Essays in Zen Buddhism · 41 of 66

Satori: The Revelation of a New Truth, Part 7

When our consideration is limited to the objective side of satori as illustrated so far, it does not appear to be a very extraordinary thing—this opening an eye to the truth of Zen. The master makes some remarks, and if they happen to be opportune enough, the disciple will come at once to a realisation and see into a mystery hitherto undreamed of. It seems all to depend upon what kind of mood or what state of mental preparedness one is in at the moment. Zen is after all a haphazard affair, one may be tempted to think. But when we know that it took Nangaku (Nan-yüeh) eight long years to answer the question, “Who is he that thus cometh towards me?” we shall realise the fact that there was in him a great deal of mental anguish and tribulation which he had to go through with before he could come to the final solution and declare, “Even when one asserts that it is a somewhat, one misses it altogether.” We must try to look into the psychological aspect of satori, where is revealed the inner mechanism of opening the door to the eternal secrets of the human soul. This is done best by quoting some of the masters themselves whose introspective statements are on record.

Kōhō (Kao-fêng, 1238–1285) was one of the great masters in the latter part of the Sung dynasty. When his master first let him attend to the “Jōshu’s Mu,” he exerted himself hard on the problem. One day his master, Setsugan (Hsüeh-yen), suddenly asked him, “Who is it that carries for you this lifeless corpse of yours?” The poor fellow did not know what to make of the question; for the master was merciless and it was usually followed by a hard knocking down. Later in the midst of his sleep one night he recalled the fact that once when he was under another master he was told to find out the ultimate signification of the statement, “All things return to one”; and this kept him up the rest of that night and through the several days and nights that succeeded. While in this state of an extreme mental tension, he found himself one day looking at Goso Hoyen’s verse on his own portrait, which partly read,

“One hundred years—thirty-six thousand morns, This same old fellow moveth on for ever!”

This at once made him dissolve his eternal doubt as to “Who’s carrying around this lifeless body of yours?” He was baptised and became an altogether new man.

He leaves us in his “Goroku,” (Sayings Recorded) an account of those days of the mental strain in the following narrative: “In olden days when I was at Sōkei (Shuang-ching), and before one month was over after my return to the Meditation Hall there, one night while deep in sleep I suddenly found myself fixing my attention on the question: ‘All things return to the One, but where does this One return?’ My attention was so rigidly fixed on this that I neglected sleeping, forgot to eat, and did not distinguish east from west, nor morning from night. While spreading the napkin, producing the bowls, or attending to my natural wants, whether I moved or rested, whether I talked or kept silent, my whole existence was wrapt up with the question, ‘Where does this one return?’ No other thoughts ever disturbed my consciousness; no, even if I wanted to stir up the least bit of thought irrelevant to the central one, I could not do so. It was like being screwed up or glued; however much I tried to shake myself off, it refused to move. Though I was in the midst of a crowd or congregation I felt as if I were all by myself. From morning till evening, from evening till morning, so transparent, so tranquil, so majestically above all things were my feelings! Absolutely pure and not a particle of dust! My one thought covered eternity; so calm was the outside world, so oblivious of the existence of other people I was. Like an idiot, like an imbecile, six days and nights thus elapsed when I entered the Shrine with the rest, reciting the Sutras, and happened to raise my head and looked at the verse by Goso. This made me all of a sudden awake from the spell, and the meaning of ‘Who carries this lifeless corpse of yours?’ burst upon me,—the question once given by my old master. I felt as if this boundless space itself were broken up into pieces, and the great earth were altogether levelled away. I forgot myself, I forgot the world, it was like one mirror reflecting another. I tried several kō-an in my mind and found them so transparently clear! I was no more deceived as to the wonderful working of Prajñā (transcendental wisdom).” When Kōho saw his old master later, the latter lost no time in asking him, “Who is it that carries this lifeless corpse of yours?” Kōho burst out a “Kwats!” Thereupon the master took up a stick ready to give him a blow, but the disciple held it back saying, “You cannot give me a blow to-day.” “Why can’t I?” was the master’s demand. Instead of replying to him, however, Kōho left the room briskly. The following day the master asked him. “All things return to the One, and where does the One return to?” “The dog is lapping the boiling water in the cauldron.” “Where did you get this nonsense?” reprimanded the master. “You had better ask yourself,” promptly came the response. The master rested well satisfied.

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Hakuin (1683–1768) is another of those masters who have put down their first Zen experience in writing, and we read in his book entitled Orategama the following account: “When I was twenty-four years old, I stayed at the Yegan Monastery, of Echigo. [“Joshu’s Mu” being my theme at the time] I assiduously applied myself to it. I did not sleep days and nights, forgot both eating and lying down, when quite abruptly a great mental fixation (tai-i) took place. I felt as if freezing in an ice-field extending thousands of miles, and within myself there was a sense of utmost transparency. There was no going forward, no slipping backward; I was like an idiot, like an imbecile, and there was nothing but ‘Jōshu’s Mu.’ Though I attended the lectures by the master, they sounded like a discussion going on somewhere in a distant hall, many yards away. Sometimes my sensation was that of one flying in the air. Several days passed in this state, when one evening a temple-bell struck which upset the whole thing. It was like smashing an ice-basin, or pulling down a house made of jade. When I suddenly awoke again, I found that I myself was Ganto (Yen-t‘ou) the old master, and that all through the shifting changes of time not a bit [of my personality] was lost. Whatever doubts and indecisions I had before were completely dissolved like a piece of thawing ice. I called out loudly, ‘How wondrous! how wondrous!; There is no birth-and-death from which one has to escape, nor is there any supreme knowledge (Bodhi) after which one has to strive. All the complications past and present, numbering one thousand seven hundred are not worth the trouble of even describing them.’”

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The case of Bukko (Fo-kuang) the National Teacher was more extraordinary than that of Hakuin, and fortunately in this case, too, we have his own recording of it in detail. “When I was fourteen,” writes Bukko, “I went up to Kinzan. When seventeen I made up my mind to study Buddhism and began to unravel the mysteries of ‘Jōshu’s Mu.’ I expected to finish the matter within one year, but I did not come to any understanding of it after all. Another year passed without much avail, and three more years, also finding myself with no progress. In the fifth or sixth year, while no special change came over me, the ‘Mu’ became so inseparably attached to me that I could not get away from it even while asleep. This whole universe seemed to be nothing but the ‘Mu’ itself. In the meantime I was told by an old monk to set it aside for a while and see how things would go with me. According to this advice, I dropped the matter altogether and sat quietly. But owing to the fact that the ‘Mu’ had been with me so long, I could in no way shake it off however much I tried. When I was sitting, I forgot that I was sitting; nor was I conscious of my own body. Nothing but a sense of utter blankness prevailed. Half a year thus passed. Like a bird escaped from its cage, my mind, my consciousness moved about [without restraint] sometimes eastward, sometimes westward, sometimes northward or southward. Sitting through two days in succession, or through one day and night I did not feel any fatigue.

“At the time there were about nine hundred monks residing in the monastery, among whom there were many devoted students of Zen. One day while sitting, I felt as if my mind and my body were separated from each other and lost the chance of getting back together. All the monks about me thought that I was quite dead, but an old monk among them said that I was frozen to a state of immovability while absorbed in deep meditation, and that if I were covered up with warm clothings, I should by myself come to my senses. This proved true, for I finally awoke from it; and when I asked the monks near my seat how long I had been in that condition, they told me it was one day and night.

“After this, I still kept up my practice of sitting. I could now sleep a little. When I closed my eyes, a broad expanse of emptiness presented itself before them, which then assumed the form of a farmyard. Through this piece of land I walked and walked until I got thoroughly familiar with the ground. But as soon as my eyes were opened, the vision altogether disappeared. One night sitting far into the night I kept my eyes open and was aware of my sitting up in my seat. All of a sudden the sound of striking the board in front of the head-monk’s room reached my ear, which at once revealed me the ‘original man’ in full. There was then no more of that vision which appeared at the closing of my eyes. Hastily I came down from the seat and ran out into the moonlit night and went up to the garden house called Ganki, where looking up to the sky I laughed loudly, ‘Oh, how great is the Dharmakāya! Oh, how great and immense for evermore!’

“Thence my joy knew no bounds. I could not quietly sit in the Meditation Hall; I went about with no special purpose in the mountains walking this way and that. I thought of the sun and the moon traversing in a day through a space 4,000,000,000 miles wide. ‘My present abode is in China,’ I reflected then, ‘And they say the district of Yang is the centre of the earth. If so, this place must be 2,000,000,000 miles away from where the sun rises; and how is it that as soon as it comes up, its rays lose no time in striking my face?’ I reflected again, ‘The rays of my own eye must travel just as instantaneously as those of the sun as it reaches the latter; my eyes, my mind, are they not the Dharmakāya itself?’ Thinking thus, I felt all the bounds snapped and broken to pieces that had been tying me for so many ages. How many numberless years had I been sitting in the hole of ants! To-day even in every pore of my skin there lie all the Buddha-lands in the ten quarters! I thought within myself, ‘Even if I have no greater satori, I am now all sufficient unto myself.’”

Here is the stanza composed by Bukko at the great moment of satori, describing his inner feelings:

“With one stroke I have completely smashed the cave of the ghosts; Behold, there rushes out the iron face of the monster Nata! Both my ears are as deaf and my tongue is tied; If thou touchest it idly, the fiery star shoots out!”