THE SNOWMAN

A young fellow was seriously interested in Zen. He read everything he could lay his hands on regarding Zen and on Buddhism. He was familiar with the Four Noble Truths, and he did his best to follow the Eightfold Path.

Most important, he was sincere about his meditation, and sat diligently.

One day he said he was thinking about being a Zen monk and felt he needed a strong, masterful leader. He asked if I could provide him with the locations of some monasteries, or serious study centers, in the United States.

Places that were known for their forceful leaders.

As I said, he was a young fellow and couldn’t afford to travel to Burma, or Thailand, or Viet Nam, or China, or Japan.

I gave him information on several centers around the country. San Francisco, Mt. Shasta, Los Angeles, St. Louis, Santa Fe, New York, and others.

He thanked me, quit his job, and set off to look into each of the sites.

Several months later my friend returned from his odyssey.

“How did it go,” I asked. “Did you find a place you could settle in and call home? A leader you could follow?”

He said. “All of them were too rigorous.”

“What do you mean rigorous?”

“The masters were deadly serious. They were stern, painstaking, austere.”

“How?” I asked.

“Each day started at four in the morning and ended close to midnight,” he said.

“There were at least five interminable zazen sittings every day. My legs were killing me. Everyone had to work hard, in the kitchen, or in the garden, or in the latrine. You got enough to eat, but it was all vegetables, and soups, and rice, and tea.

“You had to keep your mouth shut most of the time. Only the master spoke.

“And in some of the places there was only cold water for bathing.”

I didn’t tell him that sort of training was a piece of cake compared to the intense discipline that’s common in an Asian Zen monastery.

“So have you given up on the idea of becoming a monk?” I asked.

“Yes,” He answered. “I’m going to move to Los Angeles. I’ll be the best ordinary Zen guy I can.”

What a brilliant statement.

“I’ll be the best ordinary Zen guy I can.”

That’s the most one can expect, or ever really want. As an example take the renowned Zen layman, Pang.

Pang Jushi lived in China around the time of the Buddha. He was a merchant, and he had a wife, a son, and a daughter, all of whom lived a non-monastic Buddhist life.

Many stories of this notable Pang have been recorded in straightforward language, and they serve as inspiration to all Zen practitioners.

Layman Pang studied under two Chan masters, but never took monastic vows. One of his experiences is recorded in the koan collection called The Blue Cliff Record. It has to do with snow.

When Pang left Yao Mountain, on a winter’s day, the monastery master had several other students escort him to the gate. Pang pointed to the flying snow and said, “These are good snowflakes. They don’t fall anywhere else.”

One of the travelers said, “Well, where do they fall?”

Pang answered, “You call yourself a Chan traveler, but your eyes are like those of a blind man. And your mouth speaks like a mute.”

Think about it.

When Pang was middle-age, he went to study under a master named Shitou Xiqian. As soon as Pang arrived he asked Shitou, “Who is the one who is not a companion to the ten thousand dharmas?”

Shitou put his hand over Pang’s mouth. It was a wordless action that added to Pang’s awakening.

While Pang was at Shitou’s monastery, the master once asked him what he’d been doing in the last few days. Pang answered with the two lines that have become classic in Zen literature.

“How amazing and marvelous. Hauling water and carrying wood.”

One more story.

Pang once attended a reading of the Diamond Sutra, at which the speaker quoted, “No self. No other.”

Pang interrupted to say, “Speaker, if there is no self and no other, who is lecturing and who is listening?”

The speaker couldn’t answer.

Think about it.

When Pang was almost eighty, and was well known in southern China, he became seriously ill. The governor of Ziangzhou visited him and asked, “How are you, my old friend?”

Pang said, “I ask that you regard everything that is as empty, And do not give substance to that which has none. The world is like reflections and echoes.”

Layman Pang was the best Zen guy he could be.

I’m pretty sure my young friend is being the best Zen guy he can be.

Even if he lives in Los Angeles, where there isn’t any snow.

* * * * *

Leaders needs followers.

Followers need leaders.

A person who needs neither is comfortable being a Zen person.

SPINACH

I’d like to talk about what I call kitchen Zen.

That’s a catchy phrase, isn’t it? I’d like to think I made it up myself, but it was probably coined centuries ago. The notion comes from certain writings of Japanese Zen Master Dogen Kigen.

Dogen was born in 1200 and lived to 1253. When he was twelve years of age he entered Senkobo, a Tendai Buddhist monastery.

At that time in Japan, many dedicated scholars were unhappy with the teachings of various Buddhist schools because most of those schools practiced esoteric rituals that had nothing to do with the teachings of the Buddha.

Zen wasn’t widely known in Japan then, so the real thinkers who wanted to dig deeply into the tradition traveled to its birthplace, China.

In China the direct word-of-mouth transmission of Bodhidharma and of Hui-neng continued to be recognized, and in China Zen continued to be what was called a nonexistent clear mirror.

Now that’s a flowery phrase if I ever spoke one. Normally I try to avoid hackneyed Zen lingo so I don’t have to interpret and explain it. However, some terms are so embedded and so central to Buddhism or to Zen that they must occasionally be used.

A nonexistent clear mirror refers back to a verse that’s the core of Zen, so the legend bears retelling.

In the late 600s the master of China’s Yellow Plum monastery told his monks that whoever could write something that demonstrated personal awakening would become the school’s new master. One monk posted the following words on a temple wall:

The body is the Bodhi tree,

The mind is like a clear mirror.

At all times we must polish it,

And not let the dust collect.

Profound stuff, yes? However, a modest kitchen helper—Hui-neng—composed the following words:

There is no Bodhi tree,

Nor is there a clear mirror.

From the beginning not one thing exists;

So where is a speck of dust to cling?

To the master, these lines exhibited such an uncluttered understanding of Zen, he established Hui-neng as his successor.

To get back to Dogen, in 1223 he and an associate sailed from Japan to China. Their landing might have been Tsingtao or Shanghai. For one reason or another, when the ship was in port, Dogen was delayed aboard for several weeks.

One day an elderly Chinese man came aboard. He was not only a monk, but the head cook at Mount A-yu-wang Monastery. He and Dogen hit it off from the start, and the two of them enjoyed many hours conversing and sharing intellectual matters. When Dogen asked the fellow to stay longer, the cook thanked him and said he had to return to his kitchen.

Dogen asked what was so important about that kind work, and the monk explained kitchen labor was his form of Zen practice.

“But at your age,” Dogen asked, “why do you slave away in a hot kitchen instead of devoting yourself to meditation?”

The cook said, “My friend from a foreign land, you may be a Buddhist, but you don’t know what words and scriptures, or what Zen practice, is.”

Then the monk said goodbye, and left the ship.

Several months later, Dogen was studying in the Chinese monastery on Mount T’ien-t’ung, and the old man showed up again. So the two of them resumed their discussions.

Dogen asked the meaning of “practice” and “words and scriptures.”

The cook-monk answered, “Words and scriptures are one, two, three, four, five. Practice means that nothing in the world is hidden.”

Dogen took this to signify that words and so-called holy writings were—in today’s terms—a dime a dozen, whereas Zen practice is awakening. In Dogen’s later-writing titled The Lesson from the Monk-Cook he indicated how he had been emotionally stirred by the cook’s Zen.

This “man of the Tao,” as Dogen referred to his friend, had shown Dogen that work which flows out of awakening is actually Zen practice. Any activity—whether it’s teaching a room-full of noisy kids, or steaming a pot of rice, or building a boat, or planting a garden, or writing computer code, or installing dry wall, or carrying out the trash—can be Zen practice.

Think about it. Anything can be Zen practice.

To relate a personal incident that may cause those of you who have heard it more than once to grown, I’ll mention my spinach experience.

I am fond of fresh spinach. But certain foods need to have things done to them before they are eaten or cooked. With dry beans, you have to pick through them to get rid of pebbles. Fresh spinach needs to be rinsed thoroughly to wash out any sand grains.

As much as I like fresh spinach, I used to dread putting in the effort of washing it. That seemed such a waste of time.

Then one spinach day I suddenly realized that the process of rinsing the leaves, and shaking them, and maybe even patting them dry with paper towels, was really not an unpleasant chore. It was all part of an experience to be enjoyed.

It was Zen practice.

Work which flows out of awakening is Zen practice

To quote Heinrich Dumoulin, author of Zen Buddhism: A History, Japan, “The cook embodied the living tradition of Chinese Zen from the time of the fourth and fifth patriarchs … which taught that Zen is practiced not only by sitting cross-legged in meditation … but just as much in daily service to the community.”

This is kitchen Zen.

ZEN AND BUDDHISM

ZEN AND BUDDHISM

What we Westerners call Zen Buddhism is a tradition that is linked to the Ch’an School of China. A tradition is the passing down of cultural elements from generation to generation, especially by oral communication.

So, Zen is not a religion, not a philosophy, but a tradition.

What is Ch’an?

Ch’an is a tradition that’s related to Taoism, and also to the Zen School of Japan.

What we call Zen Buddhism came about in the sixth century A.D., and its purpose was to simplify the confusion that had sprung up in Indian Buddhism.

Speaking of confusion, it’s best not to study Zen, either chronologically or philosophically. You’ll only be messed up. Just absorb everything you hear or read, neither believing nor disbelieving.

Eventually—as they say in New Zealand— everything will sort itself out.

New Zealand is what might be called a cool place.

The people don’t seem to worry much about anything. They take things as they are. They have a good sense of humor, which is necessary in everyday life. And they speak a wonderful sort of English.

Getting back to Buddhism.

The original teachings of the man Guatama Buddha, during his time and shortly after, were basic, straightforward, and simple. Unfortunately, in a relatively short period after his death, those teachings were added to, taken away from, and generally made as complex as were the Hindu philosophies they tried to escape.

Fast forward to contemporary times.

The Buddhist scholar and teacher, Christmas Humphreys, wrote, in A Western Approach to Zen: “The early masters of Ch’an sought the same personal direct attainment without scripture, ritual, or formulated thought, and all Zen training is concerned with one thing only, awareness of the Absolute with the heart of man.”

So, what is the Absolute? We’ll talk about that in a minute.

When I’m forced into a corner by someone who wants to know what “faith” or “belief” I subscribe to, I hesitate answering, knowing all the explaining that lies ahead.

If I go to the heart of the matter and say I am Zen, the inevitable response is, “Oh, you’re a Zen Buddhist.”

Well, yes and no. But mostly no.

Most people identify Zen with Buddhism, and most people have at least heard the term “Buddhism,” thinking it to be a heathen Asian religion that is at odds with Christianity.

Nevertheless, I usually nod to being labeled a Zen Buddhist. Agreeing is easier than stating there’s a tremendous difference between Zen Buddhism and Zen. But to say that usually opens a figurative Pandora’s Box that releases not evil but knowledge that simply cannot be experienced in a casual conversation.

Because Zen is life, it takes a lifetime to comprehend. But try telling that to someone. They will think:

1. You are being a mystical wise guy, or else

2. You really don’t know what you are talking about and are blowing smoke, or else

3. You are some sort of nut. Maybe a latter-day hippy.

Paraphrasing Humphreys, Zen is a name for the Absolute. That is, the ultimate basis of all thought and being.

The Absolute is something that is independent of and unrelated to anything else.

Because Zen is beyond the grasp of the relative mind, it can’t be simply defined or easily explained.

If you ask me what Zen is, all I can say is that it’s the real you.

Zen is Zen, and—like you—it must be experienced through awakening of your own self.

That was and is the essence of the Buddha’s teaching.

We Westerners are born into a world of relation to a thinking mind. Society trains us to think in terms of opposites, of “this or that,” or “this and that.”

My last seven words are an example of the sort of relativity we are stuck with. The first three words—“this or that”—set up opposites. Then the last three words—“this and that”—set up independence.

On top of everything, each of the two groups of three words is joined by the word “or.”

And that word sets up another opposite.

Such this-or-that business is what Zen refers to as duality. Zen steers clear of dualities. Zen thinks of opposites and dependence as “not one, not two.”

We’ll talk about not-one-not-two another time.

You may remember an old song titled, “It’s gotta be this or that.”

Unlike that song, nothing is entirely this or entirely that.

Speaking of this or that, let me throw in a word that probably everyone has heard: Nirvana.

Nirvana is not Paradise, nor is it the Promised Land.

In Buddhism, Nirvana is the attainment of disinterested wisdom and compassion.

In Zen, Nirvana is here and now.

Remember that term because it will appear now and again in these talks and in your various readings on Zen.

Nirvana is not pie in the sky.

Nirvana is here.

Nirvana is now.

THE BALL

I want to ask something of all of you.

Is there anything in Zen you would like me to address? What in Zen would you like to discuss?

You needn’t answer right now, but think about this and give me some ideas of your interests.

As you know, Zen is a question-and-answer exercise. Or it can be a discipline in which a master challenges those who listen.

I could think for you, but I don’t want to do that. Nor, I believe, do you want me to think for you.

I believe none of us wants to be given answers. If all we wanted were solutions, we’d be following some formal, organized religious group.

In saying that, I am not belittling anyone or any group. What they are, they are. What you are, you are. What I am, I am.

There are some things that I, and you, do not care to talk about. Not that they are taboo or embarrassing or obscene. It’s that they are pointless to state and pointless to listen to.

For example, I am not in the least interested in the indiscretions of celebrities. I do not need to hear from men or women who announce publicly they are gay. You know how, periodically, some public figure decides to bare his or her soul and proclaim their moral bent.

Nor do I give a hoot about a celebrity’s religion, theology, or philosophy.

If Richard Gere considers himself a Buddhist, or Jerry Lewis a Jew, or Alice Strifely a Baptist, good for them and for whatever they believe in. I really do not need to know about it.

I am wearied when people push their creeds and convictions on the world.

You are not here because I am selling Zen and you are buying Zen. Nor am I here to spill my guts about Zen.

Enough of that.

One day a Zen master began his lecture by rolling a ball from the platform. All the monks but one silently sat there and watched the ball.

That monk retrieved the ball and placed it on the platform.

The master smiled.

What’s going on here?

When the monks saw the master roll the ball, they were fascinated, wondering what the deeper meaning was.

One monk picked up the ball and took it back to the master.

Where is the hidden meaning? What is the message?

There is none of either.

If someone drops something in front of us, we pick it up and hand it back.

If we are outside and rain starts falling, we go inside.

Things are as natural as that.

If something comes up that you think of as an obstacle, don’t attach to it. Don’t look for some hidden meaning.

Observe it, see it. Really see it.

Recognize it for what it is.

A ball is round. A banana is curved. That is their nature.

A square has four sides. A straight line does not curve. Who is to say one is better than the other?

The master rolled the ball. The monk picked up the ball.

The first action has a beginning but no end. The second action has an end but no beginning.

Neither is more important or more significant than the other.