The records quoted below do not always give the whole history of the
mental development leading up to a satori, that is, from the first
moment when the disciple came to the master until the last moment of
realisation, with all the intermittent psychological vicissitudes
which he had to go through. The examples are just to show that the
whole Zen discipline gains meaning when there takes place this turning
of the mental hinge to a wider and deeper world. For when this wider
and deeper world opens, everyday life, even the most trivial thing of
it, grows loaded with the truths of Zen. On the one hand, therefore,
satori is a most prosaic and matter-of-fact thing, but on the other
hand when it is not understood it is something of a mystery. But
after all is not life itself filled with wonders, mysteries, and
unfathomabilities, far beyond our discursive understanding?
A monk asked Jōshu (Chao-chou Tsung-shên, 778–897) to be instructed
in Zen. Said the master, “Have you had your breakfast or not?” “Yes,
master, I have,” answered the monk. “If so, have your dishes washed,”
was an immediate response, which, it is said, at once opened the monk’s
mind to the truth of Zen.
This is enough to show what a commonplace thing satori is; but to
see what an important rôle this most trivial incident of life plays
in Zen, it will be necessary to add some remarks which were made by
the masters, and through these the reader may have a glimpse into
the content of satori. Ummon (Yün-mên, Wên-yen, died 949) who lived
a little later than Jōshu commented on him; “Was there any special
instruction in the remark of Jōshu, or not? If there was, what was it?
If there was not, what satori was it that the monk attained?” Later,
Umpo Monyetsu (Yün-fêng Wen-yüeh, 997–1062) made a retort, saying, “The
great master Ummon does not know what is what, hence this comment of
his. It was altogether unnecessary, it was like painting legs to the
snake and growing a beard to the eunuch. My view differs from his: that
monk who seems to have attained a satori goes to hell as straight as an
arrow!”[5.10]
Now, what does this all mean—Jōshu’s remark about washing the dishes,
the monk’s attainment of satori, Ummon’s alternatives, and Monyetsu’s
assurance? Are they speaking against each other? Is this much ado about
nothing? This is where Zen is difficult to grasp and at the same time
difficult to explain. Let me add a few more queries. How did Jōshu make
the monk’s eye open by such a prosaic remark? Did the remark have any
hidden meaning, however, which happened to coincide with the mental
tone of the monk? How was the monk so mentally prepared for the final
stroke of the master whose service was just pressing the button as it
were? Nothing of satori is so far gleaned from washing the dishes;
we have to look somewhere else for the truth of Zen. At any rate,
we could not say that Jōshu had nothing to do with the monk’s
realisation. Hence Ummon’s remark which is somewhat enigmatic, yet to
the point. As to Monyetsu’s comment, it is what is technically known
as _Nenro_,[5.11] “handling and playing,” or “playful criticism.” He
appears to be making a disparaging remark about Ummon, but in truth he
is joining hands with his predecessors.
Tokusan (Teh-shan Hsüan-chien, 779–865)[5.12] was a great scholar of
the _Diamond Sutra_ (_Vajracchedikā_). Learning that there was such a
thing as Zen ignoring all the written scriptures and directly laying
hand on one’s soul, he came to Ryutan (Lung-t‘an) to be instructed in
the doctrine. One day Tokusan was sitting outside trying to see into
the mystery of Zen. Ryutan said, “Why don’t you come in?” Replied
Tokusan, “It is pitch dark.” A candle was lighted and handed over
to Tokusan. When the latter was at the point of taking it, Ryutan
suddenly blew the light out, whereupon the mind of Tokusan was
opened.[f108][5.13]
Hyakujo (Pai-chang Huai-hai, 724–814)[5.14] one day went out attending
his master Baso (Ma-tsu). A flock of wild geese was seen flying and
Baso asked
“What are they?”
“They are wild geese, sir.”
“Whither are they flying?”
“They have flown away, sir.”
Baso abruptly taking hold of Hyakujo’s nose gave it a twist. Overcome
with pain, Hyakujo cried aloud, “Oh! Oh!”
“You say they have flown away,” Baso said, “but all the same they have
been here from the very beginning.”
This made Hyakujo’s back wet with cold perspiration. He had satori.
Is there any connection in any possible way between the washing of
the dishes and the blowing out of a candle and the twisting of
the nose? We must say with Ummon: If there is none, how could they
all come to the realisation of the truth of Zen? If there is, what
inner relationship is there? What is this satori? What a new point
of viewing things is this? So long as our observation is limited to
those conditions which preceded the opening of a disciple’s eye we
cannot perhaps fully comprehend where lies the ultimate issue. They are
matters of everyday occurrence, and if Zen lies objectively among them,
every one of us is a master before we are told of it. This is partly
true inasmuch as there is nothing artificially constructed in Zen, but
if the nose is to be really twisted or the candle blown out in order
to take the scale off the eye, our attention must be directed inwardly
to the working of our minds, and it will be there where we are to take
hold of the hidden relation existing between the flying geese and the
washed dishes and the blown out candle and any other happenings that
weave out infinitely variegated patterns of human life.
Under Daiye (Tai-hui, 1089–1163),[5.15] the great Zen teacher of the
Sung dynasty, there was a monk named Dōken (Tao-ch‘ien) who had spent
many years in the study of Zen, but who had not yet delved into its
secrets if there were any. He was discouraged when he was sent on
an errand to a distant city. A trip requiring half a year to finish
would surely be a hindrance rather than a help to his study. Sogen
(Tsung-yüan), one of his fellow-monks, took pity on him and said, “I
will accompany you on this trip and do all that I can for you. There
is no reason why you cannot go on with your meditation even while
travelling.” They started together. One evening Dōken despairingly
implored his friend to assist him in the solution of the mystery of
life. The friend said, “I am willing to help you in every way, but
there are five things in which I cannot be of any help to you. These
you must look after yourself.” Dōken expressed the desire to know what
they were. “For instance,” said the friend, “when you are hungry or
thirsty, my eating of food or drinking does not fill your stomach. You
must drink and eat yourself. When you want to respond to the calls
of nature, you must take care of them yourself, for I cannot be
of any use to you. And then it will be nobody else but yourself that
will carry this corpse of yours [i.e., the body] along this highway.”
This remark at once opened the mind of the truth-seeking monk, who,
so transported with his discovery, did not know how to express his
joy. Gen now told him that his work was done and that his further
companionship would have no meaning after this.[5.16] So they parted
company and Dōken was left alone to continue the trip. After the
half-year Dōken came back to his own monastery. Daiye, his teacher,
happened to meet him on his way down the mountain, and made the
following remark, “This time he knows it all.” What was it, one may
remark, that flashed through Dōken’s mind when his friend gave him a
most matter-of-fact advice?
Kyōgen (Hsian-yen) was a disciple of Hyakujo. After the master’s death
he went to Yisan (Wei-shan, 771–853) who was a senior disciple of
Hyakujo. Yisan asked him,[5.17] “I am told that you have been under my
late master Hyakujo, and also that you have remarkable intelligence;
but the understanding of Zen through this medium necessarily ends in
intellectual and analytical comprehension, which is not of much use.
Yet you may have had an insight into the truth of Zen. Let me have your
view as to the reason of birth and death, that is, as to your own being
before your parents gave birth to you.”
Thus asked, Kyōgen did not know how to reply. He retired into his own
room and assiduously made research among his notes which he had taken
of the sermons given by his late master. He failed to come across a
suitable passage he might present as his own view. He returned to
Yisan and implored him to teach in the faith of Zen. But Yisan said,
“I really have nothing to impart to you, and if I tried to do so, you
may have occasion to make me an object of ridicule later on. Besides,
whatever I can instruct you is my own and will never be yours.” Kyōgen
was disappointed and considered his senior disciple unkind. Finally he
came to the decision to burn up all his notes and memorandums which
were of no help to his spiritual welfare, and, retiring altogether from
the world, to spend the rest of his life in solitude and simplicity
in accordance with the Buddhist rules. He reasoned, “What is the
use of studying Buddhism, so difficult to comprehend and too subtle to
receive instructions from another? I shall be a plain homeless monk,
troubled with no desire to master things too deep for thought.” He left
Yisan and built a hut near the tomb of Chu (Hui-chung), the National
Master, at Nan-yang. One day he was weeding and sweeping the ground,
and when a piece of rock brushed away struck a bamboo, the sound
produced by the percussion unexpectedly elevated his mind to a state
of satori. The question proposed by Yisan became transparent; his joy
was boundless, he felt as if meeting again his lost parent. Besides
he came to realise the kindness of his abandoned senior brother monk
who refused him instruction. For he now knew that this would not have
happened to him if Yisan had been unkind enough to explain things for
him.
Below is the verse he composed soon after his achievement from which we
may get an idea of his satori.
“One stroke has made me forget all my previous knowledge,
No artificial discipline is at all needed;
In every movement I uphold the ancient way,
And never fall into the rut of mere quietism;
Wherever I walk no traces are left,
And my senses are not fettered by rules of conduct;
Everywhere those who have attained to the truth,
All declare this to be of the highest order.”