There is something, we must admit, in Zen that defies explanation, and
to which no master however ingenious can lead his disciples through
intellectual analysis. Kyōgen or Tokusan had enough knowledge of the
canonical teachings or of the master’s expository discourses; but
when the real thing was demanded of them, they significantly failed
to produce it either to their inner satisfaction or for the master’s
approval. The satori is not a thing after all to be gained through
the understanding. But once the key is within one’s grasp, everything
seems to be laid bare before him; the entire world assumes then a
different aspect. By those who know, this inner change is recognised.
The Dōken before he started on his mission and the Dōken after
the realisation were apparently the same person; but as soon as Daiye
saw him, he knew what had taken place in him even when he uttered not
a word. Baso twisted Hyakujo’s nose, and the latter turned into such
a wild soul as to have the audacity to roll up the matting before his
master’s discourse had hardly begun (see below). The experience they
have gone through with within themselves is not a very elaborate,
complicated, and intellectually demonstrable thing; for none of them
ever try to expound it by a series of learned discourses, they do
just this thing or that, or utter a single phrase unintelligible to
outsiders, and the whole affair proves most satisfactory both to the
master and to the disciple. The satori cannot be a phantasm, empty and
contentless, and lacking in real value, while it must be the simplest
possible experience perhaps because it is the very foundation of all
experiences.
As to the opening of satori, all that Zen can do is to indicate the
way and leave the rest all to one’s own experience; that is to say,
following up the indication and arriving at the goal—this is to be
done by oneself and without another’s help. With all that the master
can do, he is helpless to make the disciple take hold of the thing,
unless the latter is inwardly fully prepared for it. Just as we cannot
make a horse drink against his will, the taking hold of the ultimate
reality is to be done by oneself, just as the flower blooms out of its
inner necessity, the looking into one’s own nature must be the outcome
of one’s own inner overflowing. This is where Zen is so personal and
subjective, in the sense of being inner and creative. In the Āgama
or Nikāya literature we encounter so frequently with such phrases as
“Atta-dīpā viharatha attā saraṇā anañña-saraṇā,” or “sayaṁ abhiññā,”
or “Diṭṭha-dhammo patta-dhammo vidita-dhammo pariyogāḷha-dhammo
aparappaccayo satthu sāsane”; they show that Enlightenment is the
awakening, within oneself and not depending on others, of an inner
sense in one’s consciousness, enabling one to create a world of eternal
harmony and beauty—the home of Nirvana.
I said that Zen does not give us any intellectual assistance, nor
does it waste time in arguing the point with us, but it merely
suggests or indicates, not because it wants to be indefinite, but
because that is really the only thing it can do for us. If it could,
it would do anything to help us come to an understanding. In fact
Zen is exhausting every possible means to do that, as we can see in
all the great masters’ attitudes towards their disciples.[f109] When
they are actually knocking them down, their kindheartedness is never
to be doubted. They are just waiting for the time when their pupils’
minds get all ripened for the final moment. When this is come, the
opportunity of opening an eye to the truth of Zen lies everywhere. One
can pick it up in the hearing of an inarticulate sound, or listening
to an unintelligible remark, or in the observation of a flower
blooming, or in the encountering of any trivial everyday incident such
as stumbling, rolling up a screen, using a fan, etc. These are all
sufficient conditions that will awaken one’s inner sense. Evidently a
most insignificant happening, and yet its effect on the mind infinitely
surpasses all that one could expect of it. A light touch of an ignited
wire, and an explosion shaking the very foundations of the earth. In
fact, all the causes of satori are in the mind. That is why when the
clock clicks, all that has been lying there bursts up like a volcanic
eruption or flashes out like a bolt of lightning,[f110] Zen calls this
“returning to one’s own home”; for its followers will declare: “You
have now found yourself; from the very beginning nothing has been kept
away from you. It was yourself that closed the eye to the fact. In Zen
there is nothing to explain, nothing to teach, that will add to your
knowledge. Unless it grows out of yourself, no knowledge is really of
value to you, a borrowed plumage never grows.”
Kozankoku (Huang San-ku),[5.18] a Confucian poet and statesman, came to
Kwaido (Hui-t‘ang, 1024–1100) to be initiated into Zen. Said the Zen
master, “There is a passage in the text you are so thoroughly familiar
with, which fitly describes the teaching of Zen. Did not Confucius
declare, ‘Do you think I am holding back something from you, O my
disciples? Indeed I have held nothing back from you.’” Sankoku tried
to answer, but Kwaido immediately made him keep silence by saying,
“No, no!” The Confucian disciple felt troubled in mind, and did not
know how to express himself. Some time later they were having a walk
in the mountains. The wild laurel was in full bloom and the air was
redolent. Asked the Zen master, “Do you smell it?” When the Confucian
answered affirmatively, Kwaido said, “There, I have kept nothing
back from you!” This suggestion from the teacher at once led to the
opening of Kozankoku’s mind. Is it not evident now that satori is not
a thing to be imposed upon another, but that it is self-growing from
within? Though nothing is kept away from us, it is through a satori
that we become cognisant of the fact, being convinced that we are all
sufficient unto ourselves. All that therefore Zen contrives is to
assert that there is such a thing as self-revelation, or the opening of
satori.
V
As satori strikes at the primary fact of existence, its attainment
marks a turning point in one’s life. The attainment, however, must be
thorough-going and clear-cut in order to produce a satisfactory result.
To deserve the name “satori” the mental revolution must be so complete
as to make one really and sincerely feel that there took place a fiery
baptism of the spirit. The intensity of this feeling is proportional to
the amount of effort the opener of satori has put into the achievement.
For there is a gradation in satori as to its intensity, as in all our
mental activity. The possessor of a lukewarm satori may suffer no such
spiritual revolution as Rinzai, or Bukko (Fo-kuang) whose case is
quoted below. Zen is a matter of character and not of the intellect,
which means that Zen grows out of the will as the first principle of
life. A brilliant intellect may fail to unravel all the mysteries of
Zen, but a strong soul will drink deep of the inexhaustible fountain.
I do not know if the intellect is superficial and touches only
the fringe of one’s personality, but the fact is that the will is the
man himself, and Zen appeals to it. When one becomes penetratingly
conscious of the working of this agency, there is the opening of satori
and the understanding of Zen. As they say, the snake has now grown into
the dragon; or more graphically, a common cur—a most miserable creature
wagging its tail for food and sympathy, and kicked about by the street
boys so mercilessly—has now turned into a golden-haired lion whose roar
frightens to death all the feeble-minded.
Therefore, when Rinzai was meekly submitting to the “thirty blows” of
Obaku, he was a pitiable sight; as soon as he attained satori, he was
quite a different personage and his first exclamation was, “There is
not much after all in the Buddhism of Obaku.”[5.19] And when he saw the
reproachful Obaku again, he returned his favour by giving him a slap on
the face. “What an arrogance, what an impudence!” Obaku exclaimed; but
there was reason in Rinzai’s rudeness, and the old master could not but
be pleased with this treatment from his former tearful Rinzai.
When Tokusan gained an insight into the truth of Zen, he immediately
took up all his commentaries on the _Diamond Sutra_, once so valued and
considered indispensable that he had to carry them wherever he went; he
now set fire to them, reducing all the manuscripts into nothingness.
He exclaimed: “However deep your knowledge of abstruse philosophy, it
is like a piece of hair placed in the vastness of space; and however
important your experience in things worldly, it is like a drop of water
thrown into an unfathomable abyss.”[5.20]
On the day following the incident of the flying geese,[5.21] to which
reference was made elsewhere, Baso appeared in the preaching hall and
was about to speak before a congregation, when Hyakujo came forward
and began to roll up the matting.[f111] Baso without protesting came
down from his seat and returned to his own room. He then called Hyakujo
and asked him why he rolled up the matting before he uttered a
word.
“Yesterday you twisted my nose,” replied Hyakujo, “and it was quite
painful.”
“Where,” said Baso, “was your thought wandering then?”
“It is not painful any more to-day, master.” How differently he
behaves now! When his nose was pinched, he was quite an ignoramus in
the secrets of Zen. He is now a golden-haired lion, he is master of
himself, and acts so freely as if he owned the world, pushing away even
his own master far into the background.
There is no doubt that satori goes deep into the very root of
individuality. The change achieved thereby is quite remarkable, as we
see in the examples above cited.