When our consideration is limited to the objective side of satori as
illustrated so far, it does not appear to be a very extraordinary
thing—this opening an eye to the truth of Zen. The master makes some
remarks, and if they happen to be opportune enough, the disciple will
come at once to a realisation and see into a mystery hitherto undreamed
of. It seems all to depend upon what kind of mood or what state of
mental preparedness one is in at the moment. Zen is after all a
haphazard affair, one may be tempted to think. But when we know that
it took Nangaku (Nan-yüeh) eight long years to answer the question,
“Who is he that thus cometh towards me?” we shall realise the fact that
there was in him a great deal of mental anguish and tribulation which
he had to go through with before he could come to the final solution
and declare, “Even when one asserts that it is a somewhat, one misses
it altogether.”[5.29] We must try to look into the psychological aspect
of satori, where is revealed the inner mechanism of opening the door
to the eternal secrets of the human soul. This is done best by quoting
some of the masters themselves whose introspective statements are on
record.
Kōhō (Kao-fêng, 1238–1285)[5.30] was one of the great masters in
the latter part of the Sung dynasty. When his master first let him
attend to the “Jōshu’s Mu,”[f115][5.31] he exerted himself hard on the
problem. One day his master, Setsugan (Hsüeh-yen), suddenly asked him,
“Who is it that carries for you this lifeless corpse of yours?”[5.32]
The poor fellow did not know what to make of the question; for the
master was merciless and it was usually followed by a hard knocking
down. Later in the midst of his sleep one night he recalled the fact
that once when he was under another master he was told to find out
the ultimate signification of the statement, “All things return to
one”[f116][5.33]; and this kept him up the rest of that night and
through the several days and nights that succeeded. While in this state
of an extreme mental tension, he found himself one day looking at
Goso Hoyen’s verse on his own portrait, which partly read,[5.34]
“One hundred years—thirty-six thousand morns,
This same old fellow moveth on for ever!”
This at once made him dissolve his eternal doubt as to “Who’s carrying
around this lifeless body of yours?” He was baptised and became an
altogether new man.
He leaves us in his “Goroku,” (_Sayings Recorded_) an account of those
days of the mental strain in the following narrative: “In olden days
when I was at Sōkei (Shuang-ching), and before one month was over after
my return to the Meditation Hall there, one night while deep in sleep I
suddenly found myself fixing my attention on the question: ‘All things
return to the One, but where does this One return?’ My attention was
so rigidly fixed on this that I neglected sleeping, forgot to eat,
and did not distinguish east from west, nor morning from night. While
spreading the napkin, producing the bowls, or attending to my natural
wants, whether I moved or rested, whether I talked or kept silent, my
whole existence was wrapt up with the question, ‘Where does this one
return?’ No other thoughts ever disturbed my consciousness; no, even
if I wanted to stir up the least bit of thought irrelevant to the
central one, I could not do so. It was like being screwed up or glued;
however much I tried to shake myself off, it refused to move. Though
I was in the midst of a crowd or congregation I felt as if I were all
by myself. From morning till evening, from evening till morning, so
transparent, so tranquil, so majestically above all things were my
feelings! Absolutely pure and not a particle of dust! My one thought
covered eternity; so calm was the outside world, so oblivious of the
existence of other people I was. Like an idiot, like an imbecile,
six days and nights thus elapsed when I entered the Shrine with the
rest, reciting the Sutras, and happened to raise my head and looked
at the verse by Goso. This made me all of a sudden awake from the
spell, and the meaning of ‘Who carries this lifeless corpse of yours?’
burst upon me,—the question once given by my old master. I felt as
if this boundless space itself were broken up into pieces, and the
great earth were altogether levelled away. I forgot myself, I
forgot the world, it was like one mirror reflecting another. I tried
several kō-an in my mind and found them so transparently clear! I was
no more deceived as to the wonderful working of Prajñā (transcendental
wisdom).” When Kōho saw his old master later,[5.35] the latter lost no
time in asking him, “Who is it that carries this lifeless corpse of
yours?” Kōho burst out a “Kwats!” Thereupon the master took up a stick
ready to give him a blow, but the disciple held it back saying, “You
cannot give me a blow to-day.” “Why can’t I?” was the master’s demand.
Instead of replying to him, however, Kōho left the room briskly. The
following day the master asked him. “All things return to the One, and
where does the One return to?” “The dog is lapping the boiling water
in the cauldron.” “Where did you get this nonsense?” reprimanded the
master. “You had better ask yourself,” promptly came the response. The
master rested well satisfied.
* * * * *
Hakuin (1683–1768)[f117][5.36] is another of those masters who have
put down their first Zen experience in writing, and we read in his
book entitled _Orategama_[5.37] the following account: “When I was
twenty-four years old, I stayed at the Yegan Monastery, of Echigo.
[“Joshu’s Mu” being my theme at the time] I assiduously applied myself
to it. I did not sleep days and nights, forgot both eating and lying
down, when quite abruptly a great mental fixation[f118][5.38] (_tai-i_)
took place. I felt as if freezing in an ice-field extending thousands
of miles, and within myself there was a sense of utmost transparency.
There was no going forward, no slipping backward; I was like an idiot,
like an imbecile, and there was nothing but ‘Jōshu’s Mu.’ Though I
attended the lectures by the master, they sounded like a discussion
going on somewhere in a distant hall, many yards away. Sometimes my
sensation was that of one flying in the air. Several days passed
in this state, when one evening a temple-bell struck which upset the
whole thing. It was like smashing an ice-basin, or pulling down a
house made of jade. When I suddenly awoke again, I found that I myself
was Ganto[f119] (Yen-t‘ou) the old master, and that all through the
shifting changes of time not a bit [of my personality] was lost.
Whatever doubts and indecisions I had before were completely dissolved
like a piece of thawing ice. I called out loudly, ‘How wondrous! how
wondrous!; There is no birth-and-death from which one has to escape,
nor is there any supreme knowledge (_Bodhi_) after which one has to
strive. All the complications[f120] past and present, numbering one
thousand seven hundred are not worth the trouble of even describing
them.’”
* * * * *
The case of Bukko (Fo-kuang) the National Teacher[f121] was more
extraordinary than that of Hakuin, and fortunately in this case, too,
we have his own recording of it in detail. “When I was fourteen,”
writes Bukko, “I went up to Kinzan. When seventeen I made up my mind
to study Buddhism and began to unravel the mysteries of ‘Jōshu’s
Mu.’ I expected to finish the matter within one year, but I did not
come to any understanding of it after all. Another year passed without
much avail, and three more years, also finding myself with no progress.
In the fifth or sixth year, while no special change came over me, the
‘Mu’ became so inseparably attached to me that I could not get away
from it even while asleep. This whole universe seemed to be nothing
but the ‘Mu’ itself. In the meantime I was told by an old monk to set
it aside for a while and see how things would go with me. According to
this advice, I dropped the matter altogether and sat quietly. But owing
to the fact that the ‘Mu’ had been with me so long, I could in no way
shake it off however much I tried. When I was sitting, I forgot that I
was sitting; nor was I conscious of my own body. Nothing but a sense
of utter blankness prevailed. Half a year thus passed. Like a bird
escaped from its cage, my mind, my consciousness moved about [without
restraint] sometimes eastward, sometimes westward, sometimes northward
or southward. Sitting[f122] through two days in succession, or through
one day and night I did not feel any fatigue.
“At the time there were about nine hundred monks residing in the
monastery, among whom there were many devoted students of Zen. One day
while sitting, I felt as if my mind and my body were separated from
each other and lost the chance of getting back together. All the monks
about me thought that I was quite dead, but an old monk among them said
that I was frozen to a state of immovability while absorbed in deep
meditation, and that if I were covered up with warm clothings, I should
by myself come to my senses. This proved true, for I finally awoke from
it; and when I asked the monks near my seat how long I had been in that
condition, they told me it was one day and night.
“After this, I still kept up my practice of sitting. I could now sleep
a little. When I closed my eyes, a broad expanse of emptiness presented
itself before them, which then assumed the form of a farmyard. Through
this piece of land I walked and walked until I got thoroughly
familiar with the ground. But as soon as my eyes were opened, the
vision altogether disappeared. One night sitting far into the night I
kept my eyes open and was aware of my sitting up in my seat. All of a
sudden the sound of striking the board in front of the head-monk’s room
reached my ear, which at once revealed me the ‘original man’ in full.
There was then no more of that vision which appeared at the closing of
my eyes. Hastily I came down from the seat and ran out into the moonlit
night and went up to the garden house called Ganki, where looking up
to the sky I laughed loudly, ‘Oh, how great is the Dharmakāya! Oh, how
great and immense for evermore!’
“Thence my joy knew no bounds. I could not quietly sit in the
Meditation Hall; I went about with no special purpose in the mountains
walking this way and that. I thought of the sun and the moon traversing
in a day through a space 4,000,000,000 miles wide. ‘My present abode
is in China,’ I reflected then, ‘And they say the district of Yang is
the centre of the earth. If so, this place must be 2,000,000,000 miles
away from where the sun rises; and how is it that as soon as it comes
up, its rays lose no time in striking my face?’ I reflected again,
‘The rays of my own eye must travel just as instantaneously as those
of the sun as it reaches the latter; my eyes, my mind, are they not
the Dharmakāya itself?’ Thinking thus, I felt all the bounds snapped
and broken to pieces that had been tying me for so many ages. How many
numberless years had I been sitting in the hole of ants! To-day even
in every pore of my skin there lie all the Buddha-lands in the ten
quarters! I thought within myself, ‘Even if I have no greater satori, I
am now all sufficient unto myself.’”
Here is the stanza[5.41] composed by Bukko at the great moment of
satori, describing his inner feelings:
“With one stroke I have completely smashed the cave of the ghosts;
Behold, there rushes out the iron face of the monster Nata!
Both my ears are as deaf and my tongue is tied;
If thou touchest it idly, the fiery star shoots out!”[f123]