4
The Secret Message of Bodhidharma, or The Content of Zen Experience
In several of the chapters of Essays in Zen Buddhism (Second Series), Suzuki expanded on his interpretation of the nature of koan and koan practice. During the period he was composing the essays for the volume, Suzuki was well aware of the revolution that was occurring in Zen historical studies, as scholars in China, Europe, and Japan became increasingly aware of Buddhist texts that had been discovered at Dunhuang and deposited in libraries around the globe. As such scholars as Hu Shi, Matsumoto Bunzaburō, and others used Dunhuang to separate fabrication from fact in the early history of Chan (or, as Suzuki called it, “Chinese Zen”), they produced revised interpretations of Bodhidharma’s biography and the genesis of the Platform Sutra. Suzuki had been criticized by Arthur Waley in a brief review of Essays in Zen Buddhism (First Series) in the Times Literary Supplement in 1927 for not having taken advantage of Dunhuang materials demonstrating the Chinese, rather than the Indian, origins of Chan. Consequently, Suzuki, although still not fully utilizing those sources for the Second Series, remarks in the preface to the volume that these new documents had shed light on the history of Chan and that he would produce a fourth volume of Essays in Zen Buddhism that contained a revised history of the tradition. Although that fourth volume was never produced, Suzuki worked extensively with the new documents, uncovering Chan materials in the Dunhuang collections and publishing in Japanese new editions of such vital Chan texts as the Xiaoshi yishu (J. Shōshitsu issho), which contained texts attributed to Bodhidharma, a volume of the collected sayings of Shenhui, and new critical editions of the Platform Sutra.
Even while engaging in text-critical and historical research concerning Chan, much of Suzuki’s energy was directed toward creating what he called a history of Zen thought, which focused on what Suzuki believed were the timeless truths of Zen, rather than the historical, political, social, and cultural contingencies that shaped superficial dimensions of the tradition. Suzuki makes clear this position in the first note of this article in which he states that although what is written in Chan histories may or may not be actual fact, the purpose of the article is to investigate “What is the message of the first teacher of Zen?” To this end, Suzuki gleans numerous variations of encounter dialogues (mondo) concerning the question “What is the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming from the West?” from Chan literature, utilizing in particular the Yuan-period collection the Chanlin leiju (1307), and weaves them together with his own commentary, concluding in the end that one can only reply to that question, “Inevitable!”
“The Secret Message of Bodhidharma” was first published in The Eastern Buddhist (Original Series) 4, no. 1 (1926): 1–26, before being revised for Essays in Zen Buddhism (Second Series), pp. 189–214, which was published by Luzac and Company, London, in 1933. The first edition of the volume, like the other two first editions in the Essays in Zen Buddhism series, contained the Chinese characters for most of the proper names found in the article. The essay reproduced here is based on the version found in the first (1933) edition of Essays in Zen Buddhism (Second Series).
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“What is the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming from the West?”1 This is one of the questions frequently asked by Zen masters, and forms one of the most important subjects in the study of Zen. As an historical event, the question, however, is not at all concerned with the coming of Bodhidharma to China, that is, with the historical signification of Bodhidharma in Chinese Buddhism. His landing on the southern shore of China is recorded as taking place in the first year of Putong (A.D. 520). But the question has nothing to do with these things. Zen is above space-time relations, and naturally even above historical facts. Its followers are a singular set of transcendentalists. When they ask about the first coming of Bodhidharma to China, their idea is to get into the inner meaning, if there were any, of his special teaching, which is thought to be spiritually transmitted to his successors. For there had been so many foreign Buddhist teachers and scholars who came to China before Bodhidharma, and they were all learned and pious and translated many Buddhist texts into the Chinese language; some of them were even great adepts in meditation, and performed wonderful deeds moving the affections of unseen spiritual beings who used to live all over China in those ancient days. Were it not for some well-defined purpose characteristically distinguishing him from his numerous predecessors, there was perhaps no special need for Bodhidharma to appear among them. What was his message then? What mission did he have for the people of the Far East?
As to that, Bodhidharma did not make any open declaration; he simply vanished from the world, for nine long years as tradition has it, keeping himself in complete retirement at Songshan in the dominion of Wei. If he had any message to give to Chinese Buddhists concerning the truth of Buddhism, it must have been something quite unique and out of the way. What was his reason to keep himself in absolute seclusion? What is the signification of his silent teaching? Perhaps when this is mastered, Buddhism may yet open up some hidden treasure which cannot be described in words and reasoned out logically. The question, therefore, “What is the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming from the West?” points directly to the presence of some truth innerly and mystically lying in the system of Buddhism. It amounts to this: “What is the essence of Buddhism as understood by the First Patriarch of Zen Buddhism?” Is there anything in Buddhism which cannot be expressed and explained in the canonical writings classified into the Three Baskets (Tripiṭaka) and arranged in the Nine or Twelve Divisions? Shortly, what is the truth of Zen? All the answers, therefore, given to this all-important question are so many different ways of pointing to the ultimate truth.
As far as it is recorded in history still in existence, the question seems to have been first raised in the latter half of the seventh century, that is, about one hundred and fifty years after the coming of Bodhidharma, but the idea for some time before must have been in a state of brewing. When Huineng, the sixth patriarch, established what may be called the native Chinese school of Zen in contradistinction to the Indian Zen of the first patriarch, Chinese Buddhists must have come to realize the significance of the spiritual message of the Zen patriarchs. Since then the question, “What is the meaning of the First Patriarch’s coming from the West?” naturally came to be one of the most meaningful subjects to be discussed among the Zen followers.
The first questioners as to the meaning of Dharma’s coming to China were Tanran and Huairang, according to The Transmission of the Lamp, who in the latter half of the seventh century came to Huian the national teacher and asked,
“What is the meaning of the First Patriarch’s coming from the West?”
“Why don’t you ask about your own mind?” the teacher answered.
“What is our own mind, sir?”
“You should contemplate the secret working.”
“What is the secret working, sir?”
The teacher merely opened and closed his eyes, instead of giving any verbal explanation.
Perhaps the next questioner on record was a certain monk who came to Xuansu of Helin very early in the eighth century and asked the question to which the master answered, “When you understand, it is not understood; when you doubt, it is not doubted.” Another time his answer was, “It is that which is neither understood nor doubted, again neither doubted nor understood.”
As in other cases the masters’ answers to the question show such an endless variety as to bewilder the uninitiated, making them wonder how they could ever expect to see into its essence through this labyrinth of thought. And the worst thing is that the variety of answers increases in proportion with the frequency of the question asked, for no masters will ever give the same answer as far as wording goes; indeed, if they did there would have been no Zen long before this. The originality and individuality, however, thus shown by the masters, instead of clearing up the matter, complicate it to the utmost. But when one goes carefully over the answers, it is not so difficult to handle them under a certain number of headings. Of course, this classifying does not mean that the unintelligibility grows thereby less unintelligible, only that it may help the student to a certain extent, however tentatively, to find some clues to the orientation of the Zen message. The following is thus my imperfect attempt to erect a few signposts for the guidance of the student.
(1) Cases where an object nearby is made use of in answering the question. The master when questioned may happen to be engaged in some work, or looking out of the window, or sitting quietly in meditation, and then his response may contain some allusion to the objects thus connected with his doing at the time. Whatever he may say, therefore, on such occasions is not an abstract assertion on an object deliberately chosen for the illustration of his point. Weishan, for instance, questioned by Yangshan answered, “What a fine lantern this!” Probably he was looking at a lantern at the moment, or it stood nearest to them and came in most convenient for the master to be utilized for his immediate purpose. On another occasion his answer to the same question may not be the same, he is sure to find it more desirable and appropriate to demonstrate Zen in some other way. This is where Zen differs from the conceptual arguments of the philosopher.
Zhaozhou’s answer was, “The cypress tree in the court”; and Fenyang Shanzhao’s, “How cool this blue silk fan is!” The connection between the Zen patriarch’s visit to China and all those objects such as the lantern, cypress tree, or silk fan may seem to be the remotest possible one, and these answers charge our imaginative faculty to do its utmost. But this is what the Zen student is asked to find; for according to these masters, when the cypress tree in the court is understood, the reason of Zen Buddhism is understood, and when the reason of Zen Buddhism is understood, everything else will be understood, that is, all the variety of answers to be given below will be more or less thoroughly understood. One string passes through the one hundred and eight beads of a rosary.
(2) Cases where definite judgments are given concerning the question itself or the position of the questioner.
Damei Fachang’s answer was quite decisive, “There is no meaning in his coming from the West.”
Muzhou Zong: “I have no answer to give.”
Liangshan Yuanguan: “Don’t talk nonsense.”
Jiufeng Puman: “What is the use of asking others?”
Baoming Daocheng: “I have never been to the Western world.”
Nanyue Si: “Here goes another one walking the same old way.”
Benjue Shouyi: “It is like selling water by the riverside.”
Baoning Renyong: “It is like adding frost to snow.”
Longya Judun: “This is the hardest question to answer.”
Shitou Xiqian: “Ask the post standing there.” When this was not comprehended by the inquiring monk, the master said, “My ignorance is worse than yours.”
Jingshan Daoqin: “Your question is not to the point.”
The monk asked, “How shall I get it to the point?”
“I will tell you when I am dead,” was the master’s way to get it to the point.
I cannot help quoting Linji here, who was singularly “reasonable” with regard to this question although he was notorious for his “rough” treatment of the monks and for his exclamation “Katsu!” When he was asked about the meaning of the patriarchal arrival from the West, he said,
“If there were any meaning, no one could save even himself.”
“If there were no meaning here, what truth is it that the second patriarch is said to have attained under Bodhidharma?”
“What is called ‘attained,’” said the master, “is really ‘not-attained.’”
“If that is the case, what is the meaning of ‘not-attained’”?
Linji explained: “Just because your mind is ever running after every object that comes before it and knows not where to restrain itself, it is declared by a patriarch that you are the foolish seeker of another head over your own. If you turn your light within yourself as you are told to do, without delay, and reflect, and stop seeking things external, you will realize that your own mind and those of the Buddhas and patriarchs do not differ from one another. When you thus come to a state of doing nothing, you are said to have attained the truth.”
(3) Cases where the masters appeal to “direct action.” This has not taken place frequently with regard to the present question, though appealing to direct action is quite an ordinary proceeding in the demonstration of Zen Buddhism since the time of Mazu whose case is related here. He was one of the greatest masters in the history of Zen, and in fact it was due to his masterly way of handling Zen that it came to be recognized as a great spiritual force in China. When Shuiliao asked Mazu as to the meaning of Dharma’s coming from the West, Mazu at once gave the questioner a kick over the chest which sent him down to the ground. This, however, awakened Shuiliao to the realization of the truth of Buddhism, for when he stood up again on his feet he declared this, clapping his hands and laughing loudly:
“How very strange! How very strange! All the Samadhis without number and all the religious truths unfathomable—I know them all now through and through even as they are revealed at the tip of one single hair.”
He then made a bow and quietly retired.
(4) Cases in which some kind of movement is involved either on the part of the master or on the part of the monk. This is the most favorite method with the master, and we can readily see why it is so. Inasmuch as Zen is not to be explained in words, an acting or a gesture2 must be resorted to in order to bring its truth nearer home to the student. Since Zen is the truth of life, something more intimate and immediate than words is to be made use of, and this can be found in some kind of movement symbolizing life as it moves on. Words may be used too, but in this case they are not meant to convey ideas, but merely as expressive of something living and doing works. This also explains why cries or exclamations or ejaculations serve as answers.
When Xuefeng and Xuansha were mending a fence, Sha asked, “What is the meaning of Dharma’s coming from the West?” Feng shook the fence.
Sha said, “What is the use of making so much ado?”
“How with you then!”
“Kindly pass me the bitou,”3 said Xuansha.
When Touzi Datong met Cuiwei in the Dharma Hall, he asked the master about the meaning of the patriarchal visit from India. Cuiwei the master kept on looking back for a while. Datong wanted some express instruction, whereupon Cuiwei said, “Do you want another dipperful of dirt over your head?” This meant that the questioner had already been once bathed in dirt and did not know the fact. When Cuiwei turned back, there was an answer to the question, and if Datong had his eye already opened he could have seen into the meaning without further asking for special wordy instruction. But he failed, hence the master’s reproach, which, however, ought not to be understood as implying any feeling of slight or unkindness on the part of the master. In all Zen “mondo” or transactions, absolute sincerity and confidence exist between master and disciple. Wording may be quite frequently strong and impatient, but this is the way with the Zen master, who only wants to attract such souls as do not break down under his training staff. Zen is by no means a democratic religion. It is in essence meant for the elite.
A monk came from Weishan to Xiangyan when the latter asked the monk: “There was once a monk who asked Weishan concerning the Patriarch’s idea of coming to China, and Weishan in answer held up his hossu. Now how do you understand the meaning of Weishan’s action?”
Replied the monk, “The master’s idea is to elucidate mind along with matter, to reveal truth by means of an objective reality.”
“Your understanding,” the master said, “is all right as far as it goes. But what is the use of hurrying so to theorize?”
The monk now turned round and asked, “What will be your understanding?”
Xiangyan held up his hossu like the other master.
Another time when Xiangyan was asked as to Bodhidharma’s idea of coming to China, he put his hand into his pocket, and when he got it out it was formed into a fist, which he opened as if handing the contents over to the questioner. The latter kneeled down and extended both hands in the attitude of receiving. Said Xiangyan, “What is this?” The monk made no reply.
It was again this same Xiangyan who proposed the well-known koan of a man in a tree. The koan runs thus: “It is like a man over a precipice one thousand feet high, he is hanging himself there with a branch of a tree between his teeth, his feet are off the ground, and his hands are not taking hold of anything. Suppose now someone comes to him and asks him the question, ‘What is the meaning of the First Patriarch coming from the West?’ If this man should open his mouth to answer, he is sure to fall and lose his life: but if he should make no answer, he must be said to ignore the questioner. At this critical moment what ought he to do?”
A monk asked Luopu about Dharma’s coming, and the master, striking his straw chair with the hossu, said, “Do you understand?”
The monk confessed his inability to understand, and the master gave this to him, “A sudden thundering up in the sky and the whole world is taken aback, but a frog ’way down in the well has not even raised its head.”
Was the inquisitive monk the frog in the old well? The master’s tongue was sharp and sarcastic. Bashō, the great Japanese Haiku4 poet, has the following verse:
Tis an ancient pond,
A frog leaps in—
Oh, the sound of water!
It was this sound that awakened him to the truth of Zen Buddhism. The experience itself could not be expressed in any other way, hence the haiku is merely descriptive of the occasion with no sentiment, with no comment. The frog frequently figures in Japanese literature and has many poetical associations suggestive of peace and loneliness.
(5) Cases where things impossible in this relative world of causation are referred to.
Longya Judun said, “Wait until the dark stone turtle begins to talk, when I’ll tell you what is the meaning of the Patriarch’s visit here.”
Dongshan’s answer to Longya was of the same impossible order when the latter wished to know the meaning of this historical event, for he said, “Wait until the River Dong flows backward when this will be told you.” The strange thing was that the river did run backward and Longya understood the meaning of this remark.
Mazu, who, as I repeatedly said, figures most prominently in the history of Zen, proposed a similar condition to Pangyun, the lay Buddhist disciple, in his answer to the question at issue: “When you drink up in one draught all the waters in the River Xi, I will tell you the meaning of the patriarchal adventure.”
All these are impossibilities so long as space-time relations remain what they are to our final consciousness; they will only be intelligible when we are ushered into a realm beyond our relative experience. But as the Zen masters abhor all abstractions and theorizations, their propositions read so outrageously incoherent and nonsensical. Notice how the following answers, too, harp on the same string of transcendentalism:
Beiyuan Tong answered, “A dead pine-tree is hung over the wall, and the bees are busily sucking the flowers.”
Shimen Cong answered, “See the ships sailing over the mountains of Qiuli.”
A monk came to a master called Shishuang Xingkong to be enlightened on the subject of the patriarchal visit, and the master said: “Suppose a man is down at the bottom of a well one thousand feet deep; if you could get him out without using a bit of rope, I would give you the answer as to the meaning of our patriarchal visit here.”
The monk did not evidently take this very seriously, for he said, “Lately, the Venerable Chang of Hunan was given a monastery to preside over, and he is also giving us all kinds of instruction on the subject.”
Xingkong called a boy attendant and ordered him “to take this lifeless fellow out.”
The boy attendant, who later came to be known as Yangshan, one of the most masterful minds in Zen, afterward asked Danyuan how to get out the man in the well, when the master exclaimed, “Why, this fool, who is in the well?”
The boy attendant still later asked Weishan as to the means of getting the man out of the bottom of the well. Weishan called out, “O Huiji!” as this was the name of the young monk.
Huiji responded, “Yes, master!”
“There, he is out!” said the master.
When the monk later became a fully qualified adept in Zen and took charge of the monastery at Yuanshan, he referred to these adventures of his, saying, “Under Danyuan, I got the name, while under Weishan I got the substance.” May we substitute here philosophy for “name” and experience for “substance”?
(6) Cases where truism is asserted. This is just the opposite of the foregoing. Yunmen said: “O monks, you go around the world trying to see into the meaning of the Patriarch’s coming from the West, but this is known better by the pillar standing in front of you. Do you want to know how it is that the pillar understands the meaning of the patriarchal visit to this country?” This seems so far to go against truism, but after proposing this question Yunmen proceeds to answer it himself, saying, “Nine times nine are eighty-one.” The Zen master has here turned into a mathematician. Evidently he thinks that the multiplication table explains the truth of Buddhism. His allusion to the pillar appears to complicate his position, but this is his artful device (upāya-kauśalya); when “nine times nine are eighty-one” is grasped, the whole procedure gives up its secrets if there are any.
The Zen student is now asked how to establish an inherent relationship between the impossible statements mentioned above and the truism asserted by Yunmen. Are they at all reconcilable? They must be. Otherwise, the masters would not be giving the irreconcilables as solutions of the same problem. If there is such a thing as Zen, there must be some way in which all contradictions are to be synthesized. This is indeed where all the masters of Zen Buddhism exhaust their genius, and as they are not philosophers but pragmatists, they appeal to an experience and not to verbalism—an experience which is so fundamental as to dissolve all doubts into a harmonious unification. All the matter-of-factness as well as the impossibility of the masters’ statements must thus be regarded as issuing directly from their inmost unified experience.
Tianmu Man said, “Once in three years there is a leap year.” This was a truism when the lunar calendar was in vogue. Everybody knew it, but what connection has it to the patriarchal visit?
The inquiring monk said, “What are you talking about?”
“The chrysanthemum festival takes place on the ninth day of the ninth month.”
The chrysanthemum festival has been celebrated by the Chinese as well as by the Japanese when the chrysanthemum is at the height of its season. The number nine is a lucky number with the Chinese, and when it is doubled, it is doubly lucky, hence the celebration. But does this explain the meaning of Dharma’s coming over to China early in the sixth century?
Fojian Huiqin’s answer was, “When you taste vinegar you know it is sour; when you taste salt you know it is salty.”
A monk asked Sansheng Huiran as to the meaning of the Patriarch’s coming from the West, and the master answered, “Tainted meat collects flies.”
The monk reported this to Xinghua who, however, expressed his disagreement. Whereupon the monk asked, “What is the meaning of the Patriarch’s arrival here?”
Xinghua replied, “On the back of a broken-down donkey there are enough flies.”
In what point does Xinghua differ from Sansheng as he claims he does? As far as flies go, does it make much difference to them whether they are upon tainted meat or on a donkey about to die?
(7) Cases of silence are not many—I quote one. When Lingshu Rumin was approached with the question of Dharma’s visit, he kept silent. Later when he died, his disciples wanted to erect a stone monument recording his life and sayings; among the latter there was this incident of silence. At the time Yunmen was head monk and they asked him how they should proceed to write out this silence on the part of the master. Yunmen simply said, “Master!”
Yunmen was famous for his one-word answers, he was no waster of words. Indeed if one had to say something and this to the utmost limit of bare necessity, a single word, no more and no less, must be pressed to answer the purpose. The one character, “master,” here implies many things as we can readily observe; and which of those implications was in Yunmen’s mind when he uttered it, will be a problem indeed for the Zen student to unravel. Does it really clarify the meaning of the silence which was to be engraved on the monumental stone? Baiyun Shouduan later wrote a Zen poem on this:
Like a mountain, one character, “master,” stands majestically;
On it alone is the standard established for all rights and wrongs in the world:
All the waters ultimately flow toward the ocean and pour themselves into it;
Clouds, massy and overhanging, finally get back to the mountains and find their home there.
(8) Cases where the masters make meaningless remarks which are perfectly incomprehensible to the rational mind. While most Zen statements are apparently meaningless and unapproachable, the answers grouped here have by no manner of means any relation whatever to the main issue, except that the uninitiated are hereby led further and further astray. For instance, consider this: A monk came to Shishuang Qingzhu and asked him concerning the patriarchal visit, to which the master’s reply was, “A solitary stone in the air!”
When the monk made a bow probably thanking him for the uninstructive instruction, the master asked, “Do you understand?”
“No, sir.”
“It is fortunate,” said the master, “that you do not understand; if you did your head would surely be smashed to pieces.”
Nantai Qin’s answer was, “A tortoise’s hair an inch long weighs seven pounds.”
Yanjiao Dashi’s was, “Today, and tomorrow.”
Yunmen Daoxin said, “A graveyard snake one thousand years old has today grown a pair of horns on its head.”
“Is this not your habitual way of teaching?”
“He who interprets loses life,” replied the master.
Does the Zen-understanding snake bite such a self-complacent monk as this? It is hard to make sense out of these remarks if we are mere literary interpreters. The Zen experience so called must then be such as to annihilate all space-time relations in which we find ourselves living and working and reasoning. It is only when we once pass through this baptism that a single hair of the tortoise begins to weigh seven pounds and an event of one thousand years ago becomes a living experience of this very moment.
(9) Cases in which the masters make some conventional remarks which are not exactly truisms, nor entirely meaningless statements as in the preceding cases, but such as people make in their daily life. As far as our rationality goes, such conventionalism has not the remotest relation to the meaning of the question here at issue. But no doubt the masters here as elsewhere are in earnest and the truth seekers are frequently awakened to the inner sense of the remarks so casually dropped from the masters’ lips. It is therefore for us to try to see underneath the superficial verbalism.
Yueding Daolun gave this answer, “How refreshingly cool! The breeze has driven the heat away from the porch.”
The following three masters referring to natural phenomena may be said to belong to the same order:
Baohua Xian said, “The frost-bearing wind causes the forest leaves to fall.”
“What is the meaning of this?” the monk asked.
“When the spring comes they bud out again,” was the reply.
When Guangfu Tanzhang was asked about the patriarchal visit to China, he said, “When the spring comes all plants bloom.”
The monk expressed as usual his inability to comprehend, and the master continued, “When the autumn comes, the leaves fall.”
Baochan Pu’s answer was also concerned with the season and vegetation: he said, “As to the tree peony we look for its flowers in spring.”
The monk failed to get into the meaning of this, and the master helped him by this further comment on botany, “As to the yellow chrysanthemum, it blooms in the auspicious ninth month of the year.”
The monk who apparently liked to talk said, “If so, you are exerting yourself for the edification of others.”
The master’s final dictum was, “Mistaken!”
The statements grouped here are more intelligible than those concerning the tortoise’s hair weighing seven pounds or the river swallowed up in one draught, but the intelligibility does not go very far; for when we consider how they are to explain the meaning of Bodhidharma’s arrival in China, we realize an irrelevancy here, our imagination fails to penetrate the veil of mystery hanging over the entire field. As to making reference to natural events in the interpretation of Zen problems, the literature gives many instances and we are almost led to think that all the masters are naive realists who have no higher idealistic aspirations.
(10) Cases where the immediate surroundings are poetically depicted. The masters are generally poets. More than anything else, their way of viewing the world and life is synthetic and imaginative. They do not criticize, they appreciate; they do not keep themselves away from nature, they are merged in it. Therefore, when they sing, their “ego” does not stand out prominently, it is rather seen among others as one of them, as naturally belonging to their order and doing their work in their copartnership. That is to say, the “ego” turns into a blade of grass when the poet walks in the field; it stands as one of the cloud-kissing peaks when he is among the Himalayas; it murmurs in a mountain stream; it roars in the ocean; it sways with the bamboo-grove; it jumps into an old well and croaks as a frog under the moonlight. When the Zen masters take to the natural course of events in the world, their poetic spirit seems to roam among them freely, serenely, and worshipingly.
A monk asked Datong Ji, “What is the meaning of the Patriarch’s coming from the West?”
The master replied,
The bamboo grove in the front courtyard,
How freshly green it is even after the frost!
When the monk wanted to know what was the ultimate signification of the remark, the master went on in the same strain,
I listen to the wind rustling through the grove,
And realize how many thousands of bamboos are swaying there.
Yangshan Yong’s way of describing the pagoda, perhaps in his own monastery grounds among the mountains, was quite poetic, though the English rendering altogether misses the poetic ring contained in each of the five Chinese ideograms: “A solitary spire which penetrates the wintry sky!”
Tianyi Huitong was another Zen poet who beautifully describes a lonely mountain path which meanders along a purling stream; like so many others, his monastery too must have been situated in a mountainous district far away from human habitation. When asked about the patriarchal visit, he said,
Hanging over a lone unfrequented path,
The pine trees, ever green, cast their shadows.
The monk did not understand and the master added this:
Through a green bamboo grove, in refreshing rustle,
There flows the mountain stream, murmuring and dancing.
“Following this instruction of yours, we shall all be freed from doubt,” the monk thanked.
“Take your time, don’t be too premature,” he was cautioned by the master.
Tianzhu Chonghui who died toward the end of the eighth century gave out many poetic Zen statements, and his answer to this question on the patriarchal visit is a most widely known one:
A grey-colored monkey with her children in arms comes down from the verdant peaks,
While the bees and butterflies busily suck the flowers among the green leaves.
In all this I wish to call the special attention of the reader to the fact that while other Zen masters are altogether too objective and apparently so coolly above the affectional side of life, Chonghui has a fine touch of emotion in his reference to the motherly monkey and the industrial insects. Out of his view of the patriarchal visit to China, something tenderly human gleams.
(11) We now come to a group of singular cases, the like of which can probably not be found anywhere in the history of religion or philosophy. The method adopted by the Zen master in the following cases is altogether unique and makes us wonder how the master ever came to conceive it, except in his earnest desire to impart the knowledge of Zen Buddhism to his disciples.
A monk came to Mazu and asked, “Transcending the four propositions and one hundred negations, please tell me directly what is the meaning of the patriarchal visit to this country.”
In the master’s answer there was nothing “direct,” for he excused himself by saying, “I am tired today and unable to tell you anything about it. You had better go to Zhizang and ask.”
The monk went to Zhizang as directed, and proposed the question:
“What is the idea of the Patriarch’s coming from the West?”
“Why do you not ask the master about it?”
“It was the master himself who told me to come to you.”
Zang, however, made the following excuse, “I have a headache today and do not feel like explaining the matter to you. You better go to our brother Hai.”
The monk now came to Hai and asked him to be enlightened.
“When it comes to this, I don’t know anything,” said Hai.
When the monk reported the whole affair to the master, the latter made this proclamation, “Zang’s head is white while Hai’s is black.”
Whatever Zen truth is concealed here, is it not the most astounding story to find an earnest truth seeker sent away from one teacher to another, who evidently pretends to be too sick to elucidate the point to him? But is it possible that Zen is cunningly conveyed in this triviality itself?
Fenzhou Wuye asked Mazu, “What secret spiritual seal did the patriarch transmit when he came from the West?” As this is differently worded, it may seem to differ from the question under consideration, but its ultimate sense comes to the same. In this case too, Mazu, the teacher of more than eighty fully qualified masters, resorted almost to the same method as the one just related. For Mazu excused himself again from answering the inquirer by saying thus, “I am busy just now, O venerable monk; come some other time.”
When Wuye was about to leave, the master called out, “O venerable monk!” and the monk turned back.
“What is this?” said the master.
Wuye at once understood the meaning and made bows when another remark came from the master, “What is the use of bowing, O you block-headed fellow?”
Qingping Lingzun asked Cuiwei Wuxue, “What is the meaning of the Patriarch’s coming from the West?”
“Wait till there is nobody about us. I will tell you then.” After a while Zun asked again, “Nobody is here now.”
Instead of answering this, Wei took the monk with him to a bamboo grove. Seeing the master still in silence, Zun the monk reminded the master of the question and of there being nobody about them. Wei then pointed at the bamboos and announced, “What a long bamboo this! And what a short one that!” This awakened Zun’s mind to the realization of Zen truth. When later he came to preside over a monastery, he told his monks how kindheartedly his late master exercised himself for the sake of others, and how since then he did not know what was good and what was not.
This last case reminds one of Guizong Daoquan’s observation about stones. When the monk asked the master if there was any Buddhism in the mountains of Jiufeng Shan where he resided, the master answered, “Yes.” The monk’s further inquiry brought this from the master, “Bigger stones are big, and smaller ones small.”
(12) Cases where the master makes the questioner perform an act. This method has not been resorted to so very much in the present case as in some other cases. I have just one or two examples to offer here. When Longya Judun first saw Cuiwei, he asked, “What is the meaning of the Patriarch’s coming from the West?” Cuiwei said, “Kindly pass me the chanban over there.” When this was handed to Cuiwei, the latter took it and struck Longya therewith. Longya later went to Linji and asked him the same question. Linji ordered him to perform a similar act as if they were in consultation beforehand. Linji said, “Please pass me the cushion over there.” When this was done, Linji struck him with it just as Cuiwei did with his chanban. In both cases, however, Longya refused to accept the treatment as proper, for he said, “As to striking, they may do so as much as they please; but as to the meaning of the patriarchal visit, there is none whatever in this.”
The following case may not be classed exactly as belonging to this group; there is something in it which reminds us of the cases mentioned under (11). When Letan Fahui asked Mazu about the patriarchal visit, Mazu said, “Softly, come nearer.”
The questioner approached, and was boxed by Mazu who said, “Six ears are out of harmony today. You’d better come tomorrow.”
The following day Hui came into the Hall of the Dharma and accosting the master implored to be edified on the subject.
Mazu said, “Wait till I get up on the platform when I will testify for you.”
This proved to be the eye-opener to the monk, who then declared, “I thank you for the testimony of the whole congregation.”
So saying, he went around the Hall once and left.
A monk asked Muzhou Zong about the Patriarch’s coming from the West, and the master answered, “Why doesn’t that monk come nearer?”
The monk approached, and the master wondered, “I called upon the one from the east of the Zhe and what has the one from the west of the Zhe to do with me?”
(13) Cases in which answers are merely indicated with no definite settling of the point raised in the question. This is generally the case with most answers given by the Zen masters and in this respect their answers so called are no answers at all in the logical sense of the word. Mere poetical descriptions of objects one sees about, or suggestions to perform a certain act, are not at all satisfactory to those who have been educated to look for conceptual interpretations in everything they encounter. The cases enumerated here thus partake of the general characteristic of all the Zen statements. The reason why they are grouped here as one special class is chiefly that they do not properly fall in with any of the other cases already mentioned. The reader will understand this when actual examples are given.
A monk approached Zhu’an Gui with the inevitable question about the patriarch, and the master answered, “While the eastern house is lighted, the western house sits in the dark.”
Failing to understand this, the monk asked for further enlightenment. The master added, “In the case of a horse we saddle it, but in the case of a donkey we let it turn a millstone.”
Tiantong Huaiqing’s answer was, “Don’t get sand into your eyes.” When asked how to take the statement, the master said, “Don’t get water into your ears.”
Taoyuan Xilang’s rejoinder was a grim one, for he declared, “If there is any meaning in it, cut my head off.” When asked why, he reasoned, “Don’t you know the teaching, ‘Give your life for the Dharma’”?
Yungai Zhiyong’s reference to an old stone monument gives one some hope to get into the idea he had of the patriarchal visit: “The inscription on an old monastery stone is hard to read.” Does this refer to the difficulty of explaining to an average mind the matter in any intelligible way? For he added when requested for further comment, “Readers all wrinkle their foreheads.”
As I remarked elsewhere, Chinese is the language of Zen Buddhism par excellence. As its grammatical connections are very loose, much is often wholly left to the reader’s imagination and judgment, and for this very reason an apparently indifferent expression from the mouth of the master may grow laden with meaning. For instance, when Chengxin Cong answered, “The foot passenger thinks of his journey,” was he thinking of the patriarch’s journey to China? Or did he intend to liken the monk’s attempt to understand Zen unto the hardships of a traveler on foot, over the stormy roads, for which China is notorious? Or did he want the questioner, perhaps in a traveling attire, to think of his own doings? The text has nothing explicit about all these possibilities except the bare saying itself of the master. When he was asked to say something further to make the sense clearer, he simply remarked, “Tighten the sandals well.” No more, no less.
To give another example: Chaoming Ze said, “A refreshing breeze is stirred in the azure heavens.” Does it refer to Dharma’s subjective mind in which all the egotistic impulses are dead like unto the vastness of the sky? Or does it refer to the stirring of the wind, the whence and whither of which one is absolutely ignorant? The master’s further statement leaves the question in no better light: “The full moon is reflected in the Yangzijiang.” Does this mean to say that while the moon has no idea to see its reflection in the water, it does so just because there is water which reflects it and will continue to do so whenever there is a moon and wherever there is water, even a dirty puddle of water on the roadside? Was Dharma’s coming from the West like the lunar reflection in the Yangzijiang river? A thought was awakened in him to come to China just as the moon comes out of the clouds when they are dispersed, and he came and taught and died—even as the moon sheds its silvery rays over the waves of the Yangzijiang.
Heishui Chengjing’s idea which is quoted below has something grander and more energetic than the last mentioned which excels in serenity and aloofness. According to Heishui, the meaning of Dharma’s coming to China was this:
How vastly, broadly, infinitely it expands all over the universe!
Look at the illumining Buddha-sun as the murky fog rises and dissipates itself!
When he was further questioned about the functioning of the Buddha-sun, he said, “Even the great earth could not hide it, and it is manifesting itself this very moment!”
(14) We now come to the last group, which, however, may not be the last if we more closely examine all the answers given to the question under consideration, “What is the meaning of Dharma’s coming from the West?” For some more cases may be found in Zen literature, which cannot very well be classified under any of the fourteen groups I have here enumerated. But I believe the above have almost exhausted all the varieties sufficiently to give the reader a general idea as regards what Zen statements are, concerning at least one particular theme. This therefore may fairly be regarded as the last group of answers given to the patriarchal visit to China.
This will then include cases where the masters’ answers are more or less directly concerned with the person of the patriarch himself. So far the answers had nothing to do with the principal figure in the question; but they now begin to take him up and assertions are made about his doings. Still, the answers do not touch the central point of the question, that is, the meaning of the patriarchal visit to China is not explained in any way we of plain minds like to have done. In this respect the cases mentioned here are just as far off the mark as the other cases already mentioned.
Xianglin Chengyuan’s answer was “A long tiresome sitting for him!” Did the nine years’ sitting make Dharma all tired out? Or is this just a general assertion concerning sitting in meditation, including the master’s own case? Or is it an apologetic remark for having kept him sitting so long? One may find it hard to decide which. This is where Zen is difficult to understand by the ordinary way of thinking. Mere words are insufficient to convey the meaning, but as rational beings we cannot avoid making statements. And these statements are at once puzzling and illuminating according to our own insight. But in the case of Zhang Pingshan, the reference is obvious, for he said, “He came from the Western kingdom and disappeared in the land of the Tang.” The next one is concerned with the second patriarch and not with the first. According to Fuqing Wei, “It was not quite hard to be standing in snow; the mark was hit when the arms were cut off.” Evidently in his view the second patriarch’s self-mutilation was the meaning of Dharma’s coming overseas. Or did he mean that the meaning in question was to be realized only after the severest spiritual training? If so, this was not at all an answer to the question, but, one may remark, only pointing at the way to its final solution.
Yue Hua’s answer was, “The Emperor of the Liang dynasty did not know him.” Requested to be further enlightened, he said, “He went home carrying one shoe with him.” This is simply a narration of the life of Bodhidharma, with which Huangshan Lun’s remark is of the same order, when he says, “At the palace of Liang nothing was achieved, and in the kingdom of Wei he was most profoundly absorbed in meditation.”
With these two masters Shangquan Gu keeps company as is to be observed in the following: “He never appeared at the Liang palace; after Wei he went home westwardly with one shoe in his hand.”
Jingfu Riyu’s reply also falls in with these masters: “Nobody knew him when he spent nine years gazing at the wall, but he was heard all over when he returned west with one shoe in his hand.” To further enlighten the questioner, the master added, “If one wants to know about the event in the remote era of Putong, it is not necessary to get an intelligence on the Congling range.”
The Congling is a range of mountains dividing China from central Asia, which Bodhidharma, the first patriarch of Zen Buddhism in China, is reported to have crossed on his way back to India. He was then barefooted and carried one of his shoes in his hand while the other was found in his grave which was opened when the report of his return over the Congling range got widely known among his Chinese followers.
As we can see plainly now, all these remarks have really no connection with the question at issue, which wants to know the meaning or reason of the patriarch’s coming from the West, that is to say, the truth of Zen Buddhism as distinguishing itself from the philosophical teaching of the other Buddhist schools. While the statements touch the life of the patriarch, the masters are not evidently willing to disclose the meaning of Zen in any more intelligible manner than others.
After enumerating all these varieties of Zen answers given to one single question, there is at least one conclusion which we can draw out of them as a most legitimate one. It is this: the truth of Zen Buddhism as symbolized in the coming of the first patriarch to China is something demonstrable by every possible means of expression under human control, but at the same time incommunicable to others when the latter are not mentally prepared for it. The truth can be expressed in words, and also interpreted by action, though it is not quite proper to say that it is thus explained or interpreted or demonstrated. For what the Zen master aims at in giving out those impossible propositions or nonsensical phrases or in performing mysterious movements is merely to let his disciples perceive by themselves wherein lies the truth which is to be grasped. They are all so many indicators and have in fact nothing to do with interpretation or definition or any other such terms as are used in our so-called scientific parlance. If we seek the latter in the Zen answers we shall be altogether off the track. And for this very reason all the contradictions and absurdities which we have seen are made to serve the purpose of the master. When they are understood to be indicators pointing at the one truth, we shall inevitably be led to look where all these diverse hands converge. At the points where they all converge there sits the master quite at home with himself and with the world.
It is like so many rays radiating from one central luminary. The rays are innumerable and as long as we stand at the end of each ray, we do not know to reconcile one ray with another. Here is a range of mountains towering high, there is a sheet of water extending far out to the horizon, and how can we make mountains out of the foams and foams out of the mountains as long as we but see the foam-end or mountain-end of the ray? When Zen irrationality alone is considered, it remains forever as such, and there is no way to see it merged with rationality. The contradiction will ever keep us awake at night. The point is to walk along, with a ray of absurdity, and see with one’s own eyes into the very origin where it shoots out. The origin of the luminary itself once in view, we know how to travel out into another ray at the end of which we may find another order of things. Most of us stand at the periphery and attempt to survey the whole; this position the Zen master wants us to change; he who sits at the center of eternal harmony knows well where we are bound, while we at the furthest end remain bewildered, perplexed, and quite at a loss how and where to proceed. If this were not the case, how could the master be so miraculously resourceful as to produce one absurdity or inconsistence after another and remain so comfortably self-complacent?
This is, however, the way we logic-ridden minds want to read in the answers given by the Zen master. As to the master himself, things may appear quite in another light. He may say that there is no periphery besides the center, for center is periphery and periphery is center. To think that there are two things distinguishable the one from the other and to talk about traveling along the ray end toward the luminary itself is due to a false discrimination (parikalpa). “When one dog barks at a shadow, ten thousand dogs turn it into a reality”—so runs the Chinese saying. Beware therefore of the first bark, the master will advise.
When Luohan Ren was asked as to the meaning of the patriarchal visit, he asked back, “What is it that you call the meaning?”
“If so, there is no meaning in his coming from the West?” concluded the inquiring monk.
“It comes from the tip of your own tongue,” said the master.
It may all be due to our subjective discrimination based on a false conception of reality, but, our good Zen master, without this discriminating faculty, false or true, how can we ever so conceive of you? The master is a master because we are what we are. Discrimination has to start somewhere. It is quite true that gold dust, however valuable in itself, injures the eye when it gets into it. The thing will then be to keep the eye open clear and use the gold dust in the way it ought to be used.
After reviewing all these propositions, suggestions, or expressions as given by the masters, if someone comes to me and proposes the question, “What is after all the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming from the West?” what shall I say to him? But as I am not an adept in Zen, I know not how to answer from the standpoint of Zen transcendentalism; my answer will be that of a plain-minded person, for I will say “Inevitable!” How does this “inevitable” start? Nobody knows how and where and why, because it is just so and not otherwise. “That which abides nowhere” comes from nowhere and departs nowhere.
For nine years he had been sitting and no one knew him;
Carrying a shoe in his hand he went home quietly, without ceremony.5