11. Personal Records of the Zen Experiences

Some personal records of the function which is performed by the koan exercise in the maturing of the Zen consciousness are given here. Three of such were already given in the First Series of my Zen Essays (pp. 251-258), They are a psychological study by themselves, but my object here is to demonstrate the role of the koan exercise in the practice of Zen and the wisdom of this system as innovated by the Sung masters.

Tê-i of Mêng-shan,¹ who was the eighth descendant of Fa-yen of Wu-tsu Shan (died 1104), tells the following story of his experiences in Zen:

When I was twenty years old I became acquainted with Zen, and before I was thirty-two I had visited seventeen or eighteen Zen masters asking them as to their method of discipline, but none were able to enlighten me on the most important point. When later I came to the master Huan-shan he told me to see into the meaning of 'Wu' (mu), and added, 'Be vigilant over your "Wu" through all the periods of the day, as constantly vigilant as a cat is when she tries to catch a rat, or as a hen is while sitting on the eggs. As long as you have as yet no insight, be like a rat gnawing at the coffin-wood and never vacillate in your exertion. As you go on with your task like that, the time will surely come when your mind will become enlightened.'

Following this instruction, I steadily applied myself to the work, day and night. Eighteen days thus elapsed. Suddenly, when I was taking tea, I came upon the meaning of Kāśyapa's smile, which was elicited when the Buddha produced a flower before a congregation of his disciples. I was overjoyed; I wished to find out whether my understanding was correct and called upon a few masters of Zen. They, however, gave me no definite answer; some told me to stamp the whole universe with the stamp of Sagara-mudrā-samādhi, and not to pay attention to anything else. Believing this, I passed two years. In the sixth month of the fifth year of Ching-ting (1265), I was in Chung-ch'ing, Szŭ-ch'uan, and, suffering a great deal from dysentery, was in a most critical condition. No energy was left in me, nor was the Sāgaramudrā of any avail at this hour. Whatever understanding of Zen I had all failed to support me. The tongue refused to speak, the body to move; all that remained was to greet death. The past unrolled itself before me—the things I had done, as well as the situations I had been in; I was thus in a ghastly state of despondency and completely at a loss as to how to escape from its torture.

At last, determining to be master of myself, I managed to make my will. I then got up quietly, lit some incense, arranged the invalid cushions; I made bows to the Triple Treasure and also to the Naga gods, and silently confessed my previous sins before them. I prayed that if I were to pass away at this time I might be reborn through the power of Prajñā in a good family and become a monk in my early years. But if I should be cured of this disease I wanted to become a monk at once and devote the rest of my life entirely to the study of Zen. If an illumination should come I would help others even as myself to get enlightened.

After making this prayer, I set up 'Wu' before my mind and turned the light within myself. Before long I felt my viscera twist for a few times, but I paid no attention; it was after some time that my eyelids became rigid and refused to blink, and later on I became unconscious of my own body; the 'Wu' alone occupied my consciousness. In the evening I arose from my seat and found that I was half cured of the disease; I sat down again until the small hours of the morning when the physical disorder completely disappeared. I was myself again, well and in good spirits.

In the eighth month of the same year I went to Chiang-ling and had my head shaved [i.e. became a monk]. Before the year was over, I went on a pilgrimage, and while cooking rice I found out that the koan exercise must be carried on uninterruptedly and with continuous effort. I then settled myself at Huang-lung.

When I felt sleepy for the first time I exercised my will to resist it and kept on sitting, when the sleepiness was easily vanquished. When I became sleepy a second time, I drove it away in a similar manner. A third attack was too strong; I got down from my seat and made bows to the Buddha, which revived me. I resumed my seat and the process had to be repeated. But when at last I had to sleep I used a pillow and slept a little; later my elbow was substituted for the pillow, and finally I altogether avoided lying down. Two nights were thus passed; on the third night I was so fatigued that I felt as if my feet did not touch the ground. Suddenly a dark cloud that seemed to obstruct my vision cleared away, and I felt as if I had just come from a bath and was thoroughly rejuvenated.

As to the koan, a state of mental fixation prevailed, and the koan occupied the centre of attention without any conscious striving on my part for it. All external sensations, the five passions, and the eight disturbances, no longer annoyed me; I was as pure and transparent as a snow-filled silver bowl or as the autumnal sky cleared of all darkening clouds. The exercise thus went on quite successfully but as yet with no turning point.

Later I left this monastery and travelled to Che. On the way I experienced many hardships and my Zen exercise suffered accordingly. I came to the Ch'êng-t'ien monastery which was presided over by the master Ku-ch'an, and there took up my temporal habitation. I vowed to myself that I would not leave this place until I realized the truth of Zen. In a little over a month I regained what I had lost in the exercise. It was then that my whole body was covered with boils; but I was determined to keep the discipline even at the cost of my life.

This helped a great deal to strengthen my spiritual powers, and I knew how to keep up my seeking and striving (kung-fu) even in illness. Being invited out to dinner I walked on with my koan all the way to the devotee's house, but I was so absorbed in my exercise that I passed by the house without even recognizing where I was. This made me realize what was meant by carrying on the exercise even while engaged in active work. My mental condition then was like the reflection of the moon penetrating the depths of a running stream the surface of which was in rapid motion, while the moon itself retained its perfect shape and serenity in spite of the commotion of the water.

On the sixth of the third month I was holding 'Wu' in my mind as usual while sitting on the cushion, when the head-monk came into the meditation hall. Accidentally he dropped the incense-box on the floor, making a noise. This at once opened my mind to a new spiritual vista, and with a cry I obtained a glimpse into my inner being, capturing the old man Chao-chou [the author of the I gave voice to the following extempore stanza:

'Unexpectedly the path comes to an end; When stamped through, the waves are the water itself. They say, old Chao-chou stands supremely above the rest, But nothing extraordinary I find in his features.'

During the autumn I interviewed masters of high reputation such as Hsüeh-yen, T'ui-kêng, Shih-fan, and Hsü-chou. The last-mentioned advised me to go to Huan-shan. When I saw Shan, he asked, 'The light, serenely illuminating, fills all the universe to its furthest limits—are these not the words of the literati Chang-cho?' I was about to open my mouth when Shan gave a 'Ho!' (Kwatz!), and dismissed me unceremoniously. This upset me, and since then my thoughts were concentrated on this attitude of the master. Walking or sitting, eating or drinking, my mind was occupied with it.

Six months passed when, one day in the spring of the following year, I was returning from an out-of-town trip and was about to climb a flight of stone steps, when the solid ice that had been clogging my brain for so long unexpectedly melted away, and I forgot that I was walking on the roadway. I immediately went to the master, and when he repeated his former question I overturned his seat. I now thoroughly understood the koan, whose knots had been so hard to untie.

O Brothers! Be thoroughgoing in your Zen exercise. If I had not been taken ill when at Chung-ch'ing my life might have been almost wasted. The main thing is to be introduced to a master with really spiritual insight. Consider how earnestly and steadily the ancient masters devoted themselves both day and night to the study of Zen in order to grasp the ultimate truth of it.

Yüan-chon Hsüeh-Yen Tsu-ch'in (died 1287), who was a disciple of Wu-chou Shih-fan (died 1249), has this to tell about his experiences:

I left my home when I was five years old, and while under my master, by listening to his talks to visitors, I began to know that there was such a thing as Zen, and gradually came to believe in it, and finally made up my mind to study it. At sixteen I was ordained as a regular monk and at eighteen started on a Zen pilgrimage. While staying under Yuan of Shuang-shan I was kept busy attending to the affairs of the monastery from morning to evening, and was never out of the monastery grounds. Even when I was in the general dormitory or engaged in my own affairs, I kept my hands folded over my chest and my eyes fixed on the ground without looking beyond three feet.

My first koan was 'Wu'. Whenever a thought was stirred in my mind, I lost no time in keeping it down, and my consciousness was like a cake of solid ice, pure and smooth, serene and undisturbed. A day passed as rapidly as the snapping of the fingers. No sound of the bell or the drum ever reached me.

At nineteen I was staying at the monastery of Ling-yin when I made the acquaintance of the recorder Lai of Ch'u-chou. He gave me this advice: 'Your method has no life in it and will achieve nothing. There is a dualism in it; you keep movement and quietude as two separate poles of thought. To exercise yourself properly in Zen you ought to cherish a spirit of inquiry (i-ch'ing); for according to the strength of your inquiring spirit will be the depth of your enlightenment.' Thus advised, I had my koan changed to 'the dried-up dirt-wiper'. I began to inquire (t) into its meaning in every possible manner and from every possible point of view. But being now annoyed by dullness and now by restlessness, I could not get even a moment of serene contemplation. I moved to Ching-tzŭ monastery where I joined a company of seven, all earnest students of Zen. Sealing up our bedding we determined not to lie down on the floor. There was a monk called Hsiu who did not join us, but who kept sitting on his cushion like a solid bar of iron; I wanted to have a talk with him, but he was forbidding.

As the practice of not lying down was kept up for two years I became thoroughly exhausted both in mind and body. At last I gave myself up to the ordinary way of taking rest. In two months my health was restored and my spirit reinvigorated once more by thus yielding to nature. In fact the study of Zen is not necessarily to be accomplished by merely practising sleeplessness. It is far better to have short hours of a sound sleep in the middle of the night when the mind will gather up fresh energy.

One day I happened to meet Hsiu in the corridor, and for the first time I could have a talk with him. I asked, 'Why was it that you avoided me so much last year when I wished to talk with you?' He said, 'An earnest student of Zen begrudges even the time to trim his nails; how much more the time wasted in conversation with others!' I said, 'I am troubled in two ways, by dullness and restlessness, how can I get over them?' He replied: 'It is owing to your not being fully determined in your exercise. Have the cushion high enough under you, and keeping your spinal column upright, throw all the spiritual energy you possess into the koan itself. What is the use of talking about dullness and restlessness?'

This advice gave me a new turn to my exercise, for in three days and nights I came to realize a state in which the dualism of body and mind ceased to exist. I felt so transparent and lively that my eyelids were kept open all the time. On the third day I was walking by the gate still feeling as I did when sitting cross-legged on the cushions. I happened to meet Hsiu, who asked, 'What are you doing here?' I answered, 'Trying to realize the truth (tao).' 'What do you mean by the truth?' he asked. I could not give him a reply, which only increased my mental annoyance.

Wishing to return to the meditation hall I directed my steps towards it, when I encountered the head-monk. He said, 'Keep your eyes wide open and see what it all means.' This encouraged me. I came back into the hall and was about to go to my seat when the whole outlook changed. A broad expanse opened, and the ground appeared as if all caved in. The experience was beyond description and altogether incommunicable, for there was nothing in the world to which it could be compared. Coming down from the seat I sought Hsiu. He was greatly pleased, and kept repeating: 'How glad I am! How glad I am!' We took hold of each other's hands and walked along the willow embankment outside the gate. As I looked around and up and down, the whole universe with its multitudinous sense-objects now appeared quite different; what was loathsome before, together with ignorance and passions, was now seen to be nothing else but the outflow of my own inmost nature which in itself remained bright, true, and transparent. This state of consciousness lasted for more than half a month.

Unfortunately, as I did not happen to interview a great master of deeper spiritual insight at the time, I was left at this stage of enlightenment for some time. It was still an imperfect stage which if adhered to as final would have obstructed the growth of a truly penetrating insight; the sleeping and waking hours did not yet coalesce into a unity. Koans that admitted some way of reasoning were intelligible enough, but those that altogether defied it, as if they were a wall of iron blocks, were still quite beyond my reach. I passed many years under the master Wu-chun, listening to his sermons and asking his advice, but there was no word which gave a final solution to my inner disquietude, nor was there anything in the sūtras or the sayings of the masters, as far as I read, that could cure me of this heartache.

Ten years thus passed without my being able to remove this hard inner obstruction. One day I was walking in the Buddha Hall at T'ien-mu when my eyes happened to fall on an old cypress-tree outside the Hall. Just seeing this old tree opened a new spiritual vista and the solid mass of obstruction suddenly dissolved. It was as if I had come into the bright sunshine after having been shut up in the darkness. After this I entertained no further doubt regarding life, death, the Buddha, or the Patriarchs. I now realized for the first time what constituted the inner life of my master Wu-chun, who indeed deserved thirty hard blows.

T'ien-shan Ch'iung, who was disciple of Tê-i of Mêng-shan, has the following to record:

When I was thirteen years old I came to know something about Buddhism; at eighteen I left home and at twenty-two was ordained a monk. I first went to Shih-chuang where I learned that the monk Hsiang used to look at the top of his nose all the time and that this kept his mind transparent. Later, a monk brought from Hsüeh-yen his 'Advice Regarding the Practice of Meditation (za-zen)'. By this I found that my practice was on a wrong track. So I went to Hsueh-yen, and following his instructions exercised myself exclusively on 'Wu'. On the fourth night I found myself perspiring, but my mind was clear and lucid. While in the Hall I never conversed with others, wholly devoting myself to zazen.

Later on I went to the master Miao of Kao-fêng, who said this to me: 'Let there be no intermission in your exercise during the twelve periods of the day. Get up in the small hours of the morning and seek out your koan at once so that it will be held all the time before you. When you feel tired and sleepy, rise from your seat and walk the floor, but even while walking do not let your koan slip away from your mind. Whether you are eating, or working, or engaged in monastery affairs, never fail to keep your koan before you. When this is done by day and night, a state of oneness will prevail, and later your mind will surely open to enlightenment.' I then kept up my exercise according to this advice, and surely enough I finally achieved a state of oneness. On the twentieth of March Yen gave me a sermon to this effect:

'Brethren, when you feel too drowsy after a long sitting on the cushions, come down on the floor, have a run around the hall, rinse your mouth, and bathe your face and eyes with cold water; after that resume your sitting on the cushions. Keeping your spinal column straight up like an outstanding precipice, throw all your mental energy on the koan. If you go on like this for seven days, I can assure you of your coming to enlightenment, for this is what happened to me forty years ago.'

I followed this advice and found my exercise gaining more light and strength than usual. On the second day I could not close my eyelids even if I wanted to; on the third day I felt as if I were walking in the air; and on the fourth day all worldly affairs ceased to bother me. That night I was leaning against the railing for a while, and when I examined myself I found that the field of consciousness seemed to be all empty, except for the presence of the koan itself. I turned around and sat on the cushion again, when all of a sudden I felt as if my whole body from head to foot were split like a skull; I felt as if I were taken out of an abysmal depth and thrown up into the air. My joy knew no bounds!

My experience was presented to Yen, but it did not meet his full approval. He advised me to go on with my exercise as before. When I asked for further instruction, among other things he gave me this: 'If you really wish to attain the highest truth of Buddhism, there is still something lacking in your understanding, there ought to be a really final stroke. Say to yourself, "Where do I lack this finality?" I could not believe his words, and yet there was a shadow of doubt lurking in my mind. So I went on stolidly with my zazen every day as before for about six months more.

One day I had a headache and was preparing a medicine when a monk known as Ghiao the Red-nosed asked me how I understood the story of Prince Nata?¹

Thus asked, I remembered that I was once asked by the senior monk Wu about the same story, but failed to give him a reply. This remembrance at once led to the solution.

Later on, after Yen had passed away, I went to Meng-shan, and Shan asked, 'Where in the study of Zen do you consider yourself to have reached its consummation?' I did not know what to say. Shan then told me to exercise myself in tranquillization so that all the dust of worldliness might be thoroughly removed. But whenever I entered his room and tried to say a word he at once remarked, 'Something lacking.' One day I began my zazen at four in the afternoon and continued until four in the morning, and through sheer power of concentration I reached an exquisite state of ecstasy. Coming out of it I saw the master and told him about it. He then asked, 'What is your original self?' I was about to speak when he shut the door in my face.

After this I exerted myself more and more in zazen and was able to experience many exquisite states of mind. Though I had to see my former master pass away before I had penetrated into the details of Zen, yet fortunately through the guidance of the present master I have been led into deeper realizations. In truth, when one is earnest and resolute enough, realizations will come to one frequently and there will be a stripping-off at each step forward.

One day when I was looking at the 'Inscriptions'¹ by the third patriarch, in which I read, 'When one returns to the root, the meaning is realized, but when one follows only the appearance, the substance is lost', then there was another stripping-off. The master Shan said: 'The study of Zen is like the polishing of a gem; the more polished the brighter the gem, and when it becomes thus brighter, let it still be polished up. When there is the more stripping-off of its outer coatings, this life of yours will grow worth more than a gem.'

But whenever I attempted to utter a word, the master would at once declare, 'Something lacking.' One day when deeply absorbed in meditation, J came across this 'something lacking'. All the bonds that had hitherto bound my mind and body were dissolved at once, together with every piece of my bones and their marrow. It was like seeing the sun suddenly bursting through the snow-laden clouds and brightly shining. As I could not contain myself, I jumped down at once from the seat, and running to the master took hold of him, exclaiming, 'Now, what am I lacking?' He gave me three slaps and I bowed to him profoundly. Said the master, 'O T'ien-shan, for many years you have exerted yourself for this very thing. Today, at last, you have it.'

Wu-wên T'sung of Hsiang-shan succeeded Gh'ing as a Zen master, and the following is his Zen experience:

Tu-wêng was the first master I saw in my study of Zen; he had me inquire into the meaning of 'Neither mind, nor Buddha, nor a thing, this.' Later we formed a group of six including Yün-fêng and Yüeh-shan, so that we might be a stimulation to one another in the Zen exercise. Next I saw the master Ghiao Wu-nêng, who gave me 'Wu!' Next I went to Chang-lu where, again, I had friends together in order to encourage one another. I happened to meet the brother-monk Ching of Huai-shan, who asked, 'What is your understanding of Zen after several years of study?' I replied, 'Not a thought stirring all day.' Ching asked further, 'Where does this notion of yours originate?' I felt as if I knew but I was not quite sure how to answer him. Seeing that I had no insight into the gist of the matter, Ching told me that I was all right as far as my tranquillization went, but that I had no hold of the thing in its activity. This surprised me and I begged him to advise me as to how my exercise should be carried on so as to have an insight into the matter. Said Ching: 'Don't you know what Ch'uan-lao says? "If one wants to have an understanding in the matter, look at the North Star by turning around towards the south",' and without making further remarks he went away.

Thus questioned, I did not know what to say. Whether walking or sitting my mind refused to dwell on anything else, and for several succeeding days 'Mu', was dropped and this 'North Star seen in the south' occupied my attention exclusively. One day I found myself in the shaving-room where I was sitting with others on a block of wood; the 'doubt' (i) firmly took hold of me and time passed without my knowing, and it was about meal time when without premonition I felt my mind broadening out, becoming clear, light, and serene. It seemed my whole mental system was broken up and its coatings were all stripped off; the entire world with all its objects, sentient and non-sentient, vanished before me; and there was a vast vacuity.

After a while I was awakened, feeling perspiration running down my whole body, and I knew what was meant by seeing the North Star in the south. I met Ching, and he asked, 'Who is it that comes this way?' I replied, 'Neither the self nor the other.' He said, 'If it is neither the self nor the other, what is it after all?' 'One who eats when hungry and sleeps when tired out,' I answered. Ching then made me express the experience in verse, which I did, and everything went on with no impediment. But still there was something final, and I was impressed that I had not yet grasped it.

Later on, I went into the mountains of Hsiang-yen where I passed the summer. The mosquitoes were terrible and I could not keep my hands in position. Then I thought of the ancient masters who had sacrificed their very lives for the sake of the Dharma—why then should I be bothered by mosquitoes? I made up my mind not to be disturbed by them any longer. Firmly setting my teeth, clenching my fists, I held up the 'Wu' before me and made a most desperate fight against the insects. While I was thus subjecting myself to a test of endurance it so happened that my body and mind finally attained a state of quietude. It felt as if the whole building with all its walls had crashed down leaving me in a vast void—an experience which nothing earthly could describe. My sitting lasted from about seven in the morning until two in the afternoon. I then realized that Buddhism contains the whole truth and that it is altogether due to our not being thorough enough in the attempt to grasp it that we sometimes imagine Buddhism to be misleading.

While my understanding of Zen was clear and full, there was yet something not quite thoroughly exhausted in the hidden and almost inapproachable recesses of my consciousness; so I retired again into the mountains for six years in Kwang-chou, for another six years in Li-an, and finally for three years again in Kwang-chou, when I was released in the fullest sense of the term.

Footnotes

1 All the quotations cited here are taken from the Zenkwan Sakushin ('Aids to Breaking Through the Frontier Gate of Zen'). For the biographical records of these masters see a history of Zen called the Hui-yüan hsü-liao.

1 'Prince Nata rending himself asunder gives his flesh back to his mother and his bones to his father and then manifesting his own original body and by his miraculous powers preaches the Dharma for the benefit of his parents.' This is one of the well-known koans. The idea is to make the student interview this 'original body' shorn of all its trappings, physical, mental, or spiritual.

1 The First Series, p. 196.