The writings of Zen Master Dogen, the thirteenth-century founder of Soto Zen Buddhism in Japan, are familiar to serious Zen students. The first fascicle in his epic work, the Shobogenzo, concludes with the story of a Chinese Zen teacher instructing his student:
One day when Zen Master Baoche was fanning himself, a monk approached and asked, “The nature of the wind never changes and blows everywhere, so why are you using a fan?”
The master replied, “Although you know that the nature of the wind never changes, you do not know the meaning of blowing everywhere.”
The monk then said, “Well, what does it mean?”
Baoche did not speak, but only continued to fan himself.
Finally, the monk understood and bowed deeply.4
On a recent Saturday, we held a daylong meditation retreat under ideal conditions at Kannon Do. The warm, bright weather could not have been more accommodating. We kept the doors open, allowing the gentle sounds of leaves blowing in the courtyard to enter the meditation hall. One could feel the breeze of zazen dispersing all boundaries and distractions. Although the mind creates boundaries to give us a sense of certainty and even importance, they are finite containers imposed on an infinite universe.
Mental boundaries are comfort zones amidst the ambiguity of constant change. But these comforts are artificial; they cannot provide lasting freedom or happiness. We feel compelled to defend these notions, leading to anxiety and doubt. Zazen practice helps us dissolve unwarranted, imposed boundaries and categorizations to find freedom in a world of no boundaries. This is the point Master Baoche was making.
Spirituality pervades the cosmos, just as an aroma awakens recognition of what is nearby but out of sight. Spirituality cannot be measured, photographed, or recorded. It’s not exciting, it just is. The spiritual dimension is neither objective, rational, nor material; it is beyond form, thought, ambitions, concerns, discriminations, success, or failure. As it has no boundaries, it cannot be grasped or contained, and this can create discomfort. We prefer to stick with what’s comfortable or exciting, what we can grasp with our mind. But when the subtle scent persists, when the continuous spiritual breezes enter through open doors, they guide our life and understanding.
After we taste this spiritual dimension, how can we express it, live it, in everyday life? Our stories are important. How did we behave at work or at home or in the line at the supermarket? Stories remind us how to express our spiritual practice, how to maintain good relationships, how to relieve our anxieties, and how to avoid creating problems for others. But beyond the stories, how do we keep in mind that the perceived dichotomy between spiritual and ordinary is a false one? When we separate the two, we lose the wisdom of our spiritual self. The spiritual and the ordinary cannot be separated, but we live as though they are.
Why did Baoche fan himself? Because the answer to the monk’s question cannot be found in explanations; how could a verbal response express the nature of wind, or the nature of our essential self? Baoche’s silent gesture reminds us that we can be like the flowing breeze, unimpeded by fears, thoughts, or concepts—the activities of mind.