The attainment of Buddhahood or the realisation of Enlightenment is
what is aimed at by all pious Buddhists, though not necessarily during
this one earthly life; and Zen, as one of the Mahayana schools, also
teaches that all our efforts must be directed towards this supreme
end. While most of the other schools distinguish so many steps of
spiritual development and insist on one’s going through all the grades
successively in order to reach the consummation of the Buddhist
discipline; Zen ignores all these, and boldly declares that when one
sees into the inmost nature of one’s own being, one instantly becomes
a Buddha, and that there is no necessity of climbing up each rung of
perfection through eternal cycles of transmigration. This has been one
of the most characteristic tenets of Zen ever since the coming-east of
Bodhi-Dharma in the sixth century. “See into thy own nature and be a
Buddha,” has thus grown the watchword of the Sect. And this “seeing”
was not the outcome of much learning or speculation, nor was it due to
the grace of the supreme Buddha conferred upon his ascetic followers;
but it grew out of the special training of the mind prescribed by the
Zen masters. This being so, Zen could not very well recognise any form
of gradation in the attainment of Buddhahood. The “seeing into one’s
nature” was an instant act. There could not be any process in it which
would permit scales or steps of development.
But in point of fact where the time-element rules supreme, this was
not necessarily the case. As long as our relative minds are made to
comprehend one thing after another by degrees and in succession and
not all at once and simultaneously, it is impossible not to speak of
some kind of progress. Even Zen as something possible of demonstration
in one way or another must be subjected to the limitations of time.
That is to say, there are after all grades of development in its
study; and some must be said to have more deeply, more penetratingly
realised the truth of Zen. In itself the truth may transcend all form
of limitation, but when it is to be realised in the human mind, its
psychological laws are to be observed. The “seeing into thy nature”
must admit degrees of clearness. Transcendentally, we are all Buddhas
just as we are, ignorant and sinful if you like; but when we come
down to this practical life, pure idealism has to give way to a more
particular and palpable form of activity. This side of Zen is known as
its “constructive” aspect, in contradistinction to its “all-sweeping”
aspect. And here Zen fully recognises degrees of spiritual development
among its followers, as the truth reveals itself gradually in their
minds until the “seeing into one’s nature” is perfected.
Technically speaking, Zen belongs to the group of Buddhist doctrines
known as “discrete” or “discontinuous” or “abrupt” (_tun_ in Chinese)
in opposition to “continuous” or “gradual” (_chien_)[f159]; and
naturally the opening of the mind, according to Zen, comes upon
one as a matter of discrete or sudden happening and not as the
result of a gradual, continuous development whose every step can be
traced and analysed. The coming of satori is not like the rising
of the sun gradually bringing things to light, but it is like the
freezing of water which takes place abruptly. There is no middle or
twilight condition before the mind is opened to the truth, in which
there prevails a sort of neutral zone, or a state of intellectual
indifference. As we have already observed in several instances of
satori, the transition from ignorance to enlightenment is so abrupt,
the common cur, as it were, suddenly turns into a golden-haired lion.
Zen is an ultra-discrete wing of Buddhism. But this holds true only
when the truth of Zen itself is considered, apart from its relation
to the human mind in which it is disclosed. Inasmuch as the truth is
true only when it is considered in the light it gives to the mind and
cannot be thought of at all independent of the latter, we may speak of
its gradual and progressive realisation in us. The psychological laws
exist here as elsewhere. Therefore, when Bodhi-Dharma was ready
to leave China, he said that Dōfuku got the skin, the nun Sōji got
the flesh, and Dōiku the bone, while Yeka had the marrow (or essence)
of Zen.[f160][8.1] Nangaku who succeeded the sixth patriarch had six
accomplished disciples, but their attainments differed in depth. He
compared them with various parts of the body, and said, “You all have
testified to my body, but each has grasped a part of it. The one who
has my eye-brows is the master of manners; the second who has my eyes,
knows how to look around; the third who has my ears, understands how
to listen to reasoning; the fourth who has my nose is well versed in
the act of breathing; the fifth who has my tongue, is a great arguer;
and finally the one who has my mind knows the past and the present.”
This gradation was impossible if “seeing into one’s nature” alone
was considered; for the seeing is one indivisible act, allowing no
stages of transition. It is however no contradiction of the principle
of satori, as we have repeatedly asserted, to say that in fact there
is a progressive realisation in the seeing, leading one deeper and
deeper into the truth of Zen, finally culminating in one’s complete
identification with it.
* * * * *
Lieh-tzŭ, the Chinese philosopher of Taoism, describes in the following
passage certain marked stages of development in the practice of Tao:
“The teacher of Lieh-tzŭ was Lao-shang-shih, and his friend
Pai-kao-tzŭ. When Lieh-tzŭ was well advanced in the teachings of these
two philosophers, he came home riding on the wind. Yin-shêng heard of
this, and came to Lieh-tzŭ to be instructed. Yin-shêng neglected his
own household for several months. He never lost opportunities to ask
the master to instruct him in the arts [of riding on the wind]; he
asked ten times, and was refused each time. Yin-shêng grew impatient
and wanted to depart. Lieh-tzŭ did not urge him to stay. For several
months Yin-shêng kept himself away from the master, but did not feel
any easier in his mind. He came over to Lieh-tzŭ again. Asked the
master, ‘Why this constant coming back and forth?’ Yin-shêng
replied, ‘The other day, I, Chang Tai, wished to be instructed by you,
but you refused to teach me, which I did not naturally like. I feel,
however, no grudge against you now, hence my presence here again.’
“‘I thought the other time,’ said the master, ‘you understood it all.
But seeing now what a commonplace mortal you are, I will tell you what
I have learned under the master. Sit down and listen! It was three
years after I went to my master Lao-shang and my friend Pai-kao that my
mind began to cease thinking of right and wrong, and my tongue talking
of gain and loss, whereby he favoured me with just a glance. At the end
of five years, my mind again began to think of right and wrong, and my
tongue to talk about gain and loss. Then for the first time the master
relaxed his expression and gave me a smile. At the end of seven years
I just let my mind think of whatever it pleased and there was no more
question of right and wrong, I just let my tongue talk of whatever it
pleased, and there was no more question of gain and loss. Then for the
first time the master beckoned me to sit beside him. At the end of nine
years, just letting my mind think of whatever it pleased and letting
my tongue talk of whatever it pleased, I was not conscious whether I
or anybody else was in the right or wrong, whether I or anybody else
gained or lost; nor was I aware of the old master’s being my teacher
or the young Pai-kao’s being my friend. Both inwardly and outwardly I
was advanced. It was then that the eye was like the ear, and the ear
like the nose, and the nose like the mouth; for they were all one and
the same. The mind was in rapture, the form dissolved, and the bones
and flesh all thawed away; and I did not know how the frame supported
itself and what the feet were treading upon. I gave myself away to the
wind, eastward or westward, like leaves of a tree or like a dry chaff.
Was the wind riding on me? or was I riding on the wind? I did not know
either way.
“‘Your stay with the master has not covered much space of time, and you
are already feeling grudge against him. The air will not hold even a
fragment of your body, nor will the earth support one member of yours.
How then could you ever think of treading on empty space and
riding the wind?’
“Yin-shêng was much ashamed and kept quiet for some time, not uttering
even a word.”
* * * * *
The Christian and Mahommetan mystics also mark the stages of spiritual
development. Some Sufis describe the “seven valleys”[f161] to traverse
in order to reach the court of Simburgh where the mystic “birds” find
themselves gloriously effaced and yet fully reflected in the Awful
Presence of themselves. The “seven valleys” are: 1. the Valley of
Search; 2. the Valley of Love, which has no limits; 3. the Valley of
Knowledge; 4. the Valley of Independence; 5. the Valley of Unity,
pure and simple; 6. the Valley of Amazement, and 7. the Valley of
Poverty and Annihilation, beyond which there is no advance. According
to St. Teresa, there are four degrees of mystic life: Meditation,
Quiet, a numberless intermediate degree, and the Orison of Unity;
while Hugo of St. Victor has also his own four degrees: Meditation,
Soliloquy, Consideration, and Rapture. There are other Christian
mystics having their own three or four steps of “ardent love” or of
“contemplation.”[f162]
* * * * *
Professor R. A. Nicholson gives in his _Studies in Islamic Mysticism_
a translation of Ibnu ’I-Fárid’s “The Poem of the Mystic’s Progress”
(_Tá’iyya_), parts of which at least are such exact counterparts of
Buddhist mysticism as to make us think that the Persian poet is simply
echoing the Zen sentiment. Whenever we come across such a piece of
mystic literature, we cannot help being struck with the inmost harmony
of thought and feeling resonant in the depths of human soul, regardless
of its outward accidental differences. The verses 326 and 327 of the
_Tá’iyya_ read:
“From ‘I am She’ I mounted to where is no ‘to’, and I perfumed
[phenomenal] existence by my returning:
“And [I returned] from ‘I am I’ for the sake of an esoteric wisdom
and external laws which were instituted that I might call [the people
to God].”
The passage as it stands here is not very intelligible, but read the
translator’s comments which throw so much light on the way the Persian
thought flows:
“Three stages of Oneness (_ittihád_) are distinguished here: 1. ‘I
am She,’ _i.e._, union (_jam‘_) without real separation (_tafriqa_),
although the appearance of separation is maintained. This was the stage
in which al-Halláj said Ana ’I-Haqq ‘I am God.’ 2. ‘I am I,’ _i.e._,
pure union without any trace of separation (individuality). This stage
is technically known as the ‘intoxication of union’ (_sukru ’I-jam‘_).
3. The ‘sobriety of union’ (_saḥwu ’I-jam‘_), _i.e._, the stage in
which the mystic returns from the pure oneness of the second stage to
plurality in oneness and to separation in union and to the Law in the
Truth, so that while continuing to be united with God he serves Him as
a slave serves his lord and manifests the Divine Life in its perfection
to mankind.
“‘Where is no “to” _i.e._, the stage of ‘I am I,’ beyond which no
advance is possible except by means of retrogression. In this stage the
mystic is entirely absorbed in the undifferentiated oneness of God.
Only after he has ‘returned,’ _i.e._, entered upon the third stage
(plurality in oneness) can he communicate to his fellows some perfume
(hint) of the experience through which he has passed. ‘An esoteric
wisdom,’ _i.e._, the Divine providence manifested by means of the
religious law. By returning to consciousness, the ‘united’ mystic is
enabled to fulfil the law and to act as a spiritual director.”
When this is compared with the progress of the Zen mystic as is
pictorially illustrated and poetically commented in the following
pages, we feel that the comments were written expressly for Zen
Buddhism.
* * * * *
During the Sung dynasty a Zen teacher called Seikyo[8.2] illustrated
stages of spiritual progress by a gradual purification or whitening
of the cow until she herself disappears. But the pictures, six in
number, are lost now.[f163] Those that are still in existence,
illustrating the end of Zen discipline in a more thorough and
consistent manner, come from the ingenious brush of Kakuan,[8.3] a
monk belonging to the Rinzai school. His are in fact a revision and
perfection of those of his predecessor. The pictures are ten in number,
and each has a short introduction in prose followed by a commentary
verse, both of which are translated below. There were some other
masters who composed stanzas on the same subjects using the rhymes
of the first commentator, and some of them are found in the popular
edition of “The Ten Cow-herding Pictures.”
The cow has been worshipped by the Indians from very early periods of
their history. The allusions are found in various connections in the
Buddhist scriptures. In a Hinayana Sutra entitled “On the Herding of
Cattle,”[f164] eleven ways of properly attending them are described.
In a similar manner a monk ought to observe eleven things properly in
order to become a good Buddhist; and if he fails to do so, just like
the cow-herd who neglects his duties, he will be condemned. The eleven
ways of properly attending cattle are: 1. To know the colours; 2. To
know the signs; 3. Brushing; 4. Dressing the wounds; 5. Making smoke;
6. Walking the right path; 7. Tenderly feeling for them; 8. Fording the
streams; 9. Pasturing; 10. Milking; 11. Selecting. Some of the items
cited here are not quite intelligible.
In the _Saddharma-puṇḍarīka Sūtra_, Chapter III., “A Parable,” the
Buddha gives the famous parable of three carts: bullock-carts,
goat-carts, and deer-carts, which a man promises to give to his
children if they come out of a house on fire. The finest of the carts
is the one drawn by bullocks or cows (_goratha_), which represents
the vehicle for the Bodhisattvas, the greatest and most magnificent
of all vehicles, leading them directly to the attainment of supreme
enlightenment. The cart is described thus in the Sutra: “Made of seven
precious substances, provided with benches, hung with a multitude of
small bells, lofty, adorned with rare and wonderful jewels, embellished
with jewel wreaths, decorated with garlands of flowers, carpeted with
cotton mattresses and woollen coverlets, covered with white cloth and
silk, having on both sides rosy cushions, yoked with white, very fair
and fleet bullocks, led by a multitude of men.”
Thus reference came to be made quite frequently in Zen literature to
the “white cow on the open-air square of the village,” or to the cow in
general. For instance, Tai-an of Fu-chou asked Pai-chang,[8.4] “I wish
to know about the Buddha, what is he?” Answered Pai-chang, “It is like
seeking for an ox while you are yourself on it.” “What shall I do after
I know?” “It is like going home riding on it.” “How do I look after
it all the time in order to be in accordance with [the Dharma]?” The
master then told him, “You should behave like a cowherd, who, carrying
a staff, sees to it that his cattle won’t wander away into somebody
else’s rice-fields.”
The “Ten Cow-herding Pictures” showing the upward steps of spiritual
training, is doubtless another such instance, more elaborate and
systematised than the one just cited.