, p. 238. A
completely different version may be found in Wu, Golden Age of Zen, pp.
232-33.

25.	Buddhism Chang Chung-yuan, Original Teachings of Ch'an, p. 242.
26.


14. TA-HUI: MASTER OF THE KOAN



1.	See Dumoulin, History of Zen Buddhism, p. 128.

2.	Isshu Miura and Ruth Fuller Sasaki, Zen Dust (New York: Harcourt,
Brace & World, 1966), pp. 10-11.

3.	Ibid., p. 10. This individual is identified as Nan-yuan Hui-yang (d.
930).

4.	This is Case 1 in the Mumonkan, usually the first koan given to a
beginning student.

5.	This is Case 26 of the Mumonkan. The version given here is after the
translation in Sekida, Two Zen Classics: Mumonkan & Hekiganroku, p. 89.

6.	This is Case 54 of the Hekiganroku. The version given is after Ibid.,
p. 296, and Cleary and Cleary, Blue Cliff Record, p. 362.

7.	Isshu and Sasaki, Zen Dust, p. 13.

8.	There are a number of translations of the Mumonkan currently
available in English. The most recent is Sekida, Two Zen Classics:
Mumonkan & Hekiganroku; but perhaps the most authoritative is Zenkei
Shibayama, Zen Comments on the Mumonkan, trans. Sumiko Kudo (New York:
Harper £r Row, 1974; paperback edition, New York: New American Library,
1975). Other translations are Nyogen Senzaki and Paul Reps, "The
Gateless Gate," in Paul Reps, ed., Zen Flesh, Zen Bones (Rutland and
Tokyo: Tuttle, 1957); Sohkau Ogata, "The Mu Mon Kwan," in Zen for the
West (New York: Dial, 1959); and R. H. Blyth, Zen and Zen Classics,
Vol. 4, "Mumonkan" (Tokyo: Hokuseido, 1966).

Three translations of the Blue Cliff Record are currently available in
English. There is the early and unsatisfactory version by R. D. M. Shaw
(London: Michael Joseph, 1961). A readable version is provided in
Sekida, Two Zen Classics, although this excludes some of the
traditional commentary. The authoritative version is certainly that by
Cleary and Cleary, Blue Cliff Record.

9.	This is the case with the version provided in Sekida, Two Zen
Classics.

10.	See Dumoulin, History of Zen Buddhism, p. 128.

11.	See L. Carrington Goodrich, A Short History of the Chinese People
(New York: Harper & Row, 1943), p. 161.

12.	The most comprehensive collection of Ta-hui's writings is translated
in Christopher Cleary, Swampland Flowers: The Letters and Lectures of
Zen Master Ta Hui (New York: Grove Press, 1977). Excerpts are also
translated by Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism, Second Series.
Biographical information may also be found in Isshu and Sasaki, Zen
Dust.

13.	Translated in Isshu and Sasaki, Zen Dust, p. 163.

14.	A work known today as the Cheng-fa-yen-tsang. See Isshu and Sasaki,
Zen Dust, p. 163.

15.	See Ibid.

16.	See Ibid.

17.	Translated by Cleary, Swampland Flowers, pp. 129-30.

18.	See Sekida, Two Zen Classics, p. 17.

19.	Suzuki, Essays in Zen Buddhism, Second Series, p. 103.

20.	Cleary, Swampland Flowers, p. 64.

21.	Ibid., p. 57.

22.	Ibid., p. 14.

25.	But he destroyed them in vain. Around 1300 a monk managed to
assemble most of the koans and commentary from scattered sources and
put the book back into print. The problem continues to this day; there
is now available a book of "answers" to a number of koans--Yoel Hoffman,
The Sound of One Hand Clapping (New York: Basic Books, 1975). One
reviewer of this book observed sadly, "Now if only getting the 'answer'
were the same as getting the point."
26.



15. EISAI: THE FIRST JAPANESE MASTER



1.	This anecdote is in Martin Charles Collcutt, "The Zen Monastic
Institution in Medieval Japan" (Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University,
1975).

2.	Although there were various attempts to introduce Ch'an into Japan
prior to the twelfth century, nothing ever seemed to stick. Dumoulin
(History of Zen Buddhism, pp. 138-39) summarized these efforts as
follows: "The first certain information we possess regarding Zen in
Japan goes back to the early period of her history. The outstanding
Japanese Buddhist monk during that age, Dosho, was attracted to Zen
through the influence of his Chinese teacher, Hsuan-tsang, under whom
he studied the Yogacara philosophy (653). . . . Dosho thus came into
immediate contact with the tradition of Bodhidharma and brought the Zen
of the patriarchs to Japan. He built the first meditation hall, at a
temple in Nara. . . .

"A century later, for the first time in history, a Chinese Zen master
came to Japan. This was Tao-hsuan, who belonged to the northern sect of
Chinese Zen in the third generation after Shen-hsiu. Responding to an
invitation from Japanese Buddhist monks, he took up residence in Nara
and contributed to the growth of Japanese culture during the Tempyo
period (729-749). . . . The contemplative element in the Tendai
tradition, which held an important place from the beginning, was
strengthened in both China and Japan by repeated contacts with Zen.

"A further step in the spread of Zen occurred in the following century
when I-k'ung, a Chinese master of the Lin-chi sect, visited Japan. He
came at the invitation of the Empress Tachibana Kachiko, wife of the
Emperor Saga, during the early part of the Showa era (834-848), to
teach Zen, first at the imperial court and later at the Danrinji temple
in Kyoto, which the empress had built for him. However, these first
efforts in the systematic propagation of Zen according to the Chinese
pattern did not meet with lasting success. I-k'ung was unable to launch
a vigorous movement. Disappointed, he returned to China, and for three
centuries Zen was inactive in Japan."

Another opportunity for the Japanese to learn about Ch'an was missed by
the famous Japanese pilgrim Ennin, who was in China to witness the
Great Persecution of 845, but who paid almost no attention to Ch'an,
which he regarded as the obsession of unruly ne'er-do-wells.

3.	A number of books provide information concerning early Japanese
history and the circumstances surrounding the introduction of Buddhism
to Japan. General historical works of particular relevance include:
John Whitney Hall, Japan, from Prehistory to Modern Times (New York:
Delacorte, 1970); Mikiso Hane, Japan, A Historical Survey (New York:
Scribner's, 1972); Edwin O. Reischauer, Japan: Past and Present, 3rd
ed. (New York: Knopf, 1964); and George B. Sansom, A History of Japan,
3 vols. (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1958-63).

Studies of early Japanese Buddhism may be found in: Masaharu Anesaki,
History of Japanese Religion (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner,
1930: reissue, Rutland, Vt.: Tuttle, 1963); William K. Bunce, Religions
in Japan (Rutland, Vt.: Tuttle, 1955); Ch'en, Buddhism in China; Eliot,
Japanese Buddhism; Shinsho Hanayama, A History of Japanese Buddhism
(Tokyo: Bukkyo Dendo Kyokai, 1966); and E. Dale Saunders, Buddhism in
Japan (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1964).

4.	In fact, the popularity of esoteric rituals was such that they were
an important part of early Zen practice in Japan.

5.	This world is well described by Ivan Morris in The World of the
Shining Prince: Court Life in Ancient Japan (New York: Knopf, 1964). A
discussion of the relation of this aesthetic life to the formation of
Japanese Zen may be found in Thomas Hoover, Zen Culture (New York:
Random House, 1977; paperback edition, New York: Vintage, 1978).

6.	One of the most readable accounts of the rise of the Japanese
military class may be found in Paul Varley, Samurai (New York:
Delacorte, 1970; paperback edition, New York: Dell, 1972).

7.	This theory is advanced eloquently in Collcutt, "Zen Monastic
Institution in Medieval Japan." In later years the Ch'an sect in China
itself actually entered a phase of decadence, with the inclusion of
esoteric rites and an ecumenical movement that advocated the chanting
of the nembutsu by Ch'anists--some of whom claimed there was great
similarity between the psychological aspects of this mechanical chant
and those of the koan.

8.	Accounts of Eisai's life may be found in Dumoulin, History of Zen
Buddhism; and in Collcutt, "Zen Monastic Institution in Medieval
Japan."

9.	See Collcutt, "Zen Monastic Institution in Medieval Japan."

10.	See Saunders, Buddhism in Japan, p. 221.

11.	Translated in Wm. Theodore de Bary, ed. Sources of Japanese
Tradition, Vol. 1 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958), pp. 236-
37.

12.	Ibid., p. 237.

13.	De Bary, Sources of Japanese Tradition, pp. 239-40.

14.	Again the best discussion of this intrigue is provided by Collcutt,
"Zen Monastic Institution in Medieval Japan."
15.
16.	Varley, Samurai, p. 45.
17.


17.	DOGEN: FATHER OF JAPANESE SOTO ZEN
18.


1.	Dumoulin, History of Zen Buddhism, p. 151. This statement may be
faint praise, for Japan has never been especially noted for its
religious thinkers. As philosophers, the Japanese have been great
artists and poets. Perhaps no culture can do everything.

2.	Biographical information on Dogen may be found in Hee-Jin Kim, Dogen
Kigen--Mystical Realist (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1975);
Yuho Yokoi, Zen Master Dogen (New York: Weatherhill, 1976); and
Dumoulin, History of Zen Buddhism. Translations of his writings maybe
found in Dogen Kigen--Mystical Realist and Zen Master Dogen as well as
in Jiyu Kennett, Zen is Eternal Life (Emeryville, Calif.: Dharma,
1976); Dogen, Record of Things Heard from the Treasury of the Eye of
the True Teaching trans, by Thomas Cleary (Boulder, Colo.: Great
Eastern Book Company, 1978); Francis Dojun Cook, How to Raise an Ox
(Los Angeles: Center Publications, 1978); and Kosen Nishiyama and John
Steven, Shobogenzo: The Eye and Treasury of the True Law (New York:
Weatherhill, 1977).

3.	Kim, Dogen Kigen--Mystical Realist, p. 25.

4.	Yokoi, Zen Master Dogen, p. 28.

5.	See Collcutt, "Zen Monastic Institution in Medieval Japan."

6.	Kim, Dogen Kigen--Mystical Realist, p. 29.

7.	Ibid., p. 35.

8.	See Yokoi, Zen Master Dogen, p. 32.

9.	Ibid., pp. 45--46.

10.	Ibid., p. 46.

11.	Kennett, Zen Is Eternal Life, pp. 141-42.

12.	Ibid., p. 152.

13.	Ibid., pp. 150-51.

14.	Dogen's attitude toward women was revolutionary for his time. A
sampling is provided in Kim, Dogen Kigen--Mystical Realist, pp. 54-55:
"Some people, foolish in the extreme, also think of woman as nothing
but the object of sensual pleasures, and see her this way without ever
correcting their view. A Buddhist should not do so. If man detests
woman as the sexual object, she must detest him for the same reason.
Both man and woman become objects, thus being equally involved in
defilement. . . . What charge is there against woman? What virtue is
there in man? There are wicked men in the world; there are virtuous
women in the world. The desire to hear Dharma and the search for
enlightenment do not necessarily rely on the difference in sex."

15.	Yokoi, Zen Master Dogen, pp. 35-36.

16.	See Collcutt, "Zen Monastic Training in Medieval Japan," p. 59.

17.	Translated in de Bary, Sources of Japanese Tradition, Vol. 1., p.
247.

18.	See Collcutt, "Zen Monastic Institution in Medieval Japan," p. 62.

19.	See Ibid., pp. 62 ff.

20.See Philip Yampolsky, trans., The Zen Master Hakuin: Selected
Writings, (New York: Columbia University Press, 1971), p. 5.



19.	IKKYU: ZEN ECCENTRIC
20.


1.	This view is advanced convincingly by Collcutt in "Zen Monastic
Institution in Medieval Japan," p. 113 ff.

2.	Ibid., p. 80.

3.	This would seem to be one of the reasons for what became of a host of
emigrating Ch'an teachers as sub-sects of the Yogi branch struggled for
ascendency over each other.

4.	Wu-an's strength of mind is illustrated by a story related in
Collcutt, "Zen Monastic Institution in Medieval Japan," p. 84: "Wu-an
is said to have shocked the religious sensibilities of many warriors
and monks when, in what has been interpreted as a deliberate attempt to
sever the connection between Zen and prayer in Japanese minds, he
publicly refused to worship before the statue of Jizo in the Buddha
Hill of Kencho-ji on the grounds that whereas Jizo was merely a
Bodhisattva, he, Wu-an, was a Buddha."

5.	Related in Ibid., p. 88.

6.	Collcutt ("Zen Monastic Institution in Medieval Japan," p. 114)
points out that the warrior interest in Zen and its Chinese cultural
trappings should also be credited partly to their desire to stand up to
the snobbery of the Kyoto aristocracy. By making themselves emissaries
of a prestigious foreign civilization, the warrior class achieved a bit
of cultural one-upmanship on the Kyoto snob set.

7.	Collcutt ("Zen Monastic Institution in Medieval Japan," p. 106)
reports that this conversion of temples to Zen was not always
spontaneous. There is the story of one local governor who was called to
Kamakura and in the course of a public assembly asked pointedly whether
his family had yet built a Zen monastery in their home province. The
terrified official declared he had built a monastery for a hundred Zen
monks, and then raced home to start construction.

8.	A discussion of the contribution of Zen to Japanese civilization may
be found in Hoover, Zen Culture. An older survey is D. T. Suzuki, Zen
and Japanese Culture (Princeton, N. J.: Princeton University Press,
1959).

9.	Yampolsky, Zen Master Hakuin, p. 8.

10.	Philip Yampolsky, "Muromachi Zen and the Gozan System," in John W.
Hall and Toyoda Takeshi, eds., Japan in the Muromachi Age (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1977), p. 319.

11.	One of the best political histories of this era is Sansom, History
of Japan. For the history of Zen, the best work appears to be Martin
Collcutt, The Zen Monastic Institution in Medieval Japan (Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, in press), a revised version of the
dissertation cited above.

12.	English sources on Ikkyu are less common than might at first be
supposed. The most exhaustive study and translation of original Ikkyu
writings to date is certainly that of James Sanford, "Zen-Man Ikkyu"
(Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University, 1972). There is also a lively
and characteristically insightful essay by Donald Keene, "The Portrait
of Ikkyu," in Archives of Asian Art, Vol. 20 (1966-67), pp. 54-65. This
essay has been collected in Donald Keene, Landscapes and Portraits
(Palo Alto: Kodansha International, 1971). Another work of Ikkyu
scholarship is Sonja Arntzen, "A Presentation of the Poet Ikkyu with
Translations from the Kyounshu 'Mad Cloud Anthology'" (Unpublished
thesis, University of British Columbia, Vancouver, 1966).

13.	See Thomas Cleary, The Original Face: An Anthology of Rinzai Zen
(New York: Grove Press, 1978), p. 13. An example of a Nasrudin-esque
parable told about Ikkyu is the story of his approaching the house of a
rich man one day to beg for food wearing his torn robes and straw
sandals. The man drove him away, but when he returned the following day
in the luxurious robe of a Buddhist prelate, he was invited in for a
banquet. But when the food arrived Ikkyu removed his robe and offered
the food to it.

14.	Sanford, "Zen-Man Ikkyu," p. 48.

15.	Ibid., p. 68.

16.	Ibid. pp. 80-81.

17. Translated by Keene, Landscapes and Portraits, p. 235. Professor
Keene (personal communication) has provided a revised and, he believes,
more fully accurate translation of this verse as follows:

After ten days of living in this temple my mind's in turmoil;

Red strings, very long, tug at my feet.

If one day you get around to looking for me,

Try the restaurants, the drinking places or the brothels.



He notes that the "red strings" of the second line refer to the ties of
physical attachment to women that drew Ikkyu from the temple to the
pleasure quarters.

18.	Jon Covell and Yamada Sobin, Zen at Daitoku-ji (New York: Kodansha
International, 1974), p. 36.

19.	Sanford, "Zen-Man Ikkyu," p. 221.

20.	Ibid., p. 226.

21.	Ibid., p. 235.

22.	Ibid., p. 225.

23.	Ibid., pp. 253-54. A translation may also be found in Cleary,
Original Face; and in R. H. Blyth and N. A. Waddell, "Ikkyu's
Skeletons," The Eastern Buddhist, N.S. 7, 3 (May 1973), pp. 111-25.
Also see Blyth, Zen and Zen Classics, Vol. 7.

24.	Sanford claims ("Zen-Man Ikkyu," p. 341) that Ikkyu's prose is
"almost totally unknown" in Japan.

25.	Ibid., pp. 326-27.

26.	Ibid., p. 172.

27.	Jan Covell (Zen at Daitoku-ji, p. 38) says, "Ikkyu's own ink
paintings are unpretentious and seemingly artless, always with the
flung-ink technique. His calligraphy is ranked among history's greatest
. . ."

32.	Sanford, "Zen-Man Ikkyu," p. 342.
33.


21.	HAKUIN: JAPANESE MASTER OF THE KOAN
22.


1.	Yampolsky, Zen Master Hakuin, p. 116. This is undoubtedly the
definitive work by and about Hakuin in English and has been used for
all the quotations that follow. Another translation of some of Hakuin's
works is R. D. M. Shaw, The Embossed Teakettle (London: George Allen &
Unwin, 1963). A short translation of Hakuin's writings may be found in
Cleary, Original Face. Perhaps the most incisive biographical and
interpretive material may be found, respectively, in Dumoulin, History
of Zen Buddhism; and Isshu and Sasaki, Zen Dust.

2.	Yampolsky, Zen Master Hakuin, p. 117.

3.	Ibid., p. 18.

4.	Ibid., pp. 118-19.

5.	Ibid., p. 119.

6.	Ibid., p. 121.

7.	Ibid., pp. 31-32.

8.	Ibid., p. 33.

9.	Ibid., p. 49.

10.	Ibid., p. 33.

11.	Ibid., pp. 52-53.

12.	Ibid., p. 53.

13.	Ibid., p. 58.

14.	Ibid.

15.	Ibid., p. 35.

16.	Ibid., pp. 63-64.

17.	The "great ball of doubt," known in Chinese as i-t'uan, was a
classic Zen phrase and has been traced by Ruth Fuller Sasaki (Zen Dust,
p. 247) back to a tenth-century Chinese monk, who claimed in a poem,
"The ball of doubt within my heart/Was as big as a big wicker basket."
Hakuin's analysis of the "great ball of doubt" is translated in Zen
Dust, p. 43.

18.	Hakuin's invention of his own koans, which were kept secret and
never published, is a significant departure from the usual technique of
simply taking situations from the classic literature, and demonstrates
both his creativity and his intellectual independence. It also raises
the question of whether they really were "koans" under the traditional
definition of "public case" or whether they should be given a different
name.

19.	Yampolsky, Zen Master Hakuin, p. 164.

20.	The koan system of Hakuin is discussed by Yampolsky in Zen Master
Hakuin, p. 15; and by Sasaki, in The Zen Koan, pp. 27-30.

21.	Yampolsky, Zen Master Hakuin, p. 32.

22.	See D. T. Suzuki, Sengai: The Zen Master (Greenwich, Conn.: New York
Graphic Society, 1971); Burton Watson, Ryokan: Zen Monk-Poet of Japan
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1977); and John Stevens, One
Robe, One Bowl: The Zen Poetry of Ryokan (New York: Weatherhill, 1977).



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