COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

All Things and Their True Nature

The path preached by the Buddha is that the Tathāgata always abides, without any change, and it is natural for there to be no further cause and effect. It is always unchanging, but to say it’s a single aspect would be inaccurate; it’s not as simplistic as that.

There are mountains and rivers, countless variations, highs and lows, delicious and without any taste, sweet and spicy. Indescribable differences. The same world appears in a variety of ways. During discrimination, there should be thorough discrimination. No equality.

Every day brings change. Each day is a good day, yet each day is different from yesterday. The food also varies, the colors also vary, the rain falls, the wind blows, and storms come. That’s because there are sunny and hot days as well as cold days. However, every day is a good day. Now, when mistaken, be mistaken through and through.

“With a single-minded heart,

I can change my dwelling and leave it behind.

That’s how easy it is to cast off this body of mine.”

A thousand changes, myriad transformations. It cannot be said that there is no discrimination. Yesterday and today, you, me, eyes, nose, ears, and mouth—all of these are distinctive. However, heaven, earth, and I have the same root, all things and I are one. When intimate, be intimate through and through. On the plane of various phenomena, focus on various phenomena; on the plane of ultimate reality, focus on ultimate reality. Do not confuse various phenomena with ultimate reality. And thus, various phenomena are ultimate reality, and ultimate reality is various phenomena.

And yet, “Not falling, not ignoring” has been debated for ages. Sometimes you say there’s no falling under the law of cause and effect and you change into a fox spirit, and sometimes when you say there’s no ignoring the law of cause and effect and you are lucky and are saved. In times of not falling, be thoroughly not falling, in times of not ignoring, be thoroughly not ignoring. However, one may say that not falling is bad and not ignoring is good, or that, it’s about shouldering both together, treating them as one entity, or, perhaps it’s neither about falling or ignoring, so if you all the time say ‘no’ this, ‘no’ that, and the debate never ceases. But it’s merely engaging in delusional discrimination—all of this is due to a desire to protect oneself.

People say things like, “If I do this, I’ll become a fox,” or “No, I won’t become a fox.” Or they might say, “Because I won’t become a fox, I’ll call it ‘not falling into cause and effect,’ or “If I say ‘not falling into cause and effect,’ I’ll fall into being a fox” Some say that being a fox is good, while others say it’s bad... But the real issue does not lie in such matters. The true problem is much, much bigger.

If we were to throw ourselves, along with the entire Earth, into the middle of a sunspot, what would be there? We must take a step forward from the top of a hundred-foot pole. This is truly a matter of the self. It is not an old tale, nor a story from history. That’s why Dōgen said, “stop the intellectual practice of investigating words and chasing after talk; study the backward step of turning the light and shining it back.”

“‘Not falling, not ignoring’ has been debated for ages.” If you are merely speaking of such things, and yet you’ve never even dreamed of the wild fox—you will spend your entire life as a wild fox.

But this wild fox’s tale remains nothing but the wild fox’s tale.

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COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

Eternalism and Nihilism

The following verse is the “Not Falling, Not Ignoring,” after which comes the “The Story of the Wild Fox of Baizhang.” However, according to ancient oral tradition, these two are said to be arranged in a different order – in the first part, there is the “The Story of the Wild Fox of Baizhang” and then there is the “Not Falling, Not Ignoring.” When you read the original case, the story is arranged in this order. So, let’s start with the “The Story of the Wild Fox of Baizhang.”

There is a story about Baizhang. In ancient times, Huaihai was giving a sermon at Mount Baizhang, and among the listeners was always an old man.

One day, even after the sermon had ended, the old man remained there and did not leave. Ekai asked,

—Who is standing before me?

The old man replied,

—I am not a human being. In the past, during the era of Kashyapa Buddha, I was the master living on this mountain and used to give sermons like you. One day, someone asked me, ‘Does a person of great practice fall into causation or not?’ I answered, “No, they do not fall into causation.” Because of this answer, I was reborn as the wild fox for five hundred lifetimes. Master, please grant me your guidance.

Then the master said,

—Ask the question again.

The non-human asked,

—Does a person of great practice fall into causation or not?

Baizhang replied,

—They do not ignore causation.

Upon hearing this, the non-human was immediately freed from the body of the wild fox.

This kōan is the subject matter of this poem.

People often try to understand Buddhism with logic, or with words. However, words keep circling endlessly, like a tail chasing its head. Dōgen said, “The principle of causality is obvious and impersonal; for inevitably those who do evil fall, and those who do good rise.” If one just memorizes this as it is, it falls into the heretical eternalistic view. In modern terms, this would be considered right-wing. Then, if one says that causality does not exist, it falls into the category of nihilistic view. So, to neither fall into causality nor be blinded by causality, is saying that “not falling into causality” is wrong? It is not. If one adheres to “not ignoring causality,” it also becomes a burden. None of these are bad, and none of these are good. Therefore, one must thoroughly investigate the story of Baizhang’s fox.

A Human Life Is One Long Transformation

In essence, all the bodhisattvas of the three worlds and ten directions must take different forms. We too must assume different shapes every day. We too must become wild fox spirits. It won’t work if you lack this ability to transform yourself and wear a dull and monotonous face. You mustn’t have a face like a puppet. Instead you have to assume various shapes, from morning till night. Even Buddha Shakyamuni, in his lifetime, was a master of metamorphosis. All the ancestral masters throughout history were also adept at disguising.

That’s why we must transform all the time.

From the moment we get up in the morning, until the moment we go to sleep, we should keep on changing our form. You become a different person when dealing with a baby and a different one when talking to your teacher. When facing this way, you look like this, when facing that way, you look like that. Every day, we show a different expression on our faces. Even in our facial expressions, we’re transforming every day.

That’s why if three people see me, each of them sees me differently. Some think, “That Sawaki is a kind old man.” Others might think, “He’s a scary old chap.” People see me in various ways. That’s why some might say “He’s handsome,” others might say, “He’s ugly,” some might find me scary, while others might say I’m just a good old guy. That’s because we don’t just wear the same dull expression from morning till night.

We wear different expressions during the day.

We wear different faces.

That’s why humans transform throughout their lives.

The former Baizhang in the time of Kāśyapa Buddha—Clearly, he is today’s wild fox spirit. It’s interesting to turn such stories into a real-life anecdote, like someone being punished and turning into a fox. It is said he spent five hundred rebirths in the body of a fox. However, if we try to investigate the meaning of this becoming a fox in our practice, then that too is interesting—to be a fox.

We are reborn throughout our lives, constantly transforming through life and death. But being like stagnant, murky water that never changes, like water that simply sits there and gathers, where mosquito larvae breed and hatch—that is not good at all.

From the mountains, a small stream trickles down. Then a great ship crosses the Pacific, the water turns into steam and rises into the sky, becoming clouds that carry airplanes. Then comes a heavy downpour, flowing back to the mountains, hitting rocks, running into rivers, becoming waterfalls, turning into ice, and once again becoming clouds.

In this way, we must constantly transform, taking on an infinite variety of forms everywhere.

Our life isn’t just like being pulled along on rails, monotonous and routine. What we’re doing might be even more diverse than that of foxes or raccoons. When it’s time to get angry, we get angry. When it’s time to yell, we yell. When it’s time to laugh, we laugh and when it’s time to cry, we cry. Our lives are indeed truly an apparition. So it’s clear that today we are fox spirits—both you and me.

However, whether this is just a feeling of guilt or not, each of us should reflect deeply and see for ourselves. Even if we enter the same river, there’s a difference between jumping in and falling in. And even if we fall in, there are those who resurface and are active, just like those who jump in willingly. That’s not just an old tale. Whether it’s the work we do or the way we live, we must consider whether we’ve fallen into it or jumped into it. A person who has fallen into the river has no room for composure. They may appear to be just going with the flow, but there’s a difference here: whether they’ll skilfully cut through the water with a strong stroke and swim or drown. They may be drowning but even so, there’s a difference here: whether they’ll skilfully cut through the water with a strong stroke and swim or drown.

So today, it’s clear that we’re fox spirits. This is not some distant issue, neither is it some old fairy-tale. It’s not about some hermit from Mount Baizhang in the times of Tang Dynasty. Each of us should look at what our own fox spirit is doing right at our feet.

If you still fail to understand the truth, You will have another five hundred lifetimes investigating this kōan. If you don’t understand the story of Baizhang’s fox, if it’s still unclear, murky, if you just don’t get it, delve deeper into it for the next five hundred lives.

Each of us must delve deeply into this story, exploring it from every angle, over the span of five hundred lifetimes, if necessary.

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COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

VII. GIVING YOURSELF TO THE BUDDHADHARMA

The Fifth Ancestor’s Previous Life

Among The Verses of Daichi, there is one called “The Pine-planting Practitioner.” In the paintings it’s usually illustrated as a man planting pine saplings in the mountains.

In China, across the river from Jiujiang, there is a place called Huangmei. About thirty kilometers from there, here is a sacred site associated with the Fourth and Fifth Ancestors. The Fourth Ancestor used to live in a small hermitage around there. There’s still the temple there today.

When I went to China, I wanted to visit that temple, but the place was a den of bandits. I argued back and forth with them for quite a while, but in the end I couldn’t go.

When I traveled around China, I used to make a bag about the size of half a tatami mat. I still have it. I would carry it around with me wherever I went, and at night I would get inside it, tie the strings securely, and sleep there.

It was also just about enough to hold my whole body. When I tried to go to that sacred site, I was sleeping inside the bag when someone asked, “Where are you going?” I replied, “I’m going to pay respects to the Fourth and Fifth Ancestor.” The stranger said, “Don’t go there,” and I responded, “Please let me go.” This entire exchange was done through written notes, which I still have. I wrote, “I am a Buddhist. Why should there be any problem with me visiting a temple?” However, he replied, “Sir, you are a Buddhist, and I also believe in Buddha. But that place is already a stronghold for bandits, beyond the protection of our government. Please think it over.” Given the circumstances, I had no choice but to say, “Alright, I’ll head back.” He nodded, and I had to turn back. That was the sacred site of the Fourth and Fifth Ancestors.

Once, when the Fourth Ancestor, was teaching in that area, there was an old man planting pine saplings. The old man asked the master, “Can I learn abut the truth?” The other one replied, “You are quite old. Even if you accomplish the way, you don’t have much time left. Come back in a new form.” The old man agreed and left. As he was walking, he encountered a young woman washing clothes. She was the daughter of the Zhou family. The old man asked her, “Can you lend me your bosom? (I want to be born again)” She replied, “First, you need to ask my father and brother.” But the old man insisted, “It’s enough if you agree.” After that, the young woman’s belly started to grow, and she realized she was pregnant.

So the father and older brother found out that she had become pregnant without a husband, and they threw her out. She went off and found work wherever she could, wandering around from place to place, and eventually gave birth to a child.

But they said, “A child like this is an ill omen,” and threw the baby into the river. The strange thing was that the river carried the baby back upstream instead of letting it sink.

So they threw the baby into the mountains. During the day, birds came and fed it, and at night, foxes and raccoon dogs came and nursed it.

Seeing this, they thought, “Well, this really is something extraordinary,” so they took the child back and raised him.

This, in fact, was the Fifth Ancestor of Huangmei Mountain.

Later, he went to the Fourth Ancestor and received the Dharma transmission.

The place where this happened is known as Hazu Mountain, or Gozu Mountain. The old man planting pine saplings was actually the previous incarnation of the Fifth Ancestor, and that’s why he is called here “The Pine-planting Practitioner.”

Having Nothing to Gain

To plant a young pine tree is, in this world, to accept that you will not attain enlightenment in this lifetime. There is nothing more far-sighted than planting a tree like that. It is hard to imagine anything requiring more patience.

On the way to Nikkō, there is a whole avenue lined with cedar trees. I wonder who planted those trees. Someone must have planted them long ago, but by now they have grown into an enormous avenue of cedars.

Today, though, you hardly ever see anyone planting a whole row of cedars like that. People don’t do such grand things anymore.

If you plant a pine tree yourself, you don’t get to enjoy the income from it yourself. It is something that benefits your children, and then your grandchildren, and then your great-grandchildren. It keeps benefiting generation after generation.

So what does it mean to be a pine-planting practitioner?

It means doing something from which you yourself will gain no benefit, but which will continue to prosper long after you are gone.

That is what it means to plant a pine tree.

What are we doing that goes beyond ourselves? What are we doing for those who come after us?

We should live without being attached to immediate results, and let our actions extend into the future.

So what does the pine-planting practitioner stand for? What does this teach us? Of course it symbolizes “illuminating without facing objects,” that which cannot be known, or that nothing is to be attained.

The Pine-planting Practitioner does things that amount to nothing. This “doing things that amount to nothing”—that alone is absolute.

“I deposited this much in the bank.”
“This much interest was added to it.”
“And now it has become this much.”

That is nothing special. It is just an ordinary matter.

Among all the things we do, we should do things that amount to nothing—things that bring nothing to our own advantage.

We try to make an effort at things that, as much as possible, amount to nothing, and we do nothing but things that amount to nothing. The more something amounts to nothing, the bigger it is. When something becomes something, it becomes a small thing. To amount to nothing—that is something beyond measure. And so, the Pine-Planting Practitioner is not doing anything for his own benefit.

We intend to put effort into something that amounts to nothing as much as possible, and so we engage only in things that are utterly pointless, that yield no practical results—the more useless an endeavor, the larger its scope. When something does have a purpose, it’s quite small in scale. To do something good-for-nothing is an extraordinary undertaking. That’s why the pine-planting practitioner didn’t do anything for his own benefit. This commitment to doing totally useless things is what characterizes the Fifth Ancestor’s previous incarnation. This is precisely where we must apply our efforts, reflect deeply, and truly investigate. And honestly, that’s the real truth.

Even for me, all I do amounts to nothing. I just give lectures here and there, get something wrapped up nicely on a tray. And that’s it. Once I get paid, it’s over. Being a monk is being treated like some entertainer.

On the other hand, even if they don’t give me anything, it’s enough if there is someone who would sit zazen together. However, instead, they give you a measly hundred or thousand yen, and think they’ve paid you for your day’s work. Ha, there are even those who make a business out of going around collecting these daily wages. It’s really pathetic.

Going here and there and not getting anything feels good, really. Getting nothing at all, just doing one’s own thing. There’s nothing more enjoyable than that. Though I’ve been toiling away, thinking I’d just work myself to death without eating, I’m still alive. I work diligently and with all my might, at the risk of my life, for nothing. Fascinating, isn’t it? But there are also those who come around, toss a few pennies like they’ve done you a favour. Some even show up just for that. Ridiculous, isn’t it?

Choose the Losing Side

The way of the pine-planting practitioner is really profound. Usually when a person is invited somewhere, they might think, “I was invited here yesterday, so I must return the favor,” and they bring something. Even if they’re invited, it’s never like being simply invited. In my case, however, I simply go, just like that. I might say, “Oh, yesterday you offered me a real feast” and I could bring something proportionate, something I could give in return while alive. But there’s no need to do such things. Even if you don’t do something in return within this life, you can still do it in the future life. If not in the future life, then in ten thousand, a hundred thousand, or a million years. Returning today what I received yesterday? Nah, I don’t want to such things. When I receive, I receive openly. When I receive, I receive cleanly. “It’s so kind of you. Thank you.” That’s all. That’s how I think.

I’ve been receiving for ten thousand years, no, for whole lifetimes. In return, when it’s truly necessary, I’ll readily give. Until there’s a need, I’ll keep what I’ve received, saying, “Thank you for your kindness. I’m grateful for that,” and call it even. From what I’ve received, I’ll give back. “I’ve worked this much, so I’ll do this much. Take it.” Even the smallest-hearted Japanese can be soft. They’ll say, “No, it’s okay. Don’t be so formal. We’re in this together. When I need something, I’ll let you know.”

But there are also those cunning ones who rely on others’ generosity, saying, “Shall we have a drink? Let’s drink.” Sometimes, what they have hidden in their pocket is worth less than a penny. When it comes to that, you can see through a person’s intentions. They pretend not to have anything, but in fact…

When it comes to such occasions where everyone is being treated, if we can’t contribute, it’s not something we should participate in. If you only have a penny, it’s not enough. Then afterwards, you’ll have to go and redeem the futon and overcoat that you have pawned to pay your share. In such matters, Japanese people generally have a very good sense of accountability. They call on each other honestly. Some may say, “I’m pleasure to work with you again.” There’s no need to say unnecessary things. When they’re called upon, they simply respond. “Thank you.” That’s all. That’s the true spirit of thankfulness.

As a monk I have been getting summoned for many years now, I’m used to it. I know the drill. I’m not responding with any intention other than to be respond. I’m just called, as simple as that. In return, I do all I can to be useful. I’ve been working like that all my life. The first formal position I had was at Yōsenji Temple in Matsusaka city, working as the senior leader, making 2 yen and 50 sen a month for my clothes and supplies. I’d get up at 2 in the morning and put in the work. At that time, whoever was with me never saw me sleeping in. I’d be up at 2, reading my books. During an inspection at midnight, I’d still be up, not lying down. If I were lying down, I couldn’t study. It was not for anyone else’s sake.

At the Daijiji Temple in Higo, I was getting five yen a month for clothing and expenses. This wasn’t ancient times or the feudal era. It was the booming times of 1916, right in the middle of World War I, when Japan was at its peak. And yet, there I was, working my heart out for five yen a month. But what for? It wasn’t for any particular reason. I was just trying to live the monk life and walk the path of dharma. I’m not trying to turn monkhood into a business. If I were into that, I’d be doing shadier stuff, making more money, maybe even keeping five mistresses on the side like some monks do nowadays. I’m not about that idle life, engaging in a lousy business during tough times.

I’ve chosen to become a monk with an aim to taking the loss. I do this with the intention of dedicating my body to the dharma. Here, my resolve is that of the pine-planting practitioner. It’s about enduring futile efforts. When we experience futile efforts, it is futile. When we endure futile efforts, there is no benefit in that. Enduring futile efforts is futile. That is the essence of being the pine-planting practitioner. We must strive not to avoid losses. Yes, there are those who are skillful in what they do. But we should not act skillfully. We should work behind the scenes.

We should try to take the loss whenever possible. Saying things like that might make those who are already clumsy even more so, but if we just leave things as they are, things won’t go well anyway. Those who are good at playing the game usually don’t lose out much. But if you don’t act like a complete fool, you’ll end up gaining something. Sometimes you think, “Oh, oh, this turned out to be good for me,” and you feel disappointed. You meant to give something away for free, but ended up receiving something in return. “I intended to just give something away, but they went ahead and accepted it. Damn it, this wasn’t my plan. It’s frustrating and annoying. But still, I’m a man, so when it’s time to take, I take.” That’s why investigating the way of the pine-planting practitioner is so fascinating. Lately, I’ve really come to appreciate the flavor of these seemingly futile efforts. I somehow feel the flavor of being the pine-planting practitioner. The world is indeed a strange place.

So here is the poem entitled “The Pine-planting Practitioner.”

Taking tiny saplings, he plants them with his hoe.
The Ancestors’ intent is personally realized in the living phrase.
Clouds enfold the twin peaks in their thousand-fathom grandeur—
Speak no more of lodging in a woman’s womb.

The Ultimate Task

Taking tiny saplings, he plants them with his hoe. How boring. You spend your life planting some tiny saplings. Is it good for anything? Nothing. Even if you spend your whole life doing it, it amounts to nothing whatsoever. It’s enough to just plant it. Who benefits from it? The owner gains nothing. Long ago, a pine sapling was planted in the owner’s empty lot. Our whole life is nothing else but taking small saplings and planting them with a hoe. This is our practice of nonthinking.

Without delusional thoughts or discrimination. Just do it. Likewise, practicing the Buddhist path must be done simply for its own sake. Some people ask, “What good does sitting in zazen do?” Do you need a daily wage to practice zazen? People think monks won’t recite sutras without receiving offerings. But the monks just recite the sutras. That’s why they receive offerings.

By doing that the Ancestors’ intent is personally realized in the living phrase. When you engage in the living teaching, that is the ultimate true human form. What we believe in is to believe in the absolute. We must depart from our individualistic concerns, from our personal agendas. We must let go of individualistic concerns, from our personal agendas, and engage intimately in the living teaching of the ancestral intention. By doing that, heaven, earth, and I have the same root, all things and I are one. What we believe in is that heaven, earth, and I have the same root, all things and I are one. The path of our practice just expands, for the benefit of other people. And if we die like that, let it be so. If I were to tell the truth…

It’s about bringing benefit to other people. Is it not worth dying for this? We do not do it for the sake of it something. Such is our spirit. We cannot desire things. If all the monks and Buddhists throughout Japan all at once generated the resolve stronger than me and were willing to risk their lives and strive tirelessly making futile efforts, how powerful would they be? It is worthless to become a monk merely to eat. It is not for eating. We must do it for the sake of the Way. For the sake of this truth, for the sake of this absolute Way, we throw ourselves into it with body and mind, and simply work. With this determination, how much could you be of use? But it’s because monks turn what they do into a business, make it their livelihood, the temple regulations are so carping nowadays. But a person like me who does not possess a temple, it means nothing at all. Then, you can find food everywhere.

Clouds enfold the twin peaks in their thousand-fathom grandeur. Here, the “twin peaks” refer to Oxhead Mountain.1 The mountain symbolizes the unchanging, and the state of selflessness. This is a poetic expression of the absolute of the universe. In life, there are depths within depths. Beyond those depths, there are even deeper layers. In this way, there exists the eternal truth of past, present, and future.

People tend to think in a practical, cash-now way, like ‘if I do this much, I get this much,’ and ‘if I do this, then this will happen.’ But things in life usually don’t work like that.

The world has changed. The way how people think about the world has changed as well. That’s why, every Japanese must become a pine-planting practitioner. Here it says: “Clouds enfold the twin peaks in their thousand-fathom grandeur,” which is the universe-full great nature. Here exists something called ‘infinity’ that we cannot comprehend, we cannot see it and we cannot hear it. But, there is only this one truth so truly believing in and grasping this single truth, living by it, is our greatest and ultimate task.

But because people tend to form their concepts based on incomplete information, such as things they hear halfway, legends they’ve come across, hearsay, or the few books they’ve read, it says: Speak no more of lodging in a woman’s womb. The pine-planting practitioner was reborn after having been conceived in the womb of the daughter of the Zhou family. “Don’t talk about stories you’ve only heard from others”—this is what is meant by: “Speak no more of lodging in a woman’s womb.”

“Due to having no place to arise from or to go, it is named Tathagata.” This is the true face of the pine-planting practitioner. At the same time, it must be our every single thing we do. There’s no place we come from.

We should live like this every day. It’s not only about the cheap daily wage we get and it’s not about the gains and losses we face every day—as the pine-planting practitioner, we take small saplings and planting them with a hoe engaging directly with the essence of the ancestor’s intention.

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COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

Accumulating Merit and Virtue

The entire universe is like a land of gold. Everywhere you look, there are treasures. We humans are treasures. Our attitudes are treasures. The way we live brings out these treasures. The whole world is filled with treasures. They’re everywhere. Ninomiya Sontoku said, “The inexhaustible treasures fill heaven and earth; dig them up with a hoe, cut them down with a sickle.” That’s what treasures are like.

Once, when a father was on his deathbed, he told his children, “There’s a golden tea kettle buried somewhere on this property. Dig it up.” The family had a field, so after the father died, the siblings started digging every day, working hard, but they couldn’t find anything. No matter how much they dug, they found nothing. Eventually, they got tired and gave up. “There’s nothing here, so we might as well make use of all this digging and plant burdock,” they decided. So they planted burdock, and it grew really well. The roots were strong and thick. They realized that their father’s final message was to teach them that “If you just cultivate the land, it will become a treasure.”

Here, it’s said that: Ten thousand taels of gold lie scattered before you. Whether it’s actually there or not, well, that’s up to each person to decide. But let’s be real, finding ten thousand taels of gold is like finding a needle in a haystack. Usually, what’s right in front of you is just horse manure.

Or maybe you curse the world, saying, “The world is only four feet five inches wide, and I’m five feet tall. Nowhere to even place my body!” There are those who have such hard time too. Each person is complete, possessing the ten thousand taels of gold within themselves. This means that every person has their own treasure. There’s also a Buddhist saying, “accumulate merit and build virtue.” Basically, if we do our best to help others, the world will, in turn, help us.

Ninomiya Sontoku said, “Trying to gather the shallow water in a bath to one side is pointless; if you pull it this way, it just flows back the other way.” Similarly, the concept of the Buddha being perfect in all virtues means that accumulating merit and building virtue is what leads to this completeness. It’s not something that comes from afar; it’s already within each of us. You can’t just take it from someone else.

The Poet Saigyō once wrote that, “Living in the same world, I easily cast aside my attachments with a single shift of heart.” With a single shift of heart, living in the same world, the defiled world of walls, rubble, stones, tiles, and filth transforms into a golden world as far as the eye can see.

If you take a stroll to the riverbank, you’ll find more vegetables than at the market. Edible plants are everywhere. The leaves of plantain are delicious. You can pick a bunch of dandelions and other wild plants, make tempura out of them, and serve them up—they’re really good. Eating them with grated daikon and soy sauce is especially delicious. It all depends on how you use what’s available. Treasures are all around us, but it’s up to us how we use them. We can turn them into poison or medicine, make them helpful or harmful. It’s all about how we use what’s available.

Opium is a poison, but if you ask, “What’s the most effective treatment for stomach issues?” someone might say, “Baking soda and morphine work best.” Poison can become medicine. So, what’s poison and what’s medicine? It’s hard to say. The idea of “ten thousand taels of gold scattered before you” reflects a worldview from the perspective of a Buddha, who sees the world through accumulated merit and virtue. It’s not something an ordinary person might say. From the standpoint of Buddhism, this worldview means seeing “ten thousand taels of gold scattered before you.”

A thousand green willows are veiled in light mist. The saying “ thousand taels of gold lie scattered before you” means the entire world is golden. However, it’s like “a thousand green willows are veiled in light mist” - everything is obscured. So, you can’t tell if it’s gold or not. You can find yourself at a crossroads, but from a Buddhist perspective, it’s always “ten thousand taels of gold lie scattered before you.”

Everyone Is Fully Endowed

In the Sahā World there is neither cold nor heat. That means that things have no fixed nature; they are empty of inherent existence. But when you say, “in the Sahā World there is neither cold nor heat” that doesn’t mean that the world, as it is, has no cold or heat. There are certainly places as cold as Siberia, and there are places as hot as the South Seas. So it’s not that there is literally no cold or heat.

What it means to say that “in the Sahā World there is neither cold nor heat” is that everything is empty of any fixed nature. There is no fixed rule saying what is happiness and what is unhappiness. What makes something pleasant or unpleasant depends on the circumstances.

I happen to like pumpkin. If I eat pumpkin somewhere, I might think, “This is pretty good.” But that doesn’t necessarily mean pumpkin itself is good. I may simply have been hungry at the time. And if I eat mashed potatoes when I’m hungry, they just slide right down my throat. Then I might think, “This is delicious!”

But there is no fixed thing called “delicious” or “tasteless.” It depends on the circumstances.

There is no such thing as happiness or unhappiness. There is no such thing as “good” or “bad,” either. There is no fixed standard.

We ourselves are empty of any fixed nature. Standing in the midst of this emptiness and absence of fixed nature, there is no absolute “good” or “bad.”

So whether something is cold or hot, whether we like it or dislike it, whether it tastes good or bad—none of these things has any fixed nature. All these characteristics arise from our afflictions and karma. In other words, these are just our feelings.

When we look at the world from our own untrained minds, we see all sorts of things: “It’s hot,” “It’s cold,” “This tastes good,” and so on. There are all kinds of things. Whenever there is something good, there is something bad behind it. So in the end, you really can’t tell what is supposed to be good.

There is a story about a man who went around looking for a husband for his daughter. He wondered, “What would make a good husband for my daughter?”

“The sun would be good.”

But the sun can be covered by clouds, so perhaps the clouds would be better.

“No, clouds can be blown away by the wind, so the wind would be better.”

But the wind can be stopped by a wall, so perhaps the wall would be better.

“No, the wind can make holes in a wall, so after all, the wind would make the best husband.”

And so the story ends up with the wind being the best choice for his daughter’s husband.

The traces of the Seven Buddhas remain in India. But it isn’t only India. Everyone is fully endowed; each person is complete in themselves.

The Seven Buddhas of the past are: Vipashyin, Shikhin, Vishvabhu, Krakucchanda, Kanakamuni, Kashyapa and Gautama Buddha.

The traces of these Seven Buddhas are said to lie in India. But the Way is close at hand. There is no point in looking somewhere far away. The gold we are looking for in some distant place has to be brought back to right beneath our own feet.

That is the feeling behind this verse.

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COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

In Japan, when we say jō,1 we think of places like Nagoya Castle or Himeji Castle. A castle is a fortress, something separate from the town.

In China, however, when they say jō, they mean a town. In Japan, we say jōka—the town beneath the castle. The area below the castle is the town, while the castle itself is not a town.

In China, though, the town is inside the castle walls. The area enclosed by the castle walls is the town. So the word jōmeans a town.

Even when you read the Buddhist scriptures, whenever you encounter the character for jō , it means a town. That is why, when a town develops, it spreads outward beyond the castle walls.

Drifting through the three realms, leaving no fixed trace,
At times dwelling in the woods, at times in the city.
I wander east and west through flower streets and willow lanes.
On the ancient road, a gusting wind lifts the dust.

This is what is meant by the three realms: the desire realm, the form realm, and the formless realm.

What we call the “three realms” is simply the realm of desire, the realm of form, and the formless realm. The world of desire is where we want all kinds of things, where we want to possess everything and make everything revolve around ourselves. That is what we call the five desires.

So, if you go to a place where the five desires are at the center of everything, the world of form and the world of desire become more and more shallow and superficial.

For example, even if a cherry blossom blooms beautifully, if you can see it with your eyes, that does not mean you have attained even the first stage of dhyana. It doesn’t mean that merely eating your rice with your mouth is something extraordinary.

As one goes beyond the first stages of dhyana, things become increasingly refined. And then, in the formless realm, there is no longer anything with a physical form. There is simply consciousness itself.

So the formless realm is without form. It is simply consciousness. And because there is nothing that can be grasped as an object, it is called the formless realm.

The realms of desire, form, and formlessness—these are the three realms. We wander through these three realms—the desire realm, the form realm, and the formless realm. “Drifting through the three realms, leaving no fixed trace.” This is true for each of us. Where are you intending to go? Life is purposeless. We haven’t come here with any specific purpose in mind. There’s no purpose at all. Why did we come this far? It’s not because we thought about what to do. We just came here.

“What do you intend to do?” I don’t intend to do anything. I surrender myself to what is, going or staying at its will.

Where there’s an affinity, don’t force things. That’s how it’s been for me—where I’ve gone and what I’ve ended up doing.

Well, I started out by going to Eiheiji and becoming a monk. When I no longer felt any connection with Eiheiji, I ended up in Amakusa, in Kyushu. I stayed there for a while, but it wasn’t really my place. Then I went to Tango, then Tamba, then Enshū, and so on.

Later, I got into studying. I started out in Ise. Then I went to Yamato. After that, I went back to Ise again, and then withdrew to Yamato to hit the books. Then I was drawn to Higo...

There was no particular goal. I just followed wherever I was needed. Once you go somewhere, you can’t just do it half-heartedly. You have to put your whole heart into it. And when you put your whole heart into something, new connections naturally arise. People ask you to help with something, and then you move on to the next thing.

Living Freely Through Change

It’s not about feeling obligated or deciding not to leave town anymore; that just feels too stifling. Being pulled by these bonds, you go wherever you’re needed. That’s pretty much the routine of a bodhisattva.

“Drifting through the three realms, leaving no fixed trace.” It’s probably rare for a monk to have experienced as many different lifestyles as I have. Maybe working at a hot spring resort, or hanging out at the beach with students, or spending time in a mountain hut, or even living on a deserted island for a camping trip.

“Drifting through the three realms, leaving no fixed trace.” Maybe under the trees in a forest, or in the middle of a town. Tokyo is a good place for that, but the countryside works just as well. Kyushu is great, and Hokkaido is nice too. It’s about following the connections and going with the flow, without forcing anything. There’s no need to stick to any fixed plan. Wherever there are connections with living beings, anytime, anywhere, whether it’s in the mountains or in the valleys... But if there’s no connection, then it’s time to move on.

There’s no “must” in this. Saying, “This is how it’s going to be for me,” just feels too tight. Even if you say, “This is how I’d ideally like it to be,” things often don’t go according to that ideal. Look at the life of a priest. Born in a temple, and ending his life there too. Empty as a bamboo tube, but if there are connections throughout the three realms, you can roam leisurely. You make that temple your own. You make it your place. And then, you pass it on and move on to the next.

At times dwelling in the woods, at times in the city. You might have a temple in the countryside, and another in town. Preaching in both places, to different audiences. If you’re always dealing with the same kind of people, it gets monotonous and boring. For me, it’s interesting to encounter all sorts of situations and people. While I teach in established places, my followers aren’t always fixed. They come in all varieties. They aren’t yet set in their ways. They’re just raw human beings, and I encounter that a lot. Now, students and salaried workers haven’t solidified their beliefs yet. I don’t think about what a temple should or shouldn’t be. I just ramble leisurely.

So, I encounter all kinds of people. There are elderly women and men who are traditional Buddhist followers. There are those of high status and those of low status. There are monks and nuns. There are scholars and the uneducated. There are the elderly and the young. Moving freely among them all, is what it means by roaming leisurely amongst the three realms, I leave no trace behind, at times dwelling in the woods, sometimes in the town.

I wander east and west through flower streets and willow lanes. This town is intertwined with everything. From the center of the city, I traverse east and west through flower-filled streets and willow-lined alleys.

On the ancient road, a gusting wind lifts the dust. Here, the ancient road symbolizes our true nature, original scenery of our mind. And it varies in countless ways. It takes diverse and myriad forms, freely adapting and thriving.

I don't know whether this poem was composed in Kyoto or perhaps in a town somewhere around Hangzhou in China. Anyway, it is simply something composed in the city.

Everything is endlessly varied. I suppose human life is like that too—full of all kinds of differences and changes. And perhaps, looking at all of this, one can only stand there in amazement.

COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

A Life With No Purpose

It doesn’t matter if you have just one small temple. You can spend the day going out into some remote village and conducting the evening service, then return to your little temple at night, sit down, and practice zazen. That is perfectly fine. There is nothing wrong with that.

I have a disciple in Kyushu, and even there, three or five people come every morning to sit zazen with him. It’s an interesting thing.

As long as you just keep sitting, there is no need to go off somewhere else. You don’t have to become the abbot of some great temple. There is no particular need for anything like that.

If you simply keep at it without slacking off, people will naturally come to follow you.

Confucius said, “the virtuous man will not long remain lonely.”

By day, wandering through remote villages, begging for alms. By night, returning to the woods to sit in meditation. In other words, during the day you practice takuhatsu, begging for food; at night, you sit in zazen.

Having left home, you tread the Way of the Ancients. This was the purest kind of life in former times.

Clad in a rag robe, you inherit Kāśyapa’s transmission. Among the robes worn by monks, the funzō-e, the rag robe, is the finest. Funzō means making a robe out of discarded rags—stitching scraps of worn-out cloth together to make a monk’s robe.

“Clad in a rag robe, you inherit Kāśyapa’s transmission.” And with that, you are already a perfectly respectable monk.

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COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

VI. THE WHOLE UNIVERSE IS THE GOLDEN LAND

A Life Beyond Convention

The life of a Buddhist practitioner should, by and large, be something completely unconventional.

Why? Because people in the world work in order to make a living. Or they strive for honor and recognition. They worry about doing things that will make people laugh at them, about how they can get ahead in the world, about how they can eat good food, about going to cooking classes to learn how to make food taste better, or about what they can do to live a long life. They are always talking about things like that.

But for a Buddhist practitioner, none of that really matters.

When it comes to food, we say: “a monk’s mouth is like a cooking stove:” whatever is put into it, you accept. It doesn't matter what it is.

As for the body, it is like a clothes rack—you simply wear whatever someone puts on you. It doesn't matter.

And as for getting ahead in the world? What does that matter? I don't give a damn about anything like that. So when I go to someone's house, I sit up above and speak to them from above.

Even if I go to the home of a cabinet minister, when I am there to teach the Dharma, I don’t go crawling in from below saying, “Yes, sir!” I don’t preach that way. Even if I go to the home of the prime minister or the education minister, I don’t go groveling at their feet.

That doesn’t mean that my social position is higher than theirs. If you look into it and strip everything down to the bare facts, there is really nothing special about it. It is actually quite a strange thing.

Whether a monk is something special or not, what sense does it make, anyway? No matter how rich family a priest visits, being a priest has nothing to do with money, in the first place. Since monks have nothing to do with money, it’s not an easy task to deal with the wealthy, without any regard for money. Most rich people can’t handle it either. Rich people have nothing to rely on but money. So, when a monk engages with them without relying on money, they can’t stand it. They make a sour face when they’re asked for money. But if you don’t ask them for money, they have nothing to exercise their authority. “I’m truly sorry, but could you consider donating to this cause…” Even if you put a donation book plated with a golden cover in front of them, even if you didn’t say how much they should donate, they would make a sour face. That’s why I’m against receiving money from the rich. If I’ll bring them a cushion for zazen, they won’t forget about me. Or if I bring them some book, they’ll be impressed.

It’s different with a person of the Way. It’s not about becoming some fancy priest or anything. It’s just about walking your own path.

Take Ryōkan, for instance.

Nowadays, everyone’s all “Ryōkan-sama, Ryōkan-sama,” but back in my day, we just called him Ryōkan-dōnin.1 His way of life wasn’t something you understand from a regular Joe’s perspective. Even your average monk might scratch their head. What do monks usually do? Study, right? And why? To climb the ranks, become the head priest. And what’s all that zazen for? Someone said, “My master became the godō2 in the head temple. The fourth generation godō.” But does being godō really matter all that much, anyway?

The Realm of Liberation

Ryōkan was really special. No fancy titles, no fat wallets, just plain old Ryōkan. And yet, he was something else, truly great. So, where did his greatness come from? Well, picture this: he’d go out for alms, play with kids, forget his bowl, and wander back. One time, he even played hide-and-seek with the little rascals, got tricked by them, and they all went off and left him behind. It was getting dark, but there he was, still sticking his head into the woodshed, and no one came to look for him. Then, someone strolls by and asks, “Hey Ryōkan, what are you doing?” he said, “Come on, don’t be silly. If you yell, those kids will find me!” That’s the kind of foolish person he was, but where did his greatness really come from? He wasn’t hung up on anything. Competition? Nah, didn’t matter to him. And get this, he didn’t even realize how good he was at writing or poetry. He was just him, and that was greatness, plain and simple. It’s quite something, isn’t it?

Or someone like the beggar Tōsui. He spent his whole life looking after lepers, always thinking of others before himself.. He lived his whole life as a beggar, yet still managing to be a great person. That’s something people just don’t get. Why would he do such a thing? And there are probably others, like that one who spent his whole life spinning yo-yos. All kinds of people out there, no doubt about it.

Here, the turtle sheds its shell and flies into the sky symbolizes this kind of out-of-the-ordinary life. If someone composes a poem like “When a man sets out with a purpose to leave his hometown, he cannot tread its soil again until he achieves his goal,” and then climbs the ladder of success, well, that makes sense. But diligently practicing and then just sitting in the mountains with cedar trees as companions, and meditating with rabbits and monkeys as one’s companions – it just doesn’t add up. It’s absurd.

Why bother studying, then? Passing some fancy exam. I had someone come to me once, all excited because he had passed some fancy exam, saying, “Today was the announcement of the results of the high-level exam. I was so excited, I couldn’t stay home and study. I came to hear your sermon to calm my nerves.” Sure, he’s become someone important now, passing that high-level exam. I get that. But studying or practicing just to be used by society? It doesn’t make any sense.

So, when we talk about the turtle shedding its shell, it’s an incredible story about a creature with a jet-black shell ascending straight to heaven. This is what we call the realm of liberation, or an extraordinary way of life.

Then, turning somersaults atop Mount Sumeru. Speaking of Sumeru, well, it’s the highest mountain in Buddhism, and it says that if you do a somersault on top of Mount Sumeru, it’s like doing a mid-air flip. Now, flipping your body at the peak of human achievement, at the very zenith, means you’re not bound by anything at all.

Living Beyond Worldly Concerns

So, the next line gives an example of it: Just then, this old monk sits by the hearth, Burning dung for fuel and cooking yams. An earth stove, or jirō is a hearth dug in the ground, used as a stove. In Kyushu, the word “jirō” is still used in local dialect to refer to a hearth. It’s called an art stove even when it’s on top of a mountain. Mongolians dig an earth stoves inside their tents and sleep around it.

There is also a story from the past, about a monk named Lanzan (Jpn. Myōsan) from the Tang Dynasty, who was living in the mountains and burning dung in the earth stove. “Gomoku” refers to burning dung. Although it’s called “gomoku,” in places like Mongolia, they often dry horse dung to use as fuel.

Anyway, there’s this lazy monk, just sitting there roasting sweet potatoes over a dung fire... chomping down on these Tang dynasty spuds like they’re gourmet treats. Suddenly, the imperial envoy arrives. And Lanzan standing there, with snot dripping from his nose, not even bothering to wipe it off. If an ordinary person behaved like that, that would be a real mess. An envoy has arrived, after all – that’s a big deal. But Lanzan, he’s doing backflips on the peak of Mount Sumeru, he’s like a turtle shedding its shell, ascending to the heavens—honestly, it’s absurd. It’s not like he’s got nerves of steel or anything. He’s not weak either, just kind of.... spaced out, munching away on sweet potatoes with snot hanging from his nose—completely lost in his sweet potato bliss.

The imperial envoy, astonished, said, “Wouldn’t you consider wiping your nose?” But there was no sign of him even thinking about it, busy as he was munching on the sweet potato. The envoy, bewildered, reported back to the emperor, who, in his benevolence, decided, “Since that monk loves sweet potatoes so much, let’s secretly plant some in the mountains for him.” Thus, the old monk was indirectly cared for from afar. Similar story can be found in Japan, in the case of Daitō National Teacher, the founder of Daitokuji.

In any case, such detachment from worldly concerns isn’t unique to just Lanzan. It’s not just about Tōsui or Ryōkan. “The turtle sheds its shell and flies into the sky, Turning somersaults atop Mount Sumeru.” It’s as if this monk Lanzan, just like this old monk who sits by the earth stove, burning dung to cook yams for a meal, embodies it.

Well, the preferences can be seen as good if you say they’re good, and bad if you say they’re bad. It’s truly a subtle matter.

COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

Master Dōgen’s Insight

Somehow, when being an educator, a religious teacher, or a government official becomes a business, things start to get rather strange.

You go to an inn, and when they ask, “What is your occupation?” you say, “A monk.” A profession called “monk” is quite a remarkable thing in itself.

Making a living by shaving your head and becoming a beggar—that is also a rather unusual profession.

Being a teacher is an interesting profession too.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a teacher.”

Wearing the square robe and shaving my head, I have taken the form of a monk. Menzan in his commentary says for some folks becoming a monk is like upgrading your living situation—from being in a straw hut to having proper tiled house. In other words, they had simply changed professions. What is so great about that? Perhaps one becomes a monk because one is physically weak. But someone who is physically weak cannot possibly work as a full-fledged member of society.

These days, when you hear “square-robed, shaven-headed,” you don't immediately picture a monk. But if one truly casts aside the fame and profit of this world and genuinely lives according to the Buddha's teaching, that is something else altogether.

So if monks are just out and about jostling for status like regular people, it’s no big deal. They’re competing with everyone else in society, vying for social status.

In the Meiji era monks were appointed as judges or given teaching positions, and temple heads were appointed by imperial decree. So it’s all just a walk in the park, right? Anyone could pull off those tricks. And yes, monks put on a robe and shave their heads. But then they go and start assigning hierarchical ranks to their robes, even dictating status by the colour of their clothes. How much money someone gives determines whether they wear a vermilion robe or how much gold they give determines their status. Honestly it’s a bit weird when you think about it in terms of Buddha’s teachings. I don’t get it...

There are also ranks among monks. Thinking of the story when Dōgen went to Song China. At that time whoever came from Japan was made to sit at the very end. Whether it was Dengyō Daishi or Kōbō Daishi, they all sat at the end behind Chinese monks. However, Dōgen didn’t accept this. It’s unthinkable that such a foolish thing would happen. In the teachings of Buddha, ranks are determined by ordination order. It doesn’t matter if you have academic qualifications or a doctorate; you sit according to ordination order. That’s how it’s determined.

However, in Song China, they made the ones who came from Japan sit at the very end. Dōgen didn’t accept this. He petitioned the emperor three times and finally got the hierarchy sorted out. Now that’s a good story! Makes sense, right? Monks having a hierarchy just doesn’t add up. Being smart doesn’t automatically make you respectable. And being forgetful doesn’t make you more spiritually enlightened either.

Even if someone is praised as someone remarkable, whether they are a person of capacity or not doesn’t matter. Monks asking about who might be the most capable. That makes sense? “I appreciate your personality and ability.” So what? “You’ve got a nice voice.” Well, it’s not like having a bad voice is preferable, but having a good voice…well. “I’m a bit embarrassed to say, but I’ve got a good voice.” That’s the same as saying you’re well-educated or have a good memory. If you have a good voice, use it for the sake of the Dharma. If you have a good memory, serve the Dharma with your good memory. If you have a healthy body, use it for the Dharma. If you’re a capable person, serve the Dharma with that ability. It’s not like being capable means you’re good, it’s just about having some ability, and it doesn’t mean you’re superior or anything.

The Blessings of Human Life

That’s why Daichi says: Why should I still bustle after profit and fame? In the past in Japan, there have been competitions for prestige among monks. You’ve got monks from Mount Hiei fighting over their places, or those from Mount Koya scheming to squeeze out more taxes by adding extra rice measures. Then there’s been constant bickering between the monks from Kofukuji and Todaiji in Nara. Todaiji’s monks even kept dogs to hassle the deer from Kofukuji, baiting them with a cheeky ‘woof woof.’ These are the sorts of things you won’t find in the textbooks—just monks being monks, pulling all sorts of shenanigans.

Here Daichi quietly says: “Wearing the square robe and shaving my head, I have taken the form of a monk. Why should I still bustle after profit and fame?” If you’re in the mountains, there’s nothing at all. No noise not even an echo in the valley. There’s no room for vanity up there, no point in trying to show off or compete for fame. When you’re in the mountains, it’s just... nothing.

Once when Dōgen was deep in the mountains, an imperial messenger came to bestow on him a purple robe and formal title, but Dōgen rejected it. He subsequently composed the following poem:

“Though the valley of Eiheiji is shallow,
the Imperial command is weighty indeed.
How the monkeys and cranes must laugh at me—
this old monk in a purple robe.”

Up in the mountains, with nobody around to see, imagine wearing a purple robe. You’d probably have the monkeys and cranes laughing at you. That robe would be shedding tears for sure. And if those monkeys or cranes tried it on? People would think they were some sort of apparition!

So “why should I still bustle after profit and fame?” Once you step out into the world, everyone starts saying, “Oh, that person is so great, he is a big shot, he is a grand master, he is a Zen master,” but up in the mountains, there’s nothing like that.

The mountain has firewood, the valley has water. Being a human, as long as you have a mouth you will have food to eat, and as long as you have a body, you will have clothes to wear. That is what is illustrated in this line. These days, sometimes you’ll find yourself on the mountain without firewood or at the stream without water. But honestly, when it comes to human luck, you can’t do much about it. Just because you want something doesn’t mean you’ll get it. Even if you’re born with a silver spoon, you might suffer from illness or end up facing life’s toughest challenges, while some born without a penny might eat to their heart’s content and never worry about food.

The Winds of the Floating World

Blessings we receive in life are fixed for each person. Even in the time of Shakyamuni, there were monks who didn’t get anything no matter how much they begged for alms. They’d walked miles every day with an empty bowl and come back empty-handed. But then you’ve got Shariputra, who always comes back with a mountain of offerings. One monk said: “Hey Shariputra, you’re so lucky. You always get something every day” Thinking maybe he could tag along and get a piece of his luck, he followed him one day, only to find out that even Shariputra had a bad day and got nothing.

So, he went and cried to Shakyamuni about it. Then, Shakyamuni said to him; “Clean the stupa of the seven buddhas of the past. If you do that, you’ll definitely get something on the day you clean it.” So, he got up early in the morning and went to clean the stupa, and sure enough, that day he got something. He was so grateful. But here’s the thing, in a past life, he was disrespectful to his parents. When they were starving, he told them to eat sand instead. It’s because of that sin that he ended up in this situation. He was a really respected monk, but lacking in merit. So he ended up cleaning the stupa of the seven buddhas of the past every day, but one day, he overslept and forgot to do it. When he woke up, someone else had already done it. Then he went begging, but got nothing. Days went by without any alms. Eventually, they say he died clutching sand in his mouth.

But generally speaking, everywhere you go—not just in the case of Tenkō Nishida—when you go begging, if you carry a broom, you sweep the gates of others’ houses, and if you carry a ladle, you sprinkle water at others’ gates.1 By doing so, you won’t go hungry. In other words, these are the effects of your prior virtuous actions.

Best to nourish the rest of my days in the forest. In the depths of the forest, where the winds of worldly praise and criticism don’t reach, where the pursuit of fame and fortune doesn’t matter. That’s to live in the woods. Dealing with the ups and downs of worldly affairs can be exhausting. That’s why you have to act carefully. No matter how many good deeds you do, if it’s all just for the sake of fame and fortune, it’s not worth much.

“Best to nourish the rest of my days in the forest.” There’s a truly serene, unbound, and completely pure world. You’ve become a monk for a reason, right? So, it’s no use just chasing after fame and fortune, rushing around here and there, indulging in vanity, and in the end, what do you become? It’s pointless.

So here it says: “The mountain has firewood, the valley has water. Best to nourish the rest of my days in the forest.” In other words: we should appreciate the blessings we’ve been given. When you think about it this way, whether you have a grand temple or a small one, if you approach it with this mindset, you truly embody the spirit of putting on a robe and shaving your head adopting the form of a monk. “Why should I still bustle after profit and fame?”

When I was young, there was a temple somewhere up in the hills of Ise Province. Down below was a village. At the time of the equinox, people would bring the temple rice cakes—dango. Since the abbot was there all by himself, they would bring him enough dango to last for several days. But if they brought too many, they would go bad, and that would be a problem.

So when the abbot thought, “If they bring me any more than this, it’s going to be a nuisance,” he would go up to the bell tower and shout so that the whole village could hear:

“Hey! You don’t need to bring me any more dango! Bring me some rice instead!”

Then the villagers would say, “Hey, the abbot is shouting again. Well, all right, I suppose we can’t help it. Let’s not bring him dango—let’s bring him rice instead.”

“Best to nourish the rest of my days in the forest.” That is the kind of reasoning behind it. Hoarding things is not a good thing. And yet there is something very relaxed and amusing about it.

You couldn’t say this to someone with a really miserly, grasping temperament. And even someone who is constantly worried about making a living would feel remarkably liberated hearing a story like this.

“Don’t bring me any more dango!”

These days, you probably couldn’t say something like that. Even if you thought, “These are going to go bad,” you would probably still say, “Oh, thank you very much! These are fine dango!” or something like that.

“Don’t bring me any more dango!”

There is something wonderfully carefree about that.

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COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

Immersing Oneself In Samadhi

This is a poem about religion as our daily life. Zen is our daily life. It’s not an ideology. That’s why it says: With an axe I split four or five bundles of firewood. You clean the lavatory or cook a meal. You scour the pot or grow vegetables. If you are in charge of catering, you fulfill that role. Each one on their own position, not losing sight of themselves in their role. This is how a person of the Way lives.

When you visit a Zen temple and go to the bathhouse, there is a Buddhist statue enshrined there. In the kitchen, there is something enshrined again. At the well, something is enshrined. Even in the toilet, you find another Buddhist statue enshrined. Once, a young Shingon monk asked, “Oh, is Zen a polytheistic religion?” I replied, “You certainly know a lot.” After studying all sorts of doctrines— monotheism, polytheism, atheistic philosophy, pantheism, and so on—you come out with, “Uh, is Zen a polytheistic religion?”

Zen is not simply a polytheistic religion. That is why Zen can be made into monotheism, atheism, polytheism, or any kind of “-ism.” It can be bath-heating-ism, rice-cooking-ism, bathing-ism, bell-striking-ism, road-walking-ism, nose-blowing-ism, and toilet-using-ism. It is every kind of -ism, and yet it is not any one -ism. In other words, each person becomes wholly absorbed in samadhi in the work assigned to them. This is the essential function of every Buddha, the functioning essence of every ancestor. It is not something distant.

Since this is a poem, the number of words is limited—“With an axe I split four or five bundles of firewood. Knife in hand, I trim two or three stalks of greens.” Do not profane this self. This is what is called samadhi. Such is the lived realization of a person of the Way.

What enlightenment is there to attain? “Why achieve enlightenment? Why attain awakening?” Whether it is enlightenment or nothing at all, this foolish fellow—the person of the Way—simply goes along with whatever comes. No need for enlightenment. No need for bodhi wisdom. No need for Paradise.

This, I believe, is Daichi’s instruction, delivered in the form of a brief and witty poem.

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COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

Blinking and raising the eyebrows. This line refers to the time when the Buddha held up a flower and simply moved his eyebrows. At that moment, Mahakashyapa gave a broad smile. This is what is meant by “raising the eyebrows and blinking.” The Buddha then declared, “I possess the treasury of the True Dharma Eye, the ineffable mind of nirvana. Now I entrust this to Mahakashyapa.”1

As expressed in the poem “Dedicated to Master Keizan,” this indicates that “The Dharma bloodline reaches back beyond the Seven Buddhas. Shakyamuni and Maitreya too are your descendants.” If Shakyamuni and Maitreya are but descendants, then here I am, seated now upon the lotus pedestal. Raising the eyebrows, blinking—this is none other than the treasury of the True Dharma Eye, the ineffable mind of nirvana, entrusted to Mahakashyapa. Yet receiving or entrustment itself is of lesser importance. For us, the fundamental issue lies in realizing the self. Upon the lotus pedestal, I sit now in the form of Vairocana. It is a matter of knowing oneself—in essence, awakening to one’s own true mind.

To transmit the Dharma is to transmit oneself to oneself; it is simply becoming oneself—“the essential function of every buddha, the functioning essence of every ancestor.” In other words, it is the king of samadhis. Or, in my own words: it is the self doing the self by the self. To imagine that there is something to be received from others, or something to be entrusted to others, is merely to dwell within relative truth.

The preceding two lines of the poem “Dedicated to Master Keizan,” which I mentioned before are “Upon the lotus throne is the body of Vairocana. In heaven and on earth, you alone are the Honored One.” The real issue lies in discerning when exactly one slips off the lotus pedestal that each of us is already fully endowed with. Jiun of Katsuragi2 once said, “Why do you rush so much when cleaning? Because of that twisted nature which wants to finish quickly and then enjoy a rest.” Here, the very act of cleaning itself is the lotus pedestal.

One of the monastery roles is that of a person, whose duty is to heat the bathwater. Once, during an ordination ceremony, the waterman happened to be an elderly monk who couldn’t manage much else. He had once been a sailor—or perhaps more like a peasant—with a face difficult to describe. In any case, he wasn’t the sort one would place at the center of the main hall performing ceremonial duties, nor did he own fine garments. So, the role of heating the bathwater suited him well enough.

However, he was a little foolish. He thought to himself, “The abbot is mocking me by assigning me to heat the bathwater.” Sulking, he stormed into the purple chamber and refused to come out. As a result, the bathwater went unheated for quite some time. Confusion spread: some monks asked, “What’s the matter?” while others answered, “He’s sulking and refusing to heat the bathwater.” This caused quite an uproar.

I Alone Am The Honored One In The Heavens And On Earth

Even if the task is only heating the bathwater or cleaning the latrine, one should fully take on the role assigned. That is precisely where you embody Vairocana seated upon the lotus pedestal. When it is time to cook, be the cook; when it is time to guard the treasury, be the guardian; when it is time to keep records, be the scribe; when it is time to receive guests, be the host. There is no need to avoid duties that don’t suit your preferences.

Often, when I visit a small country temple, I find novice monks serving as my attendants, bringing meals and carrying trays. They will often say, “You’re fortunate.” To which I reply, “I am fortunate— but what about you?” They answer, “Oh, I’m not doing so well.” I respond, “That’s not good. If you declare it so, then of course it won’t be good.”

However, whenever I visit a more prestigious temple, I am received as an honored guest. They greet me at the gate, light a large stick of incense, strike the great bell with a resounding gong, and bow deeply. Then they offer me slippers, saying, “Please, this way.” I am led to a seat with thick cushions, where I sit for a time, sipping tea from the finest cup they can find, at the highest table. The novices see this and remark, “You’re fortunate.” But if you were in my position, you would quickly realize just how “fortunate” it feels—it’s enough to give one a nervous breakdown.

No matter how often they bow with offerings in hand, it cannot make up for anything. What is “lucky,” after all? To be well is not something to be sought elsewhere. You are already fine where you are. This is what is meant by “upon the lotus pedestal, in Vairocana’s form.” Each person, without slighting their role, must simply stand firmly on the ground beneath their feet. That is what is called samādhi.

This is the true meaning of “I alone am the honored one in the heavens and on earth.” Even when cleaning the latrine, in that very act I alone am the honored one in the heavens and on earth. Yet among monks, there are those who, even after becoming abbots, fall far short of embodying this. Even among head priests, some, after attaining their position, still lack this sense.

“I alone am the honored one in the heavens and on earth” is not a title to be earned—it is what each of us is innately endowed with. That is its meaning. “The bloodline flows prior to the seven buddhas of the past. Shakyamuni and Maitreya, too, are descendants of the lineage.” From the highest vantage point, indeed, “blinking and raising the eyebrows are second-hand devices.”

“Striking the mallet and holding up the whisk lead down many byways.” “Striking the mallet” recalls the incident when Shakyamuni, seated in meditation, was met by Manjushri who struck the mallet and declared: “When you truly perceive the Dharma King’s dharma, the Dharma King’s dharma is simply as it is.”Then he raised the fly whisk.

In Zen, it is often said: “To wield the mallet, to raise the fly whisk.”

In the past I lectured on the four realms of reality from the Flower Garland Sutra: the realm of phenomena, the realm of principle, the realm of non-obstruction between principle and phenomena, and the realm of non-obstruction among phenomena. At that time, one monk suddenly flourished a whisk and asked, “Which realm does this belong to?” The scholars sat in silence, utterly at a loss.

Yet whether it is striking the mallet or wielding the whisk, or any number of ways of expression, at heart it is nothing other than the self becoming the self, the self doing the self.

“When patch-robed monks meet, it is altogether different." The word “patch-robed” originated from a practice in ancient China where, much like court ladies produced splendid clothing for officials, the government provided exceptionally ornate robes—similar to modern military uniforms with gold trimmings—to everyone except Zen monks. These robes even denoted rank, akin to appointments by the emperor. Essentially, they were official garments.

However, Zen monks were not eligible for such privileges. Instead, they wore the plain, robe-like garment known as nyoho’e. Those monks without official positions were disciples of Bodhidharma, and they came to be referred to as “ragged-robed monks.” Essentially, to be a monk is to be “ragged-robed.”3

Daichi says that “when patch-robed monks meet, it is altogether different.” Truly seeing the self as it is—this is how a genuine patch-robed monk perceives things. Truly understanding the self lies at the heart of a patchrobed monk’s discernment. It is entirely different from how others perceive it.

The moment you come to the gate, you’re already separated by the Iron Ring Mountain. If you wish to meet me, the place is separated by an iron fence, by thousands of miles. It is about the true encounter of oneself with oneself. It concerns the relationship between oneself and oneself. It is about oneself as a disciple and oneself as a master. There is nothing more to it. This is the matter of encountering oneself.

COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

V. NOT TO LOSE ONESELF

Bustle Itself Is Stillness

Among The Verses of Daichi there is one titled: “Impromptu Verse Composed in the Mountains.” There’s a kōa from long ago long in which Yuezhou Qianfen1 went to the hall and said, “The dharmakaya has three types of sickness and two types of light. Only after passing through these can one sit in peace.’ Yunmen Wenyan stepped forward from the assembly and asked: ‘Why is someone inside a hut unaware of what’s happening outside?’ Qianfeng gave a hearty laugh.”2

The master within the hermitage seeks beyond its walls. It’s a curious thing – one who is within, suddenly venturing beyond. In zazen too, while you sit quietly, the mind often stirs and wanders. Yet, if we ask: when are people truly at their quietest? Perhaps it’s when riding a train. There, everyone nods off with their heads tilted forward, dozing with mouths open—‘ah.’ They seem to sleep so soundly, as though the clatter and rumble around them didn’t exist at all. Sometimes they sleep so well they miss their stop, waking only two or three stations later with a startled ‚Ah…’

The other day, I was on the train with two friends. They were sitting across from me, and before long, both had drifted off to sleep. I gathered up as many of my things as I could and woke one of them. He in turn shook the other awake, though neither of them seemed eager to get up.

Why is it that one can sleep so soundly in the midst of such noise? It’s because there is quiet. The lively place is quiet. Quiet is lively, and lively is quiet. Is it the surface that is lively? Or is it the inside that is lively?

“The master within the hermitage seeks beyond its walls”—abiding without a fixed abode. Where does the soul dwell? There’s no definite answer. So “the master inside the hut ventures outside,” while being within.

Longing For This World

Once, I traveled to China and came upon a place called Qingkaishan. There was a man who had been living for some twenty-five years in a room about the size of ten tatami mats. The room had a small window, like the opening of a train ticket booth, through which he was served—tea and whatever else he needed. After more than twenty years in such a space, he had likely grown hypersensitive. When he stuck his head out of the window, his eyes were piercingly sharp.

I once rented an abandoned temple and stayed there for about three years. During that time, it felt as if my head were shining like a satellite. My awareness grew extremely sharp. In contrast, those who work outside in the world of affairs are free from such sharpened thinking. They have no time to indulge in idle fantasies. “The master within the hermitage seeks beyond its walls. What is found in stillness, he sees amid the bustle.” That is why the master inside the hut goes out, while the master of the outside enters the hut. The pattern is subtle and complex.

Within the hut lies the outside of the hut.

Which is truly within, and which is outside?

Which belongs to clamor, and which to stillness?

Which is agitation, and which is quiet?

The master inside the hut abides in tranquility, yet steps beyond its walls. “What is found in stillness, he sees amid the bustle.” Striving to the utmost, reaching the very height of clamor.

Even on a crowded train, there are those who sit in calm, quietly reading, untouched by the noise around them. I once saw a Westerner translating a text while riding the train. Whether people surrounded him or not seemed to make no difference.

So, then—where do human beings truly find stillness?

A person of the Way does not necessarily dwell above the clouds. Stillness isn’t solely found while in the mountains. The mountains aren’t the only place suitable for meditative equipoise. Even in the mountains, monks sometimes yearn for worldly pleasures, longing for the bustle of the ordinary world—for Ginza.

“Aah, Ginza. If only it were a little closer, I’d hop on a train right now, have a cold drink, and stroll through the glittering streets. But it’s not that simple. From the temple it’s quite a walk, then another hour and a half by train. And the return journey is always tough. Aah, namu amida butsu, namu amida butsu.”

It’s like lying awake at night, debating whether to kill a bug or simply endure its presence.

In the past, people built temples deep in the mountains, believing such places perfect for practice. But those living in modern times might not agree. “Why build a temple way out there, where no one ever comes? If it were in the middle of Tokyo, now that would be something! People would line up! Even with high rent, it’d be worth it.”

So, what exactly is noisy, and what is quiet? Daichi’s point is that it’s a subjective truth—something that concerns your inside. A town isn’t defined just by its location. Just because a place is quiet doesn’t mean the mind becomes quiet. It’s not that simple.

That’s why it is said, A person of the Way does not necessarily dwell above the clouds. “Above the clouds” does not mean living only in the mountains. Even in a quiet place, there is often tumult within.

Wherever the heart remains unattached, there is the mountain.

No delusion or distinctions.

If you are free from delusion and free from thought, if you make no distinctions, then isn’t that already living in the mountains?

The poem is entitled “Impromptu Verse Composed in the Mountains.” That title itself shows how Daichi must have felt—the mountains are not confined to simply being alone in the mountains.

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COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

Kōan and Silent Illumination

Here, “a patched cloth” is called hi [in Japanese]. It is a little larger than a spread-out cloth.1 It usually measures about 3 yards in length and 2 yards in width. You pull it over yourself having inserted paper inside. Not cotton, but just paper filling. This creates a single rectangular garment. You can wear that over your head to keep warm in the cold winter. It is a monk’s winter outerwear.

When winter comes, as you sit, the wind rushes down your neck like a waterfall, sending a shiver straight to your core. Sharp pains strike my side – can’t help it. I have to move a portable brazier to where it hurts, enduring the discomfort. When the pain peaks, the rush of blood to the head soon subsides. This is what is meant by pulling the patched cloth over my head. That’s how Bodhidharma often covered his head. What Kannon wears is slightly different, but similar in essence. Thus, sitting while shielding yourself is expressed as “pulling the patched cloth over my head.”

Zazen must be practiced in this way. It’s about doing nothing. Thinking about kōans is completely out of the question. Pondering “Zhaozhou’s Mu,” “The Sound of One Hand Clapping,” or “The Cypress Tree in the Garden” is like sucking on candy—you’ll only waste your time. That’s not the point. Zazen is simply doing nothing at all. Within zazen, there is nothing but zazen. Don’t add anything extra to it. Even memorizing scriptures or contemplating kōans should not be brought into your practice. Just sit.

About nine hundred years ago, there was a trend in zazen that focused on contemplating kōans, known as kanna. From that perspective, simply sitting silently and doing nothing seemed almost foolish. This silent approach came to be called the ‘heretical Zen of silent illumination,’ precisely because it emphasized just sitting in quietude. In response, Zhenxie Qingliao (Jpn. Shinketsu Seiryō) wrote his Taking Up the Ancient Cases, and Hongzhi Zhengjue (Jpn. Wanshi Shōgaku) composed the Inscriptions on Silent Illumination. Their aim was to show that bringing anything extra—such as kōans or other mental exercises—into zazen was heretical.

However, we tend to find things clearer when there’s some sort of framework established. “I have already climbed so-so meters. A huff and a puff, heave-ho! I’ve already reached so-so station now.” When you climb Mt. Fuji, it’s the same. It’s not an easy task. How far have I covered? Still so long to go? That’s hard. Only about a kilometer left. After reaching around 600 meters, A huff and a puff, heave-ho! Around halfway between the eighth station and the ninth station. A huff and a puff, heave-ho! I don’t know how far I’ve come. I can’t help worrying. No, this is the fifth station, seventh station, no, eighth station, ninth station… You rely on the goal. It’s like saying, “A huff and a puff, heave-ho! Let’s do it!” We find it clearer when there’s a distinction, a boundary set. Otherwise, you lose track of what you’re doing.

Getting Stuck In Monk Habits

For just such a reason—just as horses or cows need fodder—it’s good to have something like kōans to chew on. So it’s helpful to be shown the kōan-fodder and be dragged along the way. However, as time goes by, the question arises about whether you will catch the meaning or not. That’s the issue. But as time passes, will you really become more special? I always say that even as time goes by, our practice doesn’t necessarily become more extraordinary. Well, at least being a monk, your alms might increase. Or you may become skilled at impressing common people. But what happens when you actually grow older?

When I was young, around sixteen or nineteen, I wondered how much more special I’d become by the time I reached twenty-five or twenty-six. But when I got to around twenty-five or twenty-six, I wondered how much more excellent I’d be by the time I was thirty-five or thirty-six. When I was around thirty, someone said, “When Sawaki gets older, how much more special will he become?” However, even when I did get to thirty, I didn’t necessarily become more special. I just got a few more wrinkles. And now, if I try to study all night, I can’t do it any longer. If I stay up all night, my head starts spinning. As we age we don't necessarily become more special. Just maintaining the status quo is the best we can do. Eventually, even our muscles start to deteriorate. If you don’t make an effort to build them, they’ll weaken. Our practice is not something that necessarily becomes more remarkable as time goes by. That's how it's been for me.

In the Flower Garland Sutra it’s written: “At the time of initial resolve one immediately attains perfect enlightenment.” Even for me, when I first became a monk, I was more pure and earnest. As time passes, becoming more remarkable is about becoming socially remarkable, but in terms of religion, it’s only at the time of the initial resolve. It’s true for everything - with time we get used to things. You get used to being a monk too. Once you get used to being a monk, you can also get used to having a temple. “How are things going these days?” “Oh, it’s tough times. It’s because has nobody died, so there are no funerals, you see.”

So you get used to being a monk. You get used to having a temple. I’ve never owned a temple, so I rarely attend funerals. I lack the confidence. Once, there was a widowed lady who attended a funeral in Fukuoka and started crying while offering incense. Watching her, tears started flowing from my eyes too. If a monk is moved to tears while someone else offers incense, then I thought such business wouldn’t be advantageous. I realized I was a clumsy monk.

Since then, I’ve been trying to avoid going to funerals too often. I often cry and it makes me feel uneasy. Therefore, it won’t be a good business. But, well, you get used to funerals too. You don’t have enough tears to cry every day. Then, it’s going to become unbearable when there are a full five funerals in one day. “Ugh, there’s another one done. Another one to attend.” You usually get used to it after the fifth one. Once you get used to it, it’s nothing special. So you get used to being a monk and you get used to doing funerals.2

I thought exactly the same goes for zazen but it doesn’t. Zazen is something you can’t easily get used to. No matter how much you sit, your legs still hurt, and when you’re sleepy, you can’t help it. People say, “For someone like Sawaki sitting in zazen is as easy as blowing your nose and crossing legs is easier than folding your hands.” That’s not true. It’s still the same thing as everyone else after all. It hurts when I cross my legs. It hurts when bone rubs against bone. I endure it. Still, I feel sleepy. It’s the same thing. It doesn’t change that much from anyone else's zazen.

The Scenery of One’s True Nature

You don’t do zazen for any specific purpose. That’s why it says here: “Pulling the patched cloth over my head.” Zazen is about not doing anything. Not doing anything for any purpose is casting “the ten thousand concerns behind.” You stop chasing money. You stop seeking promotions. You stop trying to be attractive among women or men.

If a woman acts like she’s meditating and makes a serious face, she won’t find any suitors. Someone once said, “If you marry a woman who goes to Sawaki’s place, it’ll be tough. They all make fools of men. And after she listens to all those things, she won’t be a good wife. You’ll lose your appetite even for vinegar or konnyaku with such a woman.” It’s true. They can give you a sharp slap. This is casting the ten thousand concerns behind. So nothing’s left. It’s neither about being popular with men nor with women, nor about being particularly agile. Comparing zazen to radio calisthenics is fundamentally wrong. Sheer nonsense.

That’s why you cast aside all affairs. In zazen you become a blank slate, a person who is doing nothing. But we’re always doing something. We do this, we do that. We wonder whether it will bring us loss or profit. Whether we do it with the intention of gain, or just being whimsical. Anyway, we always want to do something. We want to bring something along to our zazen. Going to sleep is casting aside all affairs but you still think in your sleep. Even if you don’t think when you sleep, you can still think when you wake up. However, here zazen is descried as, “Pulling the patched cloth over my head.” You don’t do anything at all. You don’t bring any task into it. You just align your muscles and do it according to the rule. You become like the Buddha in structure, like Bodhidharma in appearance, and do nothing. You just sit like this.

Mind like a wall; eyes like brows. This line symbolizes nonthinking. Even if your mind resembles a wall, it’s not about being absent-minded and forgetting everything. There’s a pattern to it. If you forget everything without remembering anything, it might be dangerous. You might need to be taken to a mental hospital to get a few repairs. In zazen you’re not doing anything. Only remain still. There’s not a hint of stiffness remaining. There’s no tension in the shoulders either. You just sit immobile. Mind resembling a wall, eyes resting in line, like eyebrows. You simply keep your eyes open. This is what is meant by Baizhang’s “Sitting alone on a mountaintop.”

Along the ancient path, wild grasses grow tall. This is our original face, the true scenery of our original nature. Grass grows there, and it becomes overgrown, making it hard to discern. The grass grows thick, and it becomes unclear where the clear path once was. This means that what we create ultimately serves no purpose. What we create becomes nothing. Let the weeds grow tall. The path made by humans has disappeared. It’s just like returning to protohistory. It being so, the houses we once built, those fragile human-made huts, have all collapsed somewhere.

That’s why The house in ruins, its people gone: where is there to return? The house has crumbled. People have died. Everything has returned to nothing. If this Earth, by some happenstance, were to move closer to the sun, everyone would perish in the blaze. Likewise, if it were to stray a bit farther, we’d freeze to death, I reckon.

“The house in ruins, its people gone: where is there to return?” No one is here, no houses either. As far as the eye can see, there’s nothing to see. Nothing to ponder. Just grass growing lazily. From here you reflect on yourself—you study the backward step of turning the light and shining it back.

However, this is the impression when sitting in zazen, so it’s not necessarily as I said, nor is it exactly as you imagine. Poetry is a varied expression of mood, but when I read it again like this, it becomes,

“Along the ancient path, wild grasses grow tall—The house in ruins, its people gone: where is there to return?”

In other words, it’s about nonthinking.

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COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

IV. THE UNDYING PERSON

Midwinter—No Warmth

This is the second vers in the series titled “Reflections While Sitting.” In the Ten Mysterious Discourses 1there is a similar expression: “Before the withered trees and rocks there are many branching paths.”

There’s also a kōan about an old woman who let a monk stay in her hut for some thirty years. One day, she said to her daughter, “Go and give that monk a strong hug.” Whether the girl was pretty or not, I don’t know, but let’s say she was, for the story to fit. Otherwise, it wouldn’t make a good yarn.

So this cute girl, following the instructions, hugged the monk firmly and asked,

“How is this now?”

How would you feel in that moment?

Anyway, after she did as told, the monk stiffly replied:

“An old tree on a cold cliff; Midwinter—no warmth.”2

The withered tree, completely devoid of sensuality. No excitement remained. Like an ancient mummy.

Then the old woman asked the girl, “How was it?” and listened to her report. Upon hearing the monk’s response, the old woman grabbed a stick, stormed to the hermitage, gave him a severe beating, and drove him out. She then set the hermitage on fire, reducing it to ashes.

It’s clear that kōans like Baizhang’s “Qiannu’s Soul Separated” or the mentioned “Old Woman Burns Down the Hermitage” are not literal accounts, but story-like fables. They seem to have been written to convey something deeper. But what exactly do they convey? They suggest that even those who have attained so-called enlightenment can still be clueless. A seemingly good person can turn out to be completely lost.

So, at that moment, instead of saying, “An old tree on a cold cliff; Midwinter—no warmth,” why not just say, “Wow, that’s so darn irresistible!”? That would be obvious. And then, you take the next step: become a monk, eat vegetarian meals, practice zazen—yet remain like a withered tree among frozen rocks, not a trace of warmth in midwinter. Even a warm hug would mean nothing to you.

But there is another step beyond that. It’s not enough to remain “a withered tree among frozen rocks.” In truth, you could say, “That monk is something special.” Yet even being something special is not the end. If you surpass “being something special,” then what remains of being special at all?

It’s interesting to look at the Ten Ox Herding Pictures.3 At first, you chase after the ox’s tail, but no matter where you go, the ox isn’t there. You let it escape, and now you don’t know where it is. You wander around, lost. Then, you notice footprints, or catch a glimpse of the tail, and you exclaim, “There it is!” You finally catch it, but the ox resists, trying to escape.

Gradually, you tame it. Now you and the ox are together, leaning on your staff as it walks beneath you. Eventually, you forget the ox entirely and fall asleep. Finally, you go into town. Even though you walk into town like a fool, the ox is no longer a problem. In the end, it amounts to nothing. It’s just a full circle.

In this way, it’s interesting to reflect again on the line: “By the withered trees and rocks there are many branching paths.” There are often misunderstandings. Even if someone claims to have attained enlightenment, there’s usually something fishy going on. The so-called good guys often have more layers than expected. “Midwinter—no warmth” still represents a transitional period, really. The truth must be ordinary—whether it is that mountain, that river, or that pillar.

If you give a hug to a pillar and ask, “How’s it now?” it won’t reply. Even if there’s not a trace of warmth in midwinter, it won’t claim that warmth exists either. No matter how tightly a pretty girl hugs it, the pillar remains silent. It isn’t showing off. That’s why the meditation hall is often called the Hall for Dried Wood. Monks are lined up like withered trees—but they’re even worse than withered trees because they doze off! A withered tree dozing… surely, there must still be some life left somewhere.

A Matter To Be Resolved Within Oneself

Before the withered tree and crags refers to the zazen hall. And sitting upon a white cloud generally describes a state of mind like this. From the outside, it might look as if you are wrapped in white clouds, but coming to a temple to do zazen doesn’t earn you points on exams, nor does it advance your career. It’s not about enjoying delicious food or seeking comfort. If you ask what it’s all about, well, it’s a rather strange thing to do, I must say. It has nothing to do with gains or losses—the sort we deal with in everyday life. It belongs to a completely different world.

And when you ask what it’s about, then? Well, when you sit quietly, the sounds you hear aren’t the soothing notes of a bamboo flute or the hum of a radio. They are sharp, cutting sounds, as if they are digging into your bones. In summer, the heat makes you feel dazed; in January or February, frost gathers under your nose. If you sit in a cold hall where water drips and frost forms under your nose, it becomes a truly memorable experience.

Sitting upon a white cloud before the withered trees and crags. The whole body is steeped in piercing cold. Sitting quietly, unnoticed. Zazen is about becoming intimate with oneself. It’s your own matter. You cannot sit someone else’s zazen in their place—it simply doesn’t work. Offering something to a priest does not secure your passage to paradise. Religion is fundamentally an internal affair, unrelated to others. That’s why I say zazen is about becoming intimate with yourself.

When you sit quietly like that, unnoticed, the cold really seeps into your bones. “Piercing cold” means sitting with no agenda in the mind. Even monks from the Rinzai school, who say that without three years of zazen you cannot secure a temple, are doing it for the sake of a temple. That has nothing to do with the true sense of “piercing cold.”

I used to think the Sōtō school was great because you could run a temple without constantly sitting in zazen. I figured those who do zazen were doing it for themselves, anyway. But these days, it’s tougher. You have to graduate from Komazawa University to become a first-rank teacher, or at least finish junior high to get anywhere, or otherwise settle for being a fifth-rank teacher within Sōtō.

I used to like the Sōtō school because it didn’t tie running a temple to sitting zazen. If you weren’t really interested in zazen, you simply wouldn’t do it. When I was young, some people would say things like, “Hey, Sawaki, the world is changing. If all you do is read those old-style scriptures and can’t even read a single foreign word, you’ll never get anywhere.” People had opinions like that back then.

I don’t run a temple. I don’t indulge in fancy food, and I don’t chase comfort. First and foremost, I’m a Zen monk, so I sit zazen. That’s how I live. Many of my friends called me stubborn for saying that. I don’t know whether that’s good or bad, but I never considered using zazen to make money or as a form of bait. I guess I’m the only person in Japan who’s sat zazen and got a salary for it—“You sat well; here’s your monthly pay.” I’ve never heard of anyone else being paid for sitting zazen. I don’t know if it will happen in the future, but up until now, it hasn’t.

“Sitting upon a white cloud before the withered trees and crags.” Sitting in zazen is not about making money nor about showing off. It’s just the place where you do zazen. Really, it’s about nothing extraordinary.

“The whole body is steeped in piercing cold.” You become intimate with yourself. You practice zazen just for yourself. I call it “the self selfing the self by itself.” You become your true self. In other words, when you sit in zazen, simply sit in zazen—without any extra agenda. It’s like how you never truly know what you look like when you’re sleeping. If you did, you wouldn’t be sleeping. Similarly, in authentic zazen, you sit in your true form. It has nothing to do with thinking, “Ah, now I’m really practicing zazen.” Whether you’re aware of it or not doesn’t matter.

Unseen By Others

But humans are curious creatures. “Does anyone out there know that I’m truly meditating?” you might wonder. You might even think, “Let’s send a spy to check.” Yet whether anyone knows or not, the fact remains: you are doing it, and it has become part of your life. Just as it doesn’t matter if no one photographs you while you sleep, it doesn’t matter if no one witnesses your zazen.

In the same way you naturally fall into a sleeping posture, the moment your zazen posture becomes fully zazen, that is what is meant by “the whole body is steeped in piercing cold.” You become one with it. Not a speck of warmth remains. This is the state of samadhi.

All is in the state of samadhi. “Samadhi” is a Sanskrit term, but simply put, it’s the state in which there is no distinction between oneself and the universe. It’s as if the self fills the entire universe, or the universe fills the self—there is no universe outside oneself, and no self outside the universe. This is samadhi.

The iron ox does not graze on the grasses of spring. An iron ox often appears in Zen literature. Some people even take “Iron Ox” as their monk’s name. Long ago, there was a samurai named Ban Dan’emon4 who, after becoming a monk, received the name Iron Ox. If you go to Nagano Prefecture, you can see plum trees planted by Ban Dan’emon in Suzaka, as well as plaques he inscribed. There’s also a legend about a great flood, in which a tremendous iron ox was built to help prevent it.

Of course, here “Iron ox” doesn’t refer to an actual animal or anything from zoology. Reading Buddhist scriptures and interpreting them literally is foolish. So, what exactly does “ox” represent here?

In Tokuhō Zenketsu’s5 poem, there is a line that reads: “The hornless iron ox sleeps in Shaoshi.” Here “Shaoshi” refers to the place at Shaolin where Bodhidharma meditated for nine years. From this, it becomes clear that the “iron ox” refers to Bodhidharma. In other words, it signifies non-thinking. Consequently, it is evident that the iron ox represents zazen. However, when I speak of zazen, I do not mean it merely as sitting meditation. And when I mention Bodhidharma, I am not referring to the historical figure. Rather, it is this iron ox that delves into the true self.

Its bellow shatters the full moon in the cold pond. Try to listen to this silent voice in a place where no traces remain. How does one hear this voice? Is it to be tasted with the tongue, or felt with the feet?

This poem is strange and mysterious.

What, then, is it about?

Daichi delved deeply into zazen and expressed the subtle nuances of his own meditative state through poetry. Others cannot fully understand it. I would say it speaks to the very boundaries of his meditative experience—realms that he himself traversed.

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COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

The poem is about our practice of zazen. But what exactly is this thing we call zazen? Strangely enough, many Sōtō Zen monks—whose very vocation should be centered on zazen—sit without knowing what zazen actually is, or how to do it. That’s just odd. Careless, really. It makes no sense at all.

Even those regarded as experts on the Shōbōgenzō often don’t practice zazen, though they lecture about it. They excuse themselves by saying they are too busy poring over the text to find time to sit. Now, isn’t that absurd?

And when they actually do sit in zazen, they immediately begin talking about what it’s good for. They imagine zazen is something you do in order to attain enlightenment. It’s like peering down the stem of a long tobacco pipe, hoping to find some hidden treasure at the bottom.

And then you hear people announcing they’ve attained enlightenment. There’s no shortage of such claims. This person is enlightened, that person is enlightened. If someone becomes a chief priest, people assume he must be enlightened. But the truth is, those who boast of their enlightenment are usually just deluded.

Take a close look at them. Most of them are utterly confused. And the irony is, while they may well be lost in delusion, nobody seems to notice, so no one even bothers to say anything.

In most cases, we simply know too much. And most of the monks who parade their so-called enlightenment are, in truth, just deluded. If that’s the case, then enlightenment is nothing more than a performance—an abstract idea with no real substance. They aren’t truly enlightened at all. No matter how firmly they believe they’ve “got it,” it amounts to the same thing: pretty dull, if you ask me.

It’s especially strange when those who claim enlightenment can’t stop themselves from sinking into despair, drinking themselves senseless, gambling away their lives, telling lies, or even selling off temples at inflated prices. If that is what enlightenment is supposed to look like, I think I’d rather not have any part of it.

Perhaps to anyone listening, who hasn’t seen such things with their own eyes, this might sound like nonsense. But I know from personal experience—such foolishness really does exist. I’ve seen monks who brag of all kinds of enlightenment, yet in the end it is only dullness in disguise.

Dōgen himself never once said, “Go and get enlightened!” What he said was far simpler: “Just sit.”

But Hongzhi (Jpn. Wanshi) spoke of shikantaza saying: “It illumines without facing objects.” In other words, when doing zazen, we shouldn’t intend anything. There’s nothing to aim at. Just sitting. This act of just sitting is non-thinking. This is “good-for-nothing zazen.”

Not long ago, someone came to me and said: “Thanks to practicing zazen, zazen helped me make a baby.” Sounds like zazen is working some miraculous mojo, huh? “We’d been trying for three years since we got hitched, and finally last month—success!” Well, maybe so. But I’ve never yet heard of a baby being conceived as a result of getting spiritually “knocked up.”

Don’t go around saying things like: “My lung disease was cured because I do zazen.” Maybe it was cured, maybe it wasn’t—but it’s not because of zazen.

The Self Becomes Transparent

Zazen is just sitting. And just sitting is the way. But when people hear “just sitting,” they think it’s like doing nothing much: just scraping by, just eating, or just working for free. Like day labor: “Just busting my butt for peanuts. Ridiculous, man.”

I once knew a high-ranking priest who showed me a donation he’d received and said: “Three days of teaching, and this is all I get?” Personally, I’d never say something like that. Sometimes I even cover the cost myself. Just the other day, I turned up at a five-day-long zazen meeting with a hundred yen in my pocket—and paid my way in. You can’t slip in without paying first.

But on the other hand, I wouldn’t think twice about accepting ten grand for a seat either. And just the same, I won’t hesitate to pitch in again. I just do it, without weighing gains or losses.

Whether it’s doing zazen or just living life, it’s not about calculating what you’ll get out of it. That’s the essence of non-thinking—you just do it.

It’s like parents raising their kids, or children showing filial respect to their parents. When it comes from a sense of responsibility and care, you don’t sit there thinking: “Maybe someday the community will give me an award for this, so I’ll do it for that.” You just do it.

It’s like saying: “People put effort into being filial, but nobody gives them an award for it. That’s just nonsense.” But it isn’t nonsense.

Or saying: “I sit zazen and still haven’t had any enlightenment. That’s just nonsense.” But it isn’t nonsense either.

Just sitting in zazen is worthwhile in itself. It’s simply about doing it. But some folks act like they get it—when in fact, they don’t.

Among Dōgen’s waka poems, there is one verse entitled “Zazen:”

Scarecrow in the hillock
Paddy field—
—How unaware! How useful!1

It’s about just sitting. Sitting earnestly. You can’t simply copy someone else’s zazen. That won’t get you anywhere. Instead, make it your own: straighten up with all your might, set your posture, adjust your body, adjust your breath.

In the “Samādhi King of Samādhis” fascicle of the Shōbōgenzō it says:

“Full lotus sitting is upright body, upright mind, upright body-and-mind.”

Straighten the body and mind. Keep the mind upright. Keep the body and mind upright. No-mind, no-thought—munen musō—means to be upright.

Once, when I met my friend Eto Tekirei, he said something interesting:

“Zazen is like ironing. You wash your clothes and then give them a good press. In the same way, every day we get worn out by joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure. They leave us all wrinkled and crumpled. So in zazen, we give ourselves a good ironing. We smooth out all the wrinkles of past, present, and future.”

To have faith in Buddhism means “to purify.” In that case, does worshiping Inari-sama2 count as having a heart of faith? No, it has nothing to do with purification.

Praying “May I be healthy, may my family be safe, may my descendants prosper, may I be rich,” or “May I pass the exam while others fail” is not a pure heart. Even a thief can pray to the gods—that isn’t faith.

Faith means becoming clear and pure, growing more and more still and transparent. And the best way to do that is through zazen. In zazen, things gradually clear.

That’s why Dōgen wrote:

“Illuminated by the moon dwelling

in the mind-water without cloudiness,

even the waves are dissolving

into light.”3

It’s about becoming transparent. The self must become transparent, rather than dyeing it with some beautiful colors. If all you do is become transparent, it may sound silly, but it does get dull. We all crave some kind of pattern or design. It’s natural. That’s why the vaster and more featureless the scenery, the more uneventful it can seem.

Well, when you look at the Amakusa Sea in Kyushu, just as Rai San’yō wrote:

“Are those clouds over there, or mountains, or perhaps the land of Wu or Yue? Around the point where sea and sky meet, faintly visible is something blue, as thin as a strand of hair. I anchor my boat in this vast ocean of heavenly grass, stretching beyond ten thousand miles.”

A boat moves through a place that seems almost empty. That’s because people generally prefer things that resemble miniature gardens. They like bonsai, something they can carry around like a potted landscape. They like trees bent and twisted like sculptures.

Is it a cloud or a mountain? Such grand landscapes are difficult to comprehend. Gardening, too, has many facets, but the more refined it becomes, the more sublime it feels. That is why amateur gardens often resemble miniature landscapes. They place ceramic ducks and raccoon statues, run water from a faucet, create bends and curves, plant trees here and there, and add azaleas, trimming with a hoe. They simply take pleasure in what has been artificially arranged.

You can use costly sand, set up circulating water with a pump, and design a garden around it. There are, indeed, many kinds of remarkable gardens. Some are so meticulously crafted that, at first glance, it is impossible to tell which parts are man-made and which are natural. The moss grows just so, with rises and falls that create subtle variations in height.

In Kumamoto, there’s a garden like that. It consists merely of trees growing on a cliff, with rainwater naturally cascading down like a waterfall into the valley below. The trees on the cliff are positioned exactly as they would grow on a real mountain. Now that I think about it, the person who created it must have been remarkably clever—truly ahead of his time. And there’s not a ceramic raccoon in sight.

The Buddha Way is About Bodily Enactment

Thinking in this way—just as a lover of gardens appreciates their beauty—I believe we are lovers of enlightenment in our practice of Buddhism. Some may think, “If I miss out on enlightenment, what a loss that would be.” But that’s not necessarily so. We all already possess this state of mind, as it is, without the slightest blemish. That is crucial. And so we continue to remain still and clear. We must continue on in this stillness and clarity.

However, we immediately consider it as something to be grasped by our awareness. We think enlightenment is about understanding with the mind, but that is also a mistake. It is not about intellectual comprehension. It is about practicing with the body.

When I speak of practicing with the body, I always refer to being aware of things through direct physical contact, or kakusoku. In this term, the character soku refers to a bodily faculty—that is, sensory perception, the feeling of the muscles, the body itself. This is the practice of zazen.

I always say that when you make an akanbe,4 your feeling is that of akanbe, isn’t it? Rolling your eyes while reciting namu amida butsu would be absurd. It would be ridiculous to flare your nostrils and say “Amen.” Try experimenting with the sensation of your muscles. Give it a go. By doing so, when you put your hands together in prayer, you will feel the sensation of praying. It would be odd to walk around singing erotic songs with your hands clasped in prayer.

Indeed, this sensory awareness must be aligned with the correct mindset. That way, we understand that practice involves attitude, feeling, posture, and mind. This is how we follow the Buddha Way—through sensory awareness, using the body.

So, first of all, correct your posture. With what attitude do you listen to the Way? Whenever I take part in sesshin, I work physically alongside others. We eat together, sleep side by side, and share all activities. The teachings of Buddhist practice encompass how to sleep, how to wake, how to wash one’s face, and how to change clothes. That is why it is said that each of these actions fully embodies “conduct, means, deportment, attitude.” Attitude, form, and appearance—first and foremost, it is crucial to take care of one’s form.

That is why you must practice zazen with your whole effort, not merely sit there idly. You have to commit yourself fully. Zazen is not something to be approached half-heartedly. You must aim with all your might, just like threading a needle. You cannot expect to pass the thread through casually. Aim wholeheartedly, and you will thread it in one go. It is the same with our practice.

Saying, “I go to the temple every month” doesn’t mean much. Saying, “I go whenever I can” doesn’t mean much either. Staying for five days doesn’t mean much. Claiming, “I’ve been practicing zazen with Sawaki for thirty years” is the same. Whether it’s thirty years or fifty, it makes no difference. Even if it’s just for a minute, the important thing is to thread the needle without fail. It is the same with zazen.

Just doing. Being on the path means simply doing it. There is no concern for gain or loss. Non-thinking means not being swayed by delusional thoughts of gain or loss. Simply follow the path. In other words, zazen must not be utilitarian. For me, practising zazen means becoming one with all the Buddhas of the past, present, and future, one with all the ancestral masters. That is why zazen is only about sitting. Simply by sitting, you continue the lineage of the Buddhas. You continue the lineage of the Truth. We should sit with this awareness.

Unsung Heroes

Anyway, the first line of the poem reads: Mind empty, the world still; the whole being rests in suchness. We practice for no particular purpose. Even if there were one, it’s absurd to boast of having meditated extensively, prayed to the Buddha, or attained enlightenment. Such claims verge on a deviant psychology. It’s rather suspicious when people assert that they saw Amitābha Buddha coming to greet them from the Pure Land at the moment of death. It is enough simply to remain ordinary.

There’s an interesting episode when Ryōkan was dying and one person asked him: “Does even a hermit like you experience this suffering?,” to which Ryōkan retorted:

“Now it reveals its hidden side

and now the other—thus it falls,

an autumn leaf.”5

Any way of dying is possible. You cannot say, “I will not die like that.” How one dies is not for us to decide. It could be a stomachache, or any other ailment. So: “Now it shows its hidden side, now the other—thus it falls, an autumn leaf.” This is what non-thinking means. No matter how death comes, it is all as it should be. If there is any uniqueness in the manner of dying, it is but a passing spectacle. Being flashy is simply how it goes. It is like a dream, like passing through the gate of a shop selling Buddhist articles. There is nothing special about it. Ideas such as these do not really matter.

In that case, you need nothing at all. “Mind empty, the world still; the whole being rests in suchness.” There is no me. There is no you. There is nothing at all. As if the entire universe were made of glass. Here, “suchness,” in modern terms, means subjectivity is objectivity, and objectivity is subjectivity. Subjectivity is non-thinking, and objectivity is non-thinking. The universe too is non-thinking. Mountains, rivers, grasses, and trees are non-thinking. In that case, oneself and zazen are non-thinking. This non-thinking, continued and sustained, is like aligning wavelengths. Heaven, earth, and all things are one. Then, nothing stands before you. Whether you have only half-understanding, whether your status is high, it makes no difference. From the vast perspective of the universe, humans are like mould growing on the Earth. A human is not even worth comparing to a tiny insect; he is more like a speck of germ on the nut of a bug.

Therefore, one is a lone lamp shines beneath the sun. We do things that amount to nothing. Great people are often the unsung heroes working quietly behind the scenes. It may sound odd to call them “great,” but truly, nothing is more genuine than being an unsung hero in the background. Those who speak of gain, utility, or personal advantage are liars—nothing but counterfeits.

Lighting a solitary lamp in broad daylight—doing this seemingly worthless thing is the real deal. Reading scriptures may earn offerings, but no one gives offerings for sitting in zazen. “A lone lamp shines beneath the sun.” Zazen done for no particular purpose, good for nothing. Yet precisely because it is good for nothing, it is vast and boundless.

Beyond the realm of one color, the pivot turns. You don’t stop, don’t yield. Doing a thing for nothing is ever-changing, boundless, and infinite.

From the jade tower, a phoenix takes flight. This tower of jewels must be a cage. This is Menzan’s interpretation. Things that seem insignificant can still thrive. We are not doing anything special, not even a bit. From a world where nothing special is done, the phoenix soars freely.

But what exactly is the phoenix? “It illumines without facing objects.” That’s precisely it. Simply doing things that amount to nothing—that’s the real path. To some, it may seem trivial, yet because nothing special is done, that is where the true value lies.

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COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

The Knack For Letting Go

In the Verses of Daichi, there are two titles in a series: “To Someone, in Two Poems,” and this is the first one. It is likely that Daichi wrote it with the intention of instructing one of his students, so the poem serves as a teaching.

I am often asked, “Please teach me something valuable.” Yet teachings that are truly beneficial are not something that can simply be handed over. You must listen to your own way. Your way must be forged by yourself. You might say, “My name’s… erm, how can I…?” But you must deal with your own affairs yourself. Of course, you could talk endlessly about yourself—but does that really help at all?

Someone might ask, “If you were to get a million yen right now, what would you do with it?” Well, I’ve never received such a sum, so it would only be idle speculation. “But what if you end up failing completely?” If I do, I’ll deal with it when the time comes. There’s no telling what will or won’t happen. Day and night are different. Morning and evening are different. When you eat, you eat; when you shit, you shit. There’s no need to get tangled up in endless conjecture. The Way is nothing other than the here and now.

At the cliff’s edge, let go and give your all. We may think something is good, but we can never fully know if it truly is so. When we take ourselves to be a solid “self,” that very notion is beyond our full comprehension. Unless we let go of this sense of self, we cannot understand the Way. Unless we forget this sense of self, we cannot understand the Way. If we cling to this sense of self, we will never understand the Way. As the old saying goes: “Discard the small self, and behold—three thousand worlds are yourself.”

It is said: “If you take one step forward off the top of a hundred-foot pole, your whole body will appear throughout the three thousand worlds.”

The essence of letting go is precisely this—throwing yourself in completely, taking that step forward. If you do not die, you cannot truly live; if you live, you will certainly die. So what kind of person is it that does not die?

When I was nine, my parents died. Then my uncle died. I even saw a man die right after being with a woman in a brothel. I thought to myself: How futile it all is. We are all going to die. So I began to wonder—how can one become someone who does not die? At first, I thought of becoming a hermit. But even that would not work.

Then I began visiting temples. After hearing many sermons, I gradually came to understand: we die because we have this body. Relying on something destined to perish is futile. So, what can be done to escape death? Let go of attachment to the body. Let go of attachment to the self. Cast away personal ego and desire.

By doing so, one comes to perceive the vast working of the entire universe. Indeed, one must embrace everything in the universe as oneself. There lies the wisdom by which one errs in nothing—whether thinking of the past, the present, or the future.

A Roundtable of Extraordinary Men

When I think about it, I find myself imagining how fascinating it would be to summon some of our ancient heroic figures from their long repose and seat them together for a round-table discussion. Characters like Taira Kiyomori,1 Minamoto Yoshitomo,2 Hōjō Tokimasa,3 Hōjō Takatoki,4 Ashikaga Takauji,5 Oda Nobunaga,6 Toyotomi Hideyoshi,7 or Tokugawa Ieasu.8

“Oh, Taira, reflecting on yourself now looking back at the Showa era,9 seeing things with some eight hundred years of insight, what are your thoughts? Please speak freely now.” The show begins. And then I, as the chairman, would say: “I’d like to hear your candid thoughts, Kiyomori.” As I say this, Kiyomori starts to scratch his head nervously.

“Well you see, I must admit I’ve been pretty foolish. I ignored Shigemori’s council. I competed with Yoshitomo, feeling somewhat victorious at first. But eventually, illness struck me, and all my children proved to be of no merit. So, I threw myself into schemes for the welfare of the waterfowl on the Fuji River. From then on the fate of the Taira clan continued to spiral downwards. From the depths of the Kiso Mountains, savage clans emerged, wreaking havoc in Kyoto. And to add insult to injury barbarians like Minamoto no Yoshitsune appeared, leaving a path of chaos strewn in their wake, from Kyoto then to Ichinotani, Yashima and Dan-no-ura. Our clan, once united, has now scattered like dust. Fleeing to the mountains to the south of Kyoto, and then deep into the mountains of Hyūga. It truly was a series of short-sighted endeavors, leaving me sweating in front of you all now…”

Taira Kiyomori would likely choke back the tears as he spoke. It would be nice if someone could write a novel about it. Crikey, how would anyone write about someone being such an amateur in battle.

“Next, Minamoto Yoshitomo, it’s your turn. You may have lost to Kiyomori, but your story was quite glamorous. But looking at it today, do you truly find satisfaction? There are young people here today, so please share something that all gathered here might find helpful.”

Then Yoshitomo, with a nervous expression, would say: “I put too much emphasis on unnecessary things, competing with Kiyomori. Forming an alliance with that Fujiwara Yorinaga, both of us driven by vanity, I went as far as killing my parents and sacrificing siblings just to compete with Kiyomori. I lost in battle. My children scattered like fallen leaves. I barely managed to escape to Mino Province through the snow, but ended up being savaged by a guard dog and everyone was slaughtered…”

Yes, he’d probably say that choking back the tears. It would be interesting if someone could research his life and write about it on the basis of historical references.

“Now it’s your turn, Minamoto Yoritomo. Your father had a tough time, but you, you’re the one who laid the foundation for the shogunate that lasted seven hundred years. But what are your thoughts on it all now? How do you see it from today’s perspective?”

“Well, you know, I was quite stubborn and ambitious, so I ended up killing all my brothers, like pulling the legs off a crab, leaving only myself... I didn’t quite grasp the concept of cooperation. I only cared about my descendants, so I did what I thought was best. And then there was that woman, Masako, always meddling and causing trouble. She was sweet when she was young, but as she got older, she became quite unbearable. I secretly favored one of her daughters and treated her with affection, which led to even more trouble when it was discovered. And in the end, my descendants ended up being thoroughly defeated by the Hojo clan. Well, that’s my life, full of regrets.” Yes, I guess he’d confess it like that whilst scratching his head.

I think if we had a gathering of people like Hōjō Tokimasa and Hōjō Takatoki, they’d all probably open up like that. Even Ashikaga Takauji, seeing his own wooden statue at Sanjo-gawara, might just share his thoughts about it. Oda Nobunaga, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, and Ieasu Tokugawa, these figures often dubbed as great successes or heroes of their time, what did they really accomplish? They were all nothing but ordinary people driven by attachment and self-interest. And when we look back from hundreds of years later or even thousands of years later, where can we find someone who is truly enlightened and righteous? In fact, there are only a few individuals and among them Ninomiya Sontoku10 who can be counted as truly enlightened and righteous.

To Die Without Fearing Hell

People like Ninomiya Sontoku dedicated themselves entirely to serving others. They selflessly devoted their lives to the betterment of society, without mixing their own interests or ambitions into their actions. Ninomiya for example, tirelessly worked for the benefit of others. He did not do anything for himself at all. I think if someone as smart as Ninomiya were to do something for themselves, they would be doing something terribly wrong. He was such a powerhouse, walking to Naritasan Temple11 and then back after having fasted for twenty-one days straight. When he came back, he drank a cup of arrowroot starch gruel, and began surveying the fields. Plus, he had a really sharp intuition. He resembles one of my friends, who would just eat a piece of eggplant and then intuitively know that that this year’s crop would be rally bad. A really smart fellow. But even such a man would not think about his own interest. That’s why he doesn’t achieve the accolade called success in this world. Instead, he’s just totally focused on helping others.

So, the poem says: “at the cliff’s edge, let go and give your all.” In other words, it’s the state of no thought, or non-thinking, something that cannot be used for oneself.

Furong Daokai12 said in his verse:

“At seventy-six years,

My worldly ties suffice.

I do not crave rebirth in heaven,

Nor fear falling to hell after death.

I relax my grip, I’m beyond the three realms.

Unfettered, unbound, I’m completely free.”

He wrote the poem before his death, at the age of seventy-six. And seventy-six years of life is enough. Otherwise, even if you live to be one hundred it will be not enough. Wherever I go is fine. I don’t care if I go to heaven after I die.

Shinran once said: “Is the reciting of the Buddha’s name truly the seed of rebirth in the Pure Land, or is it a karmic cause of falling into the lowest hell? Of such matters I know absolutely nothing.” For him, it was for Amitābha Buddha alone to decide—Shinran had no claim to know. And then he added, “The lowest hell would in any event be my destined abode.”

In other words: I am bound for hell. Amitābha will deal with the Pure Land as he wishes. I do not crave rebirth in heaven, nor do I fear falling into hell after death. My hands are released; I stand beyond the three realms. With nothing to cling to, I dwell outside the worlds of desire, form, and formlessness. All is left to fate, and nothing binds me.

A Shared Human Ground

So Daichi says the same thing—“at the cliff’s edge, let go and give your all.” There’s no need to go anywhere. In your robes, prayer beads in hand, die reciting the nembutsu. It’s not about ceremony or display. Simply die as you can die.

Once, I visited someone who was close to death. He said to me:

“I’ll make a wish to Kannon to restore my health.”

I replied:

“You’re going to die anyway, so there’s no point in clinging to such thoughts. It’s not important. When Ryōkan was dying, he wrote:

“Now it reveals its hidden side

and now the other—thus it falls,

an autumn leaf.”13

“Then please write that for me,” he said.

So I wrote the poem on a piece of tissue paper and hung it by his bedside. There’s no need to overthink things—even about how to die. You have to eat something. But even if you want tofu—if you can’t get it, there’s nothing you can do. Even if you want yōkan—if it’s not available, there’s nothing you can do. I eat what’s there. I keep my mouth open and eat whatever is thrown in. That is what it means by: “at the cliff’s edge, let go and give your all.” Each of us must come to this point in life.

And so, no back-and-forth, not a word exchanged. If I do this, what happens? If I do that, what happens? In truth, nothing really changes. We go ahead and let go, our hands off the precipice. We throw ourselves in completely, and there we awaken.

Once we do this, there is nothing to bargain over or evaluate. There is absolutely nothing. No gain, no loss. No benefit, no harm. Neither good nor bad, neither sweet nor bitter—there is simply nothing at all.

If you wish to see your original face. Rather than attaining enlightenment, it’s much better to simply see who we really are.

Sit on the long platform and keep your mouth shut. The “long platform” refers to the connected benches—each the length of a tatami mat—positioned along both sides of a zazen hall, a room into which one cannot freely enter or leave during an intensive meditation retreat. At the centre of the hall stands a statue of Manjushri Bodhisattva. Generally, such a long platform is called a tan, or sitting platform.

Keeping one’s mouth shut is often symbolized by a pomegranate bud. Encyclopedically, much could be said about the flower, but simply put, the pomegranate bud appears as if it is keeping its mouth shut. That is why the term is often used in reference to sitting silently in zazen. As Daichi says, “if you wish to see your original face, Sit on the long platform and keep your mouth shut.”

This is a dimension common to us all. It does not matter whether one is wealthy or poor. When it is hot, it is hot; when it is cold, it is cold. Sitting quietly in the meditation hall is truly encountering our original face. In other words, we are the extension of Shakyamuni, of Manjushri, and of Bodhidharma—this is what we all share in common. “Cast aside all involvements and discontinue all affairs. Do not think of good or evil; do not deal with right or wrong. Halt the revolutions of mind, intellect, and consciousness; stop the calculations of thoughts, ideas, and perceptions. Do not intend to make a Buddha.”14 Instead, simply sit on the long platform with your mouth shut.

This is shikantaza: just sitting.

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COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

III. A LIFE WITHOUT CRACKS

The Buddha’s Teaching

In Buddhism, there are various ways of classifying teachings, like the hidden and the direct teachings, esoteric and exoteric. There is also the division into Zen and the more general teaching. Moreover, within Pure Land Buddhism, there are distinctions between those who aspire for rebirth in the Pure Land and those who do not, meaning those who seek to be reborn in the Pure Land are referred to as adherents of other-power salvation, while those outside of this teaching are referred to as adherents of the self-power salvation.1 Well, there are various ways of naming things. In traditions other than Zen, the term for a reverent person, who is not a novice monk, is a head lecturer. In the Tendai2 and other traditions, they are referred to [in Japanese] as zasu. Such distinguished individuals who lecture to the general public are called head lecturers or sometimes zasu. This tradition goes back a long way.

When you examine the theoretical aspects of Buddhism you’ll find that starting from its origins in India, it underwent significant transformations as it spread to China and other regions. There’s a linguistic transformation that anyone could recognize when considering it. The reason for that is because Buddhism wasn’t initially an academic pursuit. In India and China, it wasn’t approached as an academic discipline.

Shakyamuni himself would go on alms rounds. There are stories about how certain encounters during his alms rounds led to profound realizations or shifts in people’s perspective. In one of such stories, a wife ran away with another man. The village folk gathered and gave chase. Similar to a Japanese manner, they chased after them wearing headbands and brandishing wooden staffs. Then, they noticed the Buddha sitting in meditation under a tree. Abruptly they quietened down, their demeanor shifted, and in a Japanese manner, they removed their headbands, slightly bowed, and said, “Excuse me sir, but have you seen a man and a woman running away around here?” Upon hearing this, the Buddha serenely replied: “My friends, instead of tirelessly searching for one woman, seek for yourselves.” In response to these words, all thirty individuals attained insight. This is the way the Buddha taught.

But that depends on who’s speaking. The effect can vary depending on whether you’re ugly or beautiful. If you’re ugly, your listener might say: “Mmm, is that really true?” If you’re beautiful, the response might be: “It really must be so.” That’s the issue. This is why you should make effort to be as beautiful as the Buddha. And the perfection of virtue is beauty.

And don’t think it’s just about women; men should strive to be liked too. One must become liked. When you are disliked, you could be scolded like the Buddha did to the men in the story.

So, when it comes to practice, talking about personality or good looks may seem odd, but it’s about becoming a person without any flaws, no matter from which angle you are looked at. You must be like a full moon, impeccable from every side. So approaching the Buddha, first the men took off their headbands and asked, “Excuse me sir, have you seen a man and a woman around here?”. “My friends, chasing after them won’t lead you to anything. Instead of seeking outside, seek within yourselves.” At that moment, everyone attained insight and returned to their true selves.

It doesn’t necessarily mean spending five days in a zazen retreat, eating portions of rice, sweating, bending sore legs, listening to teachings, gradually beginning to understand, only to find you have forgotten it all upon returning home. Then, immediately after arriving in the Tokyo district of Asakusa you run to a Matsuya restaurant and order some vegetarian meal.3 However, after finding out there isn’t any, you give up and go home. The Buddha’s teaching has nothing to do with that sort of thing.

Indian Buddhism

For example, when Shariputra saw the bhikku Assaji4 begging for alms he became inspired. So much so that he aroused a sincere and earnest intention to attain enlightenment. But if I were to go out begging for alms, people might say, “Oh, you there begging for scraps, there’s nothing for you today.” When I was a young kid, I stood at a house entrance for thirty or so minutes, reciting the Merging of Difference and Unity5 and the Precious Mirror Samadhi as many as sixty times, and still didn’t get anything. Snow was falling, and a dog was barking behind me. Sawaki’s voice is not a quiet one. It’s a booming voice that pierces through every corner of the kitchen. Even after repeating the Merging of Difference and Unity and the Precious Mirror Samadhi countless times, there was still no answer. I knew there was someone inside. After about twenty minutes a shabby maid came out and said, “You may go away.” That’s how our begging goes.

When bhikku Assaji was begging Shariputra asked: “Who is your teacher?” Because it was in the times of early Buddhism, Shariputra and Maudgalyayana were searching for a teacher. They traveled far and wide without restraint.

These days, there aren’t many decent people preaching the truth. Mostly, it’s just business. It’s all about money. It seems as though they come to me asking to give a lecture, but they’re really just here for business. “Excuse my rudeness in asking, but what’s the fee?” I’m at a loss here. How much did the Buddha charge for a lecture, heh? It’s ridiculous. How about master Dōgen? What was his charge? That’s not the point, right? How much did Shinran6 charge for chanting nembutsu? For one namu amida butsu about five pence. It’s not like that.

So, Shariputra was inspired by bhikku Assaji’s demeanor while begging. His manner of walking during alms rounds. It inspired an intention to attain enlightenment and so Shariputa hurried to become a monk. That’s a fact; it’s not like listening to modern academic lectures, when you say: “Alright, I get it.” So Shariputra started begging for alms on his own, and started to practice meditation himself, sitting under a tree or on a rock.

Chinese Buddhism

When Buddhist teachings arrived in China, the form evolved into something more scholarly. Well, a temple is essentially a bureaucratic institution, with workers called monastics. Then, there was the White Horse Temple, which was given to the first Indian monks, Kashyapa Matanga and Gobharana, where they translated texts.⁷ The White Horse Temple was the first of its kind. So, it was there that this peculiar phenomenon of translation emerged. In other words, in order to understand Buddhism, one had to engage in translation. Later, figures like Paramartha,7 Kumarajiva,8 and Xuanzang9 emerged, heavily engaged in scholarship and linguistics.

So, when it comes to academic language, translating philosophical, religious, and ethical concepts becomes extremely difficult. For example, let’s take the phrase anuttara-samyak-sambodhi.10 Translating such psychological states or concepts into Chinese posed quite a challenge as it was unclear how to properly render them. Furthermore, there were concepts in India that were not found in China. It was extremely challenging. And they attempted to translate all of these. They kept on translating and couldn’t fully translate them. In reality it’s impossible to do so. At best they’re a reference.

As I often say there’s the Japanese Buddhist term shiki (or rupa in Sanskrit, which means form). When you read the Heart Sutra and encounter the word, it’s difficult to understand it if you interpret it as ‘iro’ (which means color in Japanese). If you read the Heart Sutra in this way, you will get something like this: “Color is not different from sky, and sky is not different from color. The color is the sky, and the sky is the color.” How can you then understand that it’s about form itself is emptiness?11

It’s like that because there is a specific definition related to the term shiki. So, in this way Buddhist studies became extremely difficult. You could spend three years at a Buddhist vocational school, wear a funny square hat all the time and get a glimpse of Buddhism but I really doubt whether it has anything to with being a proficient Buddhist.

I think reading Buddhist texts diligently until the age of fifty-six is quite a task, even if only academically. So anyway, just as there is a definition within the character for shiki (form), there is also a definition within the character for emptiness. Or the character gyō in the term shogyō mu jō (i.e. everything is impermanent). Even if it seems graspable, the exact meaning remains unclear. Therefore, such specific definitions also constitute another field of academic study. Just that alone is challenging to comprehend. It is not easy to understand the complete Buddhist canon. There is the teaching, there is the principle. There is also practice. Within practice there is Zen meditation and then there are the precepts. There is also faith. It’s all extremely convoluted.

Since Buddhism went to China those who studied Buddhism as an academic discipline and those who translated Buddhist texts, and even those who gave lectures on Buddhism after it was translated were all highly valued by the state. What we call “culture” essentially went from India to China. The linguistic and cultural aspect of translation was indeed significant. However, there was also the matter of interpreting the teachings themselves. As mentioned, the individuals who engaged in the study of these teachings were highly valued by the state. So, there were those who practiced individually, and then there were those who studied the doctrine. Those who maintained the precepts maintained them, and those who practiced zazen practiced zazen. And those with faith had their faith. It became divided. Rather like staking out one’s own share. Of course it doesn’t mean that ultimately all these aspects exist separately but there was still this tendency to divide the fields. So various responsibilities were separated, and it all became increasingly complex. As a result, it became too much for most people to handle.

Indeed rather than faith or practice, it was the talent of those who interpreted these aspects, writing extraordinary papers or creating annotations that was greatly esteemed in society. The government also prized this. In contemporary terms it would be like providing subsidies but it wasn’t some paltry subsidy. Palaces were granted to those who undertook translations. They recruited many scholars there. They had them shoulder the translations as assistants or interpreters. In Japan, similar practices were carried out.

In this way Buddhist doctrine spread widely throughout the whole of China, and then to Japan. For instance, there were scholars who specialized in studying the Avatamsaka Sutra, known as Avatamsaka scholars, or those who focused on the Lotus Sutra, called Lotus scholars. There were also scholars of Yogacara or scholars of Abhidharma, each specializing in different fields within Buddhist studies.

And then the scholarly people tended to dismiss and look down at those who were earnestly practicing, those vigorously reciting nembutsu. “You guys, let’s get serious about chanting, alright?,” they would say. They were actually making fun of them – look at that head priest of Chionin temple mumbling “namu amida butsu, namu amida butsu” all year round, or that nun chanting with this weird nasal tone. She sounds like someone with some serious issues. The learned ones were throwing their weight around.

Even now, if you’re studying Buddhist studies and you say you have a PhD in literature, people might react with a sense of awe. I believe they would consider you at the very least more esteemed than Sawaki. Even in China, it’s been like that for a long time. As a result, scholarship has spread very widely.

Doctrine and Zen

Then along came a fellow named Bodhidharma, looking somewhat radical. He didn’t give lectures and didn’t translate anything. He came empty-handed and entered Shaolin temple. At first, he talked with Emperor Wu of Liang. The Emperor was known for his generous support for monks and for commissioning translations of Buddhist scriptures. Legend has it that flowers rained down when he gave lectures on the Nirvana Sutra. (In Japanese tradition, he’s portrayed in a similar fashion to Prince Shotoku). He met with Bodhidharma and asked:

“Who’s the one facing me?”

“I don’t know—replied Bodhidharma.”

So, in the end, the meeting between Bodhidharma and Emperor Wu of Liang came to nothing.

Then Bodhidharma crossed the Yangtze River, which bordered the state of Wei. He left the state of Liang and went to the state of Wei, where he entered Shaolin temple. He didn’t translate anything he just sat still spending nine years facing a wall. Among Bodhidharma’s disciples, the second patriarch emerged, followed by the third and the fourth. And again, none of them engaged in translating the teachings, they were just sitting quietly. People observed them from the outside and called their style “the Zen school,” in opposition to other kinds of denominations which put emphasis on learning the doctrine and are thus referred to “the doctrinal schools.” Well, it could be said so from this perspective. On the other hand, from the point of view of the teachings, Bodhidharma’s brand was called Zen. Dōgen questioned: “Who has invented the name ‘Zen sect’? None of the buddhas and ancestral masters have ever used the name ‘Zen sect.’ Remember, the name ‘Zen sect’ has been devised by demons and devils.”12 Dōgen disavowed the term Zen school. Despite this the label of Zen school is constantly applied to his teachings.

I don’t know whether Daichi, when writing in his poem about the head lecturer, was indicating the tendai or shingon schools but he refers to the doctrine of these schools. In modern terms, it would be akin to referring to them as Buddhist scholars. What exactly do Buddhist scholars do? They discuss things like how many afflictions there are, which wisdom is involved, and the significance of such matters. They also delve into topics such as the three bodies of the buddha—dharmakaya, sambhogakaya, and nirmanakaya13—or which would be an object of worship, or such and such is said in this or that scripture and so forth. Considering that such an accumulation of conceptual constructs is what constitutes the teachings.

There was once a person, for example, who gave lectures on the Nirvana Sutra. In the Nirvana Sutra, there is a concept called “all sentient beings possess buddha-nature” and he gave lectures on this notion of buddha-nature. He said: “Within buddha-nature there are three causes of buddha-nature¹⁵ and the three virtues of dharmakaya.” As these lectures were being expounded there was a certain Kassan serving as the temple cook and he was unable to leave due to a heavy fall of snow. So he stayed and listened to the lecture. After listening to the lecture on buddha-nature in the Nirvana Sutra, Kassan burst out laughing. At the end of the lecture. The cook was summoned. When he came the lecturer asked: “That was you who burst out laughing earlier, right? Did I make a mistake in my lecture?” The monk was quite brazen, and replied: “I wouldn’t say there was a mistake more like that the Reverend doesn’t truly understand buddha-nature.” He was preaching about buddha-nature without truly understanding what it is. Indeed, that seemed to be the case. Just because it’s written in a book doesn’t mean that quoting the meaning from the book has anything to do with buddha-nature. It’s nothing more than repeating the meaning explained in the book. If that’s the case, then what exactly is buddha-nature? It’s not something found within books. It must be the real matter concerning the boundaries of our existence. Instead, the lecturer was just quoting from a book. If we’re just quoting from a book we’re just repeating that this scripture says so and so but the real question is: “Then what?” That being said, the end is there. Good for nothing. It won’t fill your belly.

Zen Deals Only In The Real Thing

So the poem is entitled: “To the Head Lecturer who Turned to Zen.” It’s about a lecturer who—whether he previously belonged to the tendai or shingon sect, I don’t know—changed his attire, and entered the Zen school; and Daichi gives him instructions.

To enter the sea and count its grains of sand is labor in vain. Well, it’s like trying to count the grains of sand in the ocean. If you aim to thoroughly explore it through scholarship, there’s no end to it. If you think you can attain enlightenment just by reading books, there’s no end to it. It must be truly experienced through practicing Buddhism, not just studying it.

By the way, among Zen monks, there are those who speak without prior study. Who being thoroughly unaware that they may be mistaken go on preaching regardless. That’s quite remarkable. There are those who think that they’ve just got a handle on a bit of enlightenment and think that if you crawl on all fours and bark ‘woof,’ that’s how you pass the kōan of Zhaozhou’s dog.14 That’s even plain odd. That’s why it’s like diving into the ocean and counting grains of sand. Nothing but but futile labor. Of course. Just because you say you’re thirsty and shout “water!”, or because you want sugar and shout out “sugar!”, or even if you loudly demand “botamochi!” because you want some, it’s not going to magically fall from the sky.15 The real thing is different from the concept, the tone of voice and color.

In this case, Zen is an affair dealing with real objects. It’s a matter of real things. It’s like a challenge of how real you can be. It’s similar to a person with a speech impediment trying to be eloquent. An illiterate person doesn’t know anything of academia. They don’t know letters or anything, yet they try to express themselves on their own. If I visited a mute barber to get my head shaved, the barber could tao his head with his hands, gesturing as if to say: “You must feel awfully cold now.” He can do this as he’d know how it is in reality. He could express himself genuinely. Then, if I returned, he could express himself in another way. Freshly. It’s always about expressing things anew, not about repeating what one has memorized.

Zen isn’t about memorizing anything; it’s about grasping reality. On the other hand, scholarship is about scribing words. It’s as if you were weaving a fabric on a loom and cut the thread. Now, you start to look for the place where the thread is broken. Before you find it, you fall down dead.

So, Zen is about being real. When you look from within this real thing, there’s nothing complicated at all. It only seems complicated when viewed from the perspective of learning, but then you end up dying before you can make sense of it.

Turning The Light Inward

Then it says: “To enter the sea and count its grains of sand is labor in vain. Once you enter the Ancestors’ room, you recognize you have erred.” He became the student within the lineage of Bodhidharma and saw the actual substance of buddha dharma.

In the Universally Recommended Instructions for Zazen (Jpn. Fukanzazengi)16 too, we read, “do not be suspicious of the true dragon.”17 Conceptually you can talk all you want, but when you actually try it, you’ll be taken aback. So here the lecturer entered the ancestral chamber which means he started to practice Zen.

In cold and warmth, in movement and stillness, know your shame. This is what it means to practice in Zen. Hot and cold, motion and stillness mean that on a hot day, you know it’s hot and on a cold day, you say it’s cold. There must be no gaps in your stance, in your attitude towards life.

The monk has the attitude of a monk, the teacher has the bearing of a teacher, and the merchant has the stance of a merchant. There shouldn’t be even the slightest gap in this posture, this mindset. That’s how you discipline yourself. So, when eating, don’t make unnecessary noise. Even when slurping porridge, don’t slurp loudly. You keep this bearing right from the tip of your head to the toe-nails.

We should maintain the same attitude in the latrine. Men often splash because the place is cramped. It’s like a cat leaving their droppings. It might be fun if you had a place the same as that for cats with a candy box full of litter but you’re not a cat, so even when peeing aim as if you’re shooting a gun. With full concentration. You must aim carefully. In this respect women behave as women should, they understand what it means to be a woman. They have proper manners and comportment. Generally speaking, women are better trained in these matters.

Since the Meiji era,18 Japanese people have not been trained in such a lifestyle at all. It’s enough to memorize the material, that’s all we need to do. Or it’s all about competing to be the first. If it were up to me to take a test I’d get a zero. And then you see a guy scuffing his foot-wear, while making clanking noises, walking around singing strange erotic songs. Is this how those who are the first ones behave? He opens his mouth wide, puffing on the pipe like a steamboat, wearing a slack face.

At the front, at the back, on the left, on the right, whether you lie down or get up, there’s not a bit of carelessness, not a gap, in your conduct. This is what is meant in the Universally Recommended Instructions for Zazen. Whether you walk, stand, sit, or lie down, you never lose yourself.

In other words, rather than seeking outward knowledge, one should look inwardly and examine oneself. That’s zazen! To tell the truth, I don’t even need to talk so much. Just leave me alone, let me sit quietly, if I doze off, give me a poke, if my shoulders slump, give me another poke. That’s all. However, because people need to rationalize everything, there’s no other way than to talk, but actually sitting is the main thing. Sometimes when you go somewhere to practice, instead of doing sitting zazen, they ring the bell loudly and run for a private meeting with the teacher. But what do they do in there? They’re just practicing perplexity. It’s quite strange indeed. Instead of doing such a thing, they should just sit quietly. What does it mean to sit? It’s truly about re-examining oneself.

It is “turning the light inward.” This is Zen self-reflection. Truly re-examine yourself and protect this throughout your whole life from morning to night, whether asleep or awake. Cherish and uphold this attitude without faltering, whether you eat or drink or go to the toilet. Pee in a dignified manner. Every time you raise your foot or put it down, in every situation, even in moments of haste, never lose this self. In other words, as Daichi admonished him:

Don’t lose yourself.

Don’t be careless.

The lecturer had studied Buddhism conceptually. That’s why Daichi said: “Zen is an attitude towards life.” Such was the instruction he gave him. This is a really precious poem.

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COMMENTARY BY KŌDŌ SAWAKI

What is The Purpose of Human Life

Flip the body, topple the Iron Ring Mountain. In other words, this line seems to point to the unfolding of the Buddha’s wisdom. But what does it really mean to unfold Buddha’s wisdom?

What is the true purpose of our life? Without any real purpose, we go on living—eating, dressing well, wanting more money, craving yōkan1 and the best quality rice, chasing success. Living like that is about as pointless as it gets.

So what are human beings actually meant to do? There has to be one great matter—no doubt about it. Yet humans drift along, half-hearted, filling their heads with half-hearted things. And what do they think life is about? Just eating and dressing. Monks, too—they think the goal is simply to have their own temple, and once they’ve become a head priest, they believe they’ve made it.

But there are things we truly must do. Are we really putting our effort into what matters? Or are we throwing our energy into things that don’t? Are we giving only half-hearted effort? More likely, we’re just killing time—playing go, playing mahjong, or cooking up a batch of oshiruko2 to eat. First, we complain we’ve run out of red beans, but if we do get them, we make oshiruko. In the end, we spend ourselves on things that can never really satisfy us.

What truly satisfies is realizing the eternal self. Genuinely facing this is how Buddha’s wisdom unfolds. When this insight arises—when you begin to see with the Buddha’s eye—your whole perspective shifts. It changes completely. That’s what must change: our perspective, completely.

That’s turning the fundamental upside down—turning it upside down and forgetting the self. That is the unfolding of the Buddha’s wisdom. When I say that, you might think, “Ah, that sounds wonderful. I’d like to develop that,” and start plotting how to do it. But even if you try to do it now, isn’t that also pointless? Even if you alone manage it, it’s still pointless. It’s not some competition. It’s not, “No way I’m losing to them—I’ll develop it myself.” That’s not the development of the Buddha’s wisdom.

I often tell the story of a boy who stayed for six years at Oka Sōtan’s3 temple, Shōgenji in Ikami. One day he asked for a private meeting with his teacher. Entering the room, he made three bows and said:

“Reverend Sir, please teach me about the one great matter.”

With a face like a Hannya mask4 like an ogre, the master barked:

“Huh—whose great matter? Whose?”

“Mine.”

“Yours? Just you alone? Who cares about you?! Hahaha!”

I don’t think many people today would know Oka Sōtan, but those who did would agree—he had a truly wicked laugh. That laugh, on his dark face with teeth gleaming white, was like a cockfighting rooster kicking a baby chick. The boy left the room muttering something under his breath. I was sitting in the adjoining room and heard the whole thing. Even now, I sometimes wake to find that unsettling laughter still echoing in my chest.

The Self Filling the Whole of Heaven And Earth

So it’s not just about you. The one great matter encompasses the entire universe. Buddha’s wisdom is not tied to your individual intelligence. It is not a matter of reasoning—yet it is still yours. When you arrive at that place of unparalleled, mysterious design in the pattern, your perspective shifts completely.5 You see the whole world anew. And from there, there is only eternity.

“Flip the body, topple the Iron Ring Mountain.” From there, you take the plunge and do it. It is truly something that turns the whole universe upside down. The symbolism is interesting—you flip your body and topple the Iron Ring Mountain. The mountain belongs to the great mountain range encircling Mount Sumeru.6

Look up at the edge of the revolving sun and moon. You become a person as vast as the universe. In every single action, there is a self which encompasses the entire universe.

Since Daichi was born in the Higo region, I once spoke at an educational gathering in Jitō, in Higo: “Zen Master Daichi is not merely a man of Jitō District. He is a man of Japan. Not only a man of Japan, but a man of the East. Not merely a man of the East, but a cosmic man.”

When I said this, the school inspector was astonished and said, “To praise someone, he went and said something like that!” The dormitory manager later told me about it.

A religious personality must encompass the entire universe. This is what is meant by looking up “at the edge of the revolving sun and moon.” Yet here is a priest completely absorbed in managing his little temple, worrying over its upkeep and nothing more, fussing over memorial services for hungry ghosts. Nothing could be more pitiable than that.

The fellow spends all his time making sure he won’t get fired, finally managing to secure himself a place among the higher-ups and bowing and scraping to them. But then, another fellow, seeing him bowing and scraping, gets cheeky and says, “I’m not going to suck up like that!” And just like that, he gets fired. You can't go around acting like that.

That is why your superiors, too, must be embraced within the entire universe; they, too, are among the sentient beings. And it is from that vantage point that you must view the world.

In the Lotus Sutra we read: “Now, the three realms are all mine; all the sentient beings within them are my children.”7 That is why your superior also belongs to your realm; he is your child. The company president, too, belongs to your realm; he is also your child. In acting thus, you must exercise patience and work diligently, taking care not to provoke your superiors or the president. Bowing and scraping merely to avoid being fired is one matter, but when you recognize that it is all your realm and that everyone is your child, it becomes something entirely different—here, you “look up at the edge of the revolving sun and moon.”

In this land or the Western Heaven, there are no Buddhas or Ancestors. When we speak of the Buddhas, the sages, or the Ancestors, one might immediately think of India—yet it is not about that. Outside the mind there are no things. Even if you search geographically, you will not find Buddhas or Ancestors in India. Nor will you find them in China. They are nowhere to be found except within oneself. It is your concern. It is your own problem to confront.

A mottled cat with a speckled face—this is plainly obvious. It is a mottled cat. The cat has patches. In other words, the eyes are horizontal, the nose vertical.8 Nothing extraordinary about that. The eyes are set horizontally, while the nose protrudes vertically. Chickens walk on two legs, horses on four. It is obvious, isn’t it?

You might think the first two lines refer to something remarkable—“Flip the body, topple the Iron Ring Mountain. Look up at the edge of the revolving sun and moon”—but in truth, it’s quite obvious; it says the same thing. The eyes are horizontal, the nose vertical; you eat with your mouth, smell with your nose, hear with your ears, and see with your eyes. In this very body, this entire universe, the three realms are my domain, and all the living beings within them are my children. As Hongzhi said: “If you know the mind, there isn’t an inch of ground on the whole earth.”9