WE HAVE SPOKEN RATHER EASILY in this book of the zero level of consciousness, though it is admittedly no easy matter for the beginner to reach this state. There, exhalation is almost stopped, and after a long silence a faint breath stealthily escapes, and then a slight inhalation occurs. Here we encounter the purest form of existence.
Traditionally it is called Original Nature or Buddha Nature. It is the hushed silence of the snowclad Himalayas. Or it can be likened to the eternal silence of the fathomless depths of the sea.
There is a koan that runs, “Pick up the silent rock from the depths of the sea and, without getting your sleeves wet, bring it up to me.”
The silent rock is yourself. You are asked to pick yourself up from the depths of the sea. But first you will have to find yourself at the bottom of the sea, where eternal silence reigns, with no time, space, or causation and no difference between yourself and others.
“Isn’t such a state of being all but death?” you may ask. “Like the state of a patient in critical condition, or like an idiot who has human form but not human faculties?” No, not at all! The condition of being all but dead that occurs in the depths of samadhi is a great thing. There you can discover your true nature.
The activity of consciousness, contrary to expectation, conceals the real nature of existence and represents it in a distorted way. First you have to go through absolute samadhi, where the activity of consciousness is reduced to zero level, and where you can vividly see existence in its nakedness. After experiencing this, you once again come back into the world of the ordinary activity of consciousness, and at that moment, consciousness will be found to be brilliantly illuminating. This is positive samadhi.
There is a line in the sutras, “The lotus flower in the midst of the flames.” Imagine a living lotus flower, with petals like diamonds, emitting the serene light of Nirvana in the midst of incandescent flames.
You can never experience this brilliant state of consciousness until the delusive way of thinking has fallen off in absolute samadhi.
The existence of an animal may seem to be mere living. The plant may live in the same way, at a more primitive level. Yet look at the flowers, with their individual beauty, color, and form. Or see the graceful feathers of the bird, or the splendid color and design on the back of the insect now perching on the rail of the porch. Such colors and designs cannot be found in the most highly developed human art. The flexible, elegant limbs of an animal, the cells of the organisms we see under a microscope, the crystal structure of minerals — all these exquisite formations make us stare in wonder: what made them as they are?
To say their beauty is simply the product of our thought is ludicrous. The flower is beautiful and cannot be otherwise. We appreciate it and cannot fail to do so. A child produces a masterpiece and the adult cannot help admiring it. This is because existence itself is beautiful, and those who look at its forms are moved by their beauty.
We have identified consciousness as the eye of existence. It is deluded only because it is overcast. In absolute samadhi, existence manifests itself in its purest form; in positive samadhi, it displays itself in full bloom.
There is a poem in the Hekigan Roku, the classic Zen book of koans:6
Spring has come round.
A thousand flowers are in their lovely bloom.
For what? For whom?
Among the deep mountains and steep ravines, flowers come out unknown to us, and pass away unnoticed. Existence does not exist for others. It is of itself, for itself, by itself.
The beauty of nature is the manifestation of existence itself.
The blind pushing on of existence, which wanted to recognize itself without being aware of this desire, proved successful when it created human consciousness and thereby obtained its own eye with which to examine itself. Human existence has succeeded in becoming conscious of its own beauty. To this extent it has raised itself to a higher level than can be found in the animal world or in the plant and mineral worlds. This level is rising continuously, and new beauty is now consciously created. This is intentional evolution.
As consciousness develops, however, its problems also become complicated. Not only beauty, but also diseases that have no parallel in the animal kingdom make their appearance in human life: neuroses, schizophrenia, murder, rage, despair. But existence will never collapse. We cannot imagine that what conquered seemingly insurmountable obstacles in the past will ever be frustrated in the future.
Some deplore the present state of the world, regarding the world as being in decline or disintegration, and truly the “global village” may be facing disaster. People of earlier villages were totally annihilated, as in the Great Flood or the ruin of Sodom — and worlds, even solar systems and galaxies, have been pulverized in earlier eons, as the rings of Saturn, the asteroid belt, and cosmic dust in the Milky Way indicate.
While so many people earnestly pursue the cause of domestic and international harmony, and while so many others work to achieve national security and wealth, existence simply pushes on and on. It may be deluded, it may become awakened. Crises and despair are simply phases.
There is a saying, “Time and the hour run through the roughest day.” That it cannot but exist has made existence pass through all sorts of emergencies, and has led to what it is. It must surely pursue the same course in the future.
Those who are afflicted with mental troubles often do not realize that they are suffering from illness. In fact, almost all people are suffering from nervous disorders, and almost all people think of the mind as naturally that way. They never think of a remedy, since they are not aware of the disorder.
Literature is the mirror of the human mind. All the sufferings that are described in books are the results of mental disorders, yet there is no sign that the characters in novels — or their authors — recognize this. Rushing to destruction, being driven by passion to the point of total ruin: all this is admired. Nevertheless, it is a fever of the mind.
People die of mental illnesses, just as they die of physical diseases. Physical diseases are attended by a monitor called the mind. In mental illnesses the monitors themselves are sick. They are deranged, and helplessly lead the way to ultimate destruction.
True freedom of mind consists in not being dragged on by your own mind. To be free in this way comprises true freedom of mind and enables us to exercise genuine free will. Our environment, whatever it may be, is a mere accompaniment. We can achieve true freedom of mind regardless of the environment around us.
SINCE HAMLET SAID, “To be, or not to be — that is the question,” or rather, since humans first appeared on earth, we have questioned the meaning of life. “Where did I come from, and where am I going? What is this life in the world I’ve been given, without being consulted?” These questions have tormented young people and are a primary cause of their disaffection — all because the truth of existence is not recognized.
This being is one’s own being. From itself it has sprung. A simple thing! But in order to realize it, one has once to meet pure existence in the depths of absolute samadhi.
Animals live their lives blindly; they entertain no doubts. Children, too, live their lives wholeheartedly, because they accept the positive nature of existence. Only the adults are uneasy, because they have consciousness, which never feels at ease until it has seen through the secret of its own existence.
To ask what is the meaning of life is to inquire about the aim of life — its objective, its purpose. But think, does the sun shine with an aim? Has the baby come into the world with an aim? Existence only exists. It is impossible for it to be otherwise. Life is for life’s sake, art is for art’s sake, love for love’s sake. A mother loves her baby because she loves it.
The delusive nature of consciousness comes from the fact that it necessarily belongs to the individual ego and serves the ego’s individual needs. It cannot go beyond this individuality; it cannot think apart from the individual ego. This blind attachment of consciousness to the individual ego brings about “topsy-turvy delusive thought,” from which stem (1) the world of opposition between oneself and others, (2) the craving for a constant imperishable ego, (3) the unsuccessful groping for satisfied existence, (4) vain searching for the root of the ego, (5) a sense of life as being confusing, incomprehensible, alien, or even dreadful, and (6) eventual dejection and the pervading feeling of “thrownness” (to use a favorite term of Heidegger’s): unease and dissatisfaction.7
The secret of all this bewilderment lies in the failure to grasp the secret of existence.
Each of us has our own world of individual ego set against the outer world. The world of A’s ego is incorporated into B’s outer environment, and vice versa. C contains A and B in C’s environmental circle. It is the same with D, E, F, and all the rest. Each of us has our own world of ego and environment, different from that of all others.
Emotional conflict and opposition of views and interests are therefore unavoidable, and alienation results. This is inevitable as long as human existence is divided into individual beings. Even Buddha, the successive patriarchs, and all Zen teachers are not exceptions to this.
Mature Zen students, however, hold existence embodied in themselves, and through the cultivation of Buddhahood come to realize the vacancy of the individual ego. They maintain themselves apart from the world of opposition and bring about its ultimate collapse, while those who remain confined in the world of opposition necessarily discriminate between themselves and others, and between themselves and the world, in every thought and action.
A baby understands the outer world only from its own situation, through its sensations. However, as it grows up and its intellect develops, it can, in imagination, place itself in other positions and observe things from different viewpoints. In other words, it can decentralize its imaginative perceptions.
As children continue to grow up, they also develop the faculty of coping psychologically with far more complicated matters. They become able, in imagination, to change the relationship of their ego to all kinds of different states of affairs. They decentralize their egocentric views, both emotionally and intellectually.
As we mature, we put ourselves in the place of others and feel their sufferings. We delight with others, and grieve with them. We can experience others’ sufferings as our own. We can fuse our existence with that of others.
This ability appears quite early on, in our relationship with our mother and with the rest of our family, and it shows itself later on in our relationships with our lovers and spouses. In the highly developed mind, this fusion can be extended to relations with friends and even with strangers. Such spiritual understanding can be called a kind of humanism. It has only a weak foundation, however, if it lacks the perfect realization of existence. Zen takes this foundation to be the beginning of everything. All conduct is based on this foundation.
Most of us are equipped with what we call the delusive way of consciousness. Decentralization is rare; most of us are centered completely within our own egos, making use of others and of everything else in the world in the “context of equipment,” to use Heidegger’s phrase.
For most of us, consciousness is the watchdog of an egocentric individual being, while Zen understands a being as it is, and not as equipment: mountains as mountains, rivers as rivers, the rose beautiful as a rose, the flower of the weed beautiful as the flower of a weed, an ugly duckling as an ugly duckling.
If only you can realize the existence in an ugly duckling, you will find the ugliness suddenly turns, to your surprise, into illuminating beauty. Zen finds brilliant exemplification of existence in criminals, derelicts, and all of the rest of us. It recognizes existence in the animal, the plant, the stone. Zen declares that matter and mind are one. It accepts things as they are.
We find in the drawings of Zen masters many objects and appliances: the sickle, raincoat, bamboo hat, earthenware pots, tea utensils, and flower vases. These are not looked upon simply as implements for utilization. The usefulness of each article has the same quality as the mind of the person using it.
When the tea masters take up a tea bowl and touch it to their lips, the bowl is alive. If you look penetratingly into that tea bowl, what an illuminating world of existence you find!
A monk traveled a long way to see Nansen and found him cutting grass by the roadside. He asked, “What is the way to Nansen?”
Nansen answered, “I bought this sickle for thirty cents.”
The monk said, “I do not ask about the sickle, I ask the way to Nansen.”
Nansen answered, “I use it in full enjoyment.”
When this dialogue is presented by a teacher as a koan, if there has been no preliminary discussion about equipment, even a Zen student of considerable maturity may be puzzled as to how to answer. In Zen, “subject” and “use” are important terms: the subjectivity of existence and the use of it. In this koan, this use will eventually be understood by the student.
But what is use, after all? Is it something in the context of equipment? No, never. It is quite a different idea. It is the demonstration of existence. Nansen employed the sickle in the context of such use.
A brief comment on this topic would be easy. The monk asked the way to Nansen. If the original text is rendered word for word it runs, “Nansen way,” which permits two meanings: “the way to Nansen” and “the way of Nansen.” A Zen question often confronts you with the dilemma of two meanings. Whether this monk was conscious of the dilemma, whether he asked Nansen knowing who he was, whether he was a mature Zen student or a novice, is not known, and there is no need to know.
What is important is Nansen’s answer. Let us first deal with Nansen’s last words, “I use it in full enjoyment.” Of course he did not use it merely as equipment; it was also used in the context of the use of Zen. In other words, it was the use of Nansen himself. It was Nansen’s way of daily life — namely, Buddha’s way. When you use a sickle or a hammer or a broom, or when you light a candle before an image of Buddha, if you do it in positive samadhi, it is the use of Buddha Nature. Nansen is the outstanding Zen master who said, “Ordinary mind, that is the way.”
In the Zen monastery, the monks and lay residents work every day, sweeping, washing, cleaning, raking fallen leaves, weeding, tilling, gathering firewood. They are often exhausted by heavy labor. But if you work in a state of positive samadhi, you experience a purification of both body and mind. If you cannot experience this purification, and you find the work to be forced labor, then “thrownness” appears.
Morning, sickle in hand,
Noonday, roaming the forest,
Gathering and binding wood,
Now the evening moon,
Quietly shedding her light On the path I tread.
How one enjoys cutting wood, gathering and binding it, and carrying it on the shoulders, treading the quiet evening path, dimly lit by the crescent moon. How one enjoys every movement of one’s body, just as children enjoy it as they play at keeping house.
“I bought this sickle for thirty cents.” Nansen bought the sickle as a child buys a toy at a toy shop. An adult buys in the context of equipment. This context secretly creeps into the relationship between people under the influence of the delusive way of consciousness. Even in marriage or friendship, the context of equipment will often be found to appear. A distortion of existence arises as a result, from which stem all the difficulties and sufferings of our minds.
But “I use it in full enjoyment” solves the problem. In this samadhi, “thrownness” finds no root to spring up from. You must not understand Nansen’s “use” in the context of the user and the used. It is simply that he is using it in full enjoyment. Babies and children use themselves in samadhi every moment and enjoy every moment of life. They are affirmative in every way. The animal is in an animal-like samadhi; the plant, a plant-like samadhi; the rock, a rocklike samadhi. We find splendid samadhi in the physical world. Gravitation is samadhi itself! Confronted with a giant magnet, we are forced to feel it. Human beings alone have lost sight of samadhi, and of purification as well.
Internal pressure is blind. It often falls into error. However, now that it has acquired an eye to see itself with, it has the ability to correct its faults. It attains the capacity for decentralization to an increasing extent with the development of its intellect. This is the first step toward the correction of the delusive way of consciousness.
We have developed humanism, as well as religious movements, aimed at the fusion of individuals into universal existence. However, as we have said, unless one’s life is based firmly on a consciously confirmed recognition of existence, this decentralization is resting on an insecure foundation. The outcome is imperfect. Zen clearly recognizes pure existence and on this basis carries through a perfect decentralization.
Zen students train themselves earnestly in the first place only for the purpose of experiencing existence. However, when this is achieved — when existence is known — the business has only begun. Only the first step has been taken. An infinitely long further path extends before us. Therefore it is said:
Do you want to see the golden-faced Buddha? Through countless eons, he is ever on the way.8
Life is full of problems, culminating in the inescapable problem of death. Our problems are impossible to solve by mere speculation or reasoning, and so we undertake the practice of zazen, involving as it does many years of tears and sweat. No peace of mind can be obtained unless it is fought for and won with our own body and mind. If once our body and mind have fallen off in absolute samadhi, we are then simply emancipated from the spell of the problems of life and death.
Zen literature abounds in poetical or word-transcending expressions, which may appear to be rather remote from the kind of approach to Zen that we have advocated in this book. Such expressions have come into use because when one wants to demonstrate directly the true nature of existence, one finds that ordinary conceptual description is inadequate.
And then there appears what we could call “language samadhi,” in which the poetical expression of one’s samadhi is understood by those who can place themselves in the same samadhi. We are greatly helped by this language samadhi in reaching Zen secrets.
But in spite of this, we wish to say that it is our intense desire to give a clear and intellectually acceptable demonstration of what has been regarded as a word-transcending secret. We think that this can be done, at least to a certain extent, if we make the fullest use of the achievements of modern culture. It will require the cooperation of many scientists and thinkers, and above all, the appearance of Zen genius. Genius may be a rare natural gift, but if you confine yourself to a single topic, working with a broad mental perspective, and persist in it, you will find yourself a genius.
When consciousness has lost its root, it finds itself floating like a piece of driftwood. Thrownness comes from this rootlessness. Only when consciousness is awakened and firmly grasps its root can it stand securely by itself.
Once Nansen was in a dialogue with a high government official named Rikko Taifu, who had studied with Nansen and reached an advanced understanding of Zen.
Rikko said to Nansen, “Your disciple understands Buddhism a little.”
“How is it during the entire twenty-four hours?” asked Nansen.
“He goes about without even a shred of clothing,” replied Rikko.
Nansen said, “That fellow is still staying outside the hall. He has not realized the Tao.”
“He goes without even a shred of clothing” is now a well-known Zen saying, referring to one who has stripped off all worldly attachments and is rid of topsy-turvy delusive thought. He has nothing. Nansen, however, was not satisfied with Rikko’s reply, and said, “That fellow is still staying outside the hall.” A fellow outside the hall is one who has not yet been granted the privilege of attending the royal court — in other words, the fellow had not yet attained fully the true spirit of Zen.
“Without a shred of clothing” may have been a fresh and original phrase in Rikko’s day. It is used to denote nothingness and emptiness. But if students remain there, thinking that is the ultimate, they fall far short of true Zen attainment. When taught in this way, Rikko must have nodded his head in assent to Nansen’s words. Judging from other descriptions of his behavior, he must have attained that much understanding.
IN ANOTHER STORY from the Hekigan Roku (Case 40), Nansen is in another dialogue Rikko Taifu:
Rikko said, “Jo Hoshi said, ‘Heaven and earth and I are of the same root. All things and I are of the same substance.’ Isn’t that fantastic!”9
Nansen pointed to a flower in the garden and said, “People of these days see this flower as though they were in a dream.”
What does this story mean? In response to Rikko, Nansen said, in effect, “See this flower: it is said that Buddha sees Buddha Nature with his naked eyes. Can you see it?” Rikko was confident of his understanding, but when he looked at the flower he could not see Buddha Nature there, only a peony.
Then Nansen passed his judgment: “People of these days see this flower as though they were in a dream.” There was no denying the difference in ability; Rikko was obliged to bow to Nansen.
Zen texts are sparing of words and express only the essential point. The important point is that Nansen put Zen truth under Rikko’s nose.
Nansen introduced here the problem of cognition. Perhaps this was one of the earliest occasions in the history of Zen in which this problem was taken up so specifically.
Setcho, the author of the Hekigan Roku, comments on this story in a beautiful verse:
Hearing, seeing, touching, and knowing
are not one and one;
Mountains and rivers should not be viewed
in the mirror.
The frosty sky, the setting moon at midnight,
With whom will the serene waters of the lake reflect the shadows in the cold?
Hearing, seeing, touching represent the auditory, visual, tactile, and other senses; knowing means cognition. Not one and one means that sensation and cognition are not to be separated from each other. Cognition and the cognized object are not strangers to each other but are interrelated, which makes transcendental cognition possible.
Mountains and rivers represent the external world. The mirror represents your subjectivity.
The frosty sky, the setting moon at midnight expresses the serene and sublime situation in which external object and sensation meet in pure cognition.
The serene waters of the lake are your mind, which exercises pure cognition. Reflect the shadows means pure cognition. In the cold again expresses the serene and sublime state of the mind when it exercises pure cognition. The mind is as serene and silent as the frosty sky, the setting moon, and midnight are purely cold.
Mountains and rivers should not be viewed in the mirror means that you should not say, as the idealist does, that the external world is nothing but the projection of the subjective mirror of your mind, and that sensation cannot transcend itself to hit upon the external object. The truth is the opposite of this. In profound silence, deep in the middle of the night, the lake serenely reflects the frosty sky, the setting moon, rivers, trees, and grass. The cognition occurs solemnly and exclusively between you and the objects.
Cognition is accomplished through two processes: first, pure cognition; second, the recognition of pure cognition. In pure cognition, there is no subjectivity and no objectivity. Think of the moment your hand touches the cup: there is only the touch. The next moment you recognize that you felt the touch. A touch is first effected just through the interaction between the hand and the object, and at that moment, pure cognition takes place. The next moment, the pure cognition is recognized by the reflecting action of consciousness, and recognized cognition is completed.
Then there arise subjectivity and objectivity, and one says, “There is a cup on the table.” But at the moment when pure cognition is still going on, there is no subjectivity and no objectivity, just a touch — with no saying that there is a cup on the table. Transcendental cognition occurs through this meeting, but it is not yet recognized consciously.
When Setcho says, “The frosty sky, the setting moon,” he is speaking of pure cognition, where there are only the frosty sky and the setting moon; no subjectivity, no objectivity; no one can peep into that moment, not even those who are looking at the sky and moon themselves, performing this cognition, because there is no reflecting action of consciousness. The moment is as solemn and serene as the frosty sky and setting moon are cold and silent.
When this is realized, the fourth line becomes very clear: “With whom will the serene waters of the lake reflect the shadows in the cold?” No one can notice the reflection, not even the one who does the reflecting (the doer is the lake, and maybe Setcho, or you yourself), because subjectivity cannot recognize itself.
Consciousness acts in two ways: (1) it recognizes objects in the external world, and (2) it can also turn its attention inward. In the first case, it directly receives a stimulus from the external world and gives rise to first sensation and then to thought or intuitive thinking. Sensation sees colors, flowers, mountains, and rivers, while intuitive thinking observes that it is fine weather, or feels love, hatred, and so on toward other people.
In the second case, attention is turned inward and recollects the past activity of the self. In absolute samadhi, sensation, thought, and intuitive thinking stop, or almost stop, their activity, and pure cognition reigns over the whole domain of the mind.
After once attaining such a condition of mind and then emerging from it into the world of conscious activity, we experience for a certain period of time a condition in which sensation alone is operative, working intuitively as it always does. We receive stimuli from the external world without restriction. Stimuli rush in, in all their unlimited profusion, and produce powerful impressions as they strike the mind.
This is the experience of kensho, the strength of the impressions that bring before you the objects of the external world with fresh and inspiring originality. Everything is direct, fresh, impressive, and overwhelmingly abundant at the time of the kensho experience.