Essays in Zen Buddhism · 37 of 66

Satori: The Revelation of a New Truth, Part 3

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

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

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

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

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

Hyakujo (Pai-chang Huai-hai, 724–814) one day went out attending his master Baso (Ma-tsu). A flock of wild geese was seen flying and Baso asked

“What are they?”

“They are wild geese, sir.”

“Whither are they flying?”

“They have flown away, sir.”

Baso abruptly taking hold of Hyakujo’s nose gave it a twist. Overcome with pain, Hyakujo cried aloud, “Oh! Oh!”

“You say they have flown away,” Baso said, “but all the same they have been here from the very beginning.”

This made Hyakujo’s back wet with cold perspiration. He had satori.

Is there any connection in any possible way between the washing of the dishes and the blowing out of a candle and the twisting of the nose? We must say with Ummon: If there is none, how could they all come to the realisation of the truth of Zen? If there is, what inner relationship is there? What is this satori? What a new point of viewing things is this? So long as our observation is limited to those conditions which preceded the opening of a disciple’s eye we cannot perhaps fully comprehend where lies the ultimate issue. They are matters of everyday occurrence, and if Zen lies objectively among them, every one of us is a master before we are told of it. This is partly true inasmuch as there is nothing artificially constructed in Zen, but if the nose is to be really twisted or the candle blown out in order to take the scale off the eye, our attention must be directed inwardly to the working of our minds, and it will be there where we are to take hold of the hidden relation existing between the flying geese and the washed dishes and the blown out candle and any other happenings that weave out infinitely variegated patterns of human life.

Under Daiye (Tai-hui, 1089–1163), the great Zen teacher of the Sung dynasty, there was a monk named Dōken (Tao-ch‘ien) who had spent many years in the study of Zen, but who had not yet delved into its secrets if there were any. He was discouraged when he was sent on an errand to a distant city. A trip requiring half a year to finish would surely be a hindrance rather than a help to his study. Sogen (Tsung-yüan), one of his fellow-monks, took pity on him and said, “I will accompany you on this trip and do all that I can for you. There is no reason why you cannot go on with your meditation even while travelling.” They started together. One evening Dōken despairingly implored his friend to assist him in the solution of the mystery of life. The friend said, “I am willing to help you in every way, but there are five things in which I cannot be of any help to you. These you must look after yourself.” Dōken expressed the desire to know what they were. “For instance,” said the friend, “when you are hungry or thirsty, my eating of food or drinking does not fill your stomach. You must drink and eat yourself. When you want to respond to the calls of nature, you must take care of them yourself, for I cannot be of any use to you. And then it will be nobody else but yourself that will carry this corpse of yours [i.e., the body] along this highway.” This remark at once opened the mind of the truth-seeking monk, who, so transported with his discovery, did not know how to express his joy. Gen now told him that his work was done and that his further companionship would have no meaning after this. So they parted company and Dōken was left alone to continue the trip. After the half-year Dōken came back to his own monastery. Daiye, his teacher, happened to meet him on his way down the mountain, and made the following remark, “This time he knows it all.” What was it, one may remark, that flashed through Dōken’s mind when his friend gave him a most matter-of-fact advice?

Kyōgen (Hsian-yen) was a disciple of Hyakujo. After the master’s death he went to Yisan (Wei-shan, 771–853) who was a senior disciple of Hyakujo. Yisan asked him, “I am told that you have been under my late master Hyakujo, and also that you have remarkable intelligence; but the understanding of Zen through this medium necessarily ends in intellectual and analytical comprehension, which is not of much use. Yet you may have had an insight into the truth of Zen. Let me have your view as to the reason of birth and death, that is, as to your own being before your parents gave birth to you.”

Thus asked, Kyōgen did not know how to reply. He retired into his own room and assiduously made research among his notes which he had taken of the sermons given by his late master. He failed to come across a suitable passage he might present as his own view. He returned to Yisan and implored him to teach in the faith of Zen. But Yisan said, “I really have nothing to impart to you, and if I tried to do so, you may have occasion to make me an object of ridicule later on. Besides, whatever I can instruct you is my own and will never be yours.” Kyōgen was disappointed and considered his senior disciple unkind. Finally he came to the decision to burn up all his notes and memorandums which were of no help to his spiritual welfare, and, retiring altogether from the world, to spend the rest of his life in solitude and simplicity in accordance with the Buddhist rules. He reasoned, “What is the use of studying Buddhism, so difficult to comprehend and too subtle to receive instructions from another? I shall be a plain homeless monk, troubled with no desire to master things too deep for thought.” He left Yisan and built a hut near the tomb of Chu (Hui-chung), the National Master, at Nan-yang. One day he was weeding and sweeping the ground, and when a piece of rock brushed away struck a bamboo, the sound produced by the percussion unexpectedly elevated his mind to a state of satori. The question proposed by Yisan became transparent; his joy was boundless, he felt as if meeting again his lost parent. Besides he came to realise the kindness of his abandoned senior brother monk who refused him instruction. For he now knew that this would not have happened to him if Yisan had been unkind enough to explain things for him.

Below is the verse he composed soon after his achievement from which we may get an idea of his satori.

“One stroke has made me forget all my previous knowledge, No artificial discipline is at all needed; In every movement I uphold the ancient way, And never fall into the rut of mere quietism; Wherever I walk no traces are left, And my senses are not fettered by rules of conduct; Everywhere those who have attained to the truth, All declare this to be of the highest order.”