Study the Way/Self

Mine; Not yours.

“To study the Way is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be enlightened by all things of the universe. To be enlightened by all things of the universe is to cast off the body and mind of the self as well as those of others. Even the traces of enlightenment are wiped out, and life with traceless enlightenment goes on forever and ever.”

Dogen’s famous commentary on the self deserves careful consideration. “The Way,” of course, means the way of a Bodhisattva. Dogen says this way concerns the study of the self. Buddhism is essentially the way of taking a hard and thorough look at the most fundamental aspect of reality—the nature of identity, resolving the matter, putting it completely aside, and moving on. He did not say to just move on with the presumption that everything will be okay. Of course, that is a prescription for continued suffering, which is a function of the self. It is the self/ego that suffers and creates suffering.

After more than 40 years of extensive study following my own awakening, I have come to realize the evident truth about enlightenment; the truth as recorded throughout nearly all sutras—It is ever-present, nothing special (after-the-fact, but never before), always-on, and reduces down to a simple understanding of Tathāgata. Fundamentally it means “reality as-it-is,” alternatively understood as suchness. It is easy to write, difficult to experience, yet always possible by being continuously and fully present. Contrast this to being never present—lost in thinking about just about anything—that obstructs being present.

Dogen rightly arranged the order: First, study the self. Second, resolve the matter. Third, forget about it. And forth, be enlightened by all things by not continuing to dwell on this central issue once resolved. This order reflects the order taught by The Buddha. To be attached to anything is to ensure suffering, including being attached to the self or even The Buddha.

It is critically important to firmly establish our real identity as one and the same as The Buddha. We are not a fake and imaginary non-self. We are the Self (e.g., awakened), which is The Buddha. If we don’t resolve this matter, we will forever be guided and dominated by our ego-self and remain self-absorbed, producing ignorance, greed, and anger. It is only when we have finally resolved the phantom nature of the non-self and accepted the unborn/never-die identity of Buddha-Nature that we can genuinely do away with ignorance, greed, and anger. This must be the preliminary phase because otherwise, we continue to see ourselves as separate from and in competition with the rest of life. When we clearly see that we are interdependent and in harmony with life, then we can rest and begin to reflect the ever-present, virtuous qualities inherent of Buddha-Nature.

In that state of unity with all, we can be enlightened by all things because all things are a part of us. It is impossible to be intimate with anything from which we are separated. We can imagine unity in some abstract way, but that abstraction is still separate. Dogen knew, so he said, “cast off the body and mind of the self as well as those of others.” Body and mind are just formed elements—outward trappings, which keep us locked into the delusion of separateness and cause us to say things like “my” body, “my” mind. From the perspective of Buddha-Nature (our real nature), there is no “my.” There is only “us.”

The ending of Dogen’s commentary is especially instructive. He says, “life with traceless enlightenment goes on forever and ever.” What could that possibly mean? There is only one aspect of life with no tracks and lasts forever: Buddha-Nature, which is wholly enlightenment, and where there is wholly enlightenment, there is no enlightenment. Everything-Nothing is the same thing. We can’t see it because of self-created delusions, but it’s there. Our duty is to simply learn to cease not being present. Then only there is no duality. Then only there are no tracks because a track is an otherness. Buddha-Nature is whole. No tracks.

Hindsight is 20/20.

Looking in the rear-view mirror appears to be advantageous to looking ahead. The past tells you from where you’ve come, but it doesn’t necessarily tell you where you’re going. It may, however, enable you to see a vector pointing forward. But what if that backward view says, you’re on the wrong road and heading for an abyss? Robert Frost best conveyed this dilemma in his poem The Road Not Taken.

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both,
And be one traveler, long I stood,
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay,
In leaves, no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

Frost’s poetic journey into the unknown could be seen as foolhardy unless that vector was fraught with doubts about your life and where it suggested you were going next. That was certainly true in my case. As I looked back over 40 years, I could see abundant evidence that I was on the wrong path and had come to the inescapable conclusion that something was seriously wrong. But what? At that critical juncture—the dividing of ways forward, I felt without value and was in a state of existential crisis. When every indicator says to continue with fear and tribulation, leaping into the unknown isn’t as foolhardy as it might otherwise seem.

Without a clue, I was a ripe candidate for what I later learned was called the Southern School of Chan (sudden enlightenment)—The way began by Shenhui, a disciple of Zen Master Huineng back in China during the 7th century CE and developed into what is now Rinzai Zen. As I look back, taking the right fork in the road, seems providential, and maybe even coincidental. At that time, I didn’t even know about the roots of Rinzai or how it was different from Soto. It has taken me almost that long to become educated about that leap. All I knew then was what lay behind me was self-destructive, and unless I found a better path forward, my goose was cooked.

As it turned out, my teacher was the blend of both Soto and Rinzai, and his dharma name was Eido (the combination of Eisai/Yōsai Zenji and Dōgen Zenji)—The two Zen masters responsible for fostering Soto and Rinzai Zen in Japan. I can say, without any hesitation, that under his guidance, my life was transformed, and I came to experience my complete worth. 

It took me the first 40 to reach the point of sensing utter worthlessness, an instance to realize transformation, and the next 40 to mature. If there was ever proof of dependent arising, I would be it. 

In the 8th century CE, an Indian Buddhist philosopher by the name of Śhāntideva said that to be able to deny something, we first have to know what it is we’re denying. The logic of that statement is peerless. He went on to say, 

“Without contacting the entity that is imputed, you will not apprehend the absence of the entity.” The value of first knowing vacillating despair made it possible to see the firmness of fulfillment.

During the years following our meeting, Eido Roshi fell into disrepute for sexual misconduct. I can’t condone what he did in that respect, but I will be forever grateful for what he did for me. The founder of the Rinzai Zen (Lin Chi) used the idiom “True Man of no rank” because, within our ineffable, transcendent sphere, there is no conditional right nor wrong. Eido lived, as he taught—on two levels at the same time. The level that erred is the same level we all endure. That level is flawed, but Eido’s “True Man of no rank” was without blemish. And this is true for us all.

It is not up to me or anyone to judge and condemn his actions. The Buddha said, “Do not be the judge of people; do not make assumptions about others. A person is destroyed by holding judgments about others.”  Sage advise we should all take to heart.

Eido Roshi died February 18, 2018, at Shōgen-ji, Minokamo, in Gifu Prefecture, Japan, and will be buried at Dai Bosatsu Zendo (where we met so many years ago, and the place of my transformation) on Tuesday, April 24, 2081. Gassho Eido!

Half full; half empty.

“The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao. The name that can be named is not the eternal name. The nameless is the beginning of heaven and earth. The named is the mother of ten thousand things. Ever desireless, one can see the mystery. Ever desiring, one can see the manifestations.”

That’s the opening stanza of Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching. It is a favorite of mine since it seems to encapsulate the essential spirit and challenge of being human.

Language is how we communicate with one another: Our medium of intellectual barter. Words have the power to shape our lives either for the good or for the bad. And the truth is that we all begin to imagine that what we think and say is the sine qua non of being human. We all fail to consider that words are simply abstractions; representations of something, but beneath the words lay the mystery—the nameless source from whence our words arise.

Then comes the matter of desire. Who or what is desiring and why? Someone who is complete and fulfilled has no need to desire anything. “But wait,” you might say: “Obviously we are all incomplete.” To that statement, we must say, yes and no. Yes, the objective part of us that can be named is continually learning, being exposed to an infinite set of changing conditions, and is incomplete. And if we were only an objective body that is growing and dying, then yes, we are incomplete.

But we are not only an object, which we call our body. We are also a subjective spirit, integrated completely within the body. It’s a mystery beyond rational understanding but nevertheless real. And this spiritual reality is indiscriminate, which means it is not divided. It is whole and complete already. Nothing can be added and nothing subtracted. It isn’t a matter of choosing one aspect (body) vs. another aspect (spirit) since it isn’t possible to separate them and still remain human.

Nevertheless, the seen part of us, which we see as all that we are, is desiring because that part is incomplete and functions within a sea of discrimination. “The named is the mother of ten thousand things,” none of whom accord with each other. It’s the central task of Zen to release ourselves from the illusion of abstraction—the limited idea—we hold of ourselves and find our truth where mystery resides.

The notion of dropping off body and mind was a primal issue for Zen Master Dōgen but more importantly, it was his dropping of the dropping that unlocked the door to his enlightenment.

The “idea” that there is a difference between body and mind can be a serious obstacle because it remains an intellectual abstraction of separation. And that idea divides us all and leaves us with the residue of alienation. Enlightenment is not an idea. It is an undivided, always present reality and to align ourselves with enlightenment is to realize our own mystery. Body/Spirit. Object/Subject: Same and different, but always indivisible.

Passing obscurity

Given our true nature’s unimaginable character, Zen spills over with poetry and figures of speech, conveying what can’t be grasped. I have recently come upon the poetry of Hongzhi Zhengjue, the 12th-century Ch’an master, considered by Dogen as a living Buddha. His imagery is particularly lucid when talking about meditation and images that help us understand. Throughout Zen’s literature, you’ll find poetic depictions of clouds passing in the night sky to reveal the moon. This symbolic image is intended to show the relationship between fleeting thoughts and the pervasive light of consciousness. Like clouds, a mind filled with elusive thoughts obscures the clarity of insight. And our thoughts, like the movement of clouds, come and go. Here is how Ch’an master Hongzhi put this to verse:

“Right here—at this pivotal axle,

opening the swinging gate and clearing the way—

it is able to respond effortlessly to circumstances;

the great function is free from hindrances.”

This short verse captures the essential process. When the clouds pass away, the light of enlightenment is revealed and functions without hindrance, adapting effortlessly to evolving and ever-changing life.

Enhancing Wisdom Access

Since Right Mindfulness and Right Concentration (steps 7 and 8) are so closely aligned, we’ll consider them together. These are steps of mental discipline that occur within meditation to refine capacity and depth and thus enhance wisdom access. And they serve as the capstones of the Nobel Eightfold Path to emphasize the importance of the emancipating process.

When we meditate, two things are taking place: mindfulness and concentration (unfortunately, so are drifting, sleeping, boredom, impatience, etc.) Mindfulness means being aware, and concentration means to focus. Both awareness and focus are what our minds do (or not, depending on discipline). When we are meditating, we are engaging the mind and manifesting interdependency as follows. Let’s first consider “thinking,” which is a big part of meditation. We are aware of thoughts, and we focus our awareness single-pointedly.

For thoughts to exist, there must be a thinker (by definition). Thoughts are not independent of a thinker, and a thinker is meaningless without thoughts. This is the classic case of dependent origination. So thoughts are going on while we are meditating, and thus there is an active thinker. This process comes and goes. We think we notice our thoughts (through mindfulness), and we choose to release (not become attached) these thoughts and return to a focus (on our breath —our “mind anchor”). It is a bit like training a dog on a leash. The dog attempts to bolt away, we give the dog a gentle tug on the leash, and the dog learns to heel.

Now consider the following. Since thinking and thinkers arise and fall together, it is clear that both thinkers and what they produce (thoughts) are unreal. Recall that the Buddhist definition of reality means “intrinsic substantiality—independence.” A thought is not independent of a thinker, nor is a thinker independent from thoughts; thus, neither is “real.” Both thinkers and thoughts are therefore passing phantoms—mirages, clouds which obscure wisdom. This process takes place whether or not when we are meditating. The benefit of meditation is that we devote time and energy to watching this taking place, learn to train our minds, and thus become aware of the elusive nature of what occurs. As long as we stay attached to thoughts and empower them with the belief that they are real, we continue to respond inappropriately and therefore create bad karma.

A curious thing is that by thinking, or not thinking, we are still there. We don’t come and go, but our thoughts do. So the question becomes, “Who or what is it that remains?” And what do we call the state when our minds become still, and we are not thinking? All Buddhist sutras refer to the state of non-thinking as Samādhi —when the clouds of delusions cease, we see with the light of wisdom. Likewise, the sutras say that the “who” is our true nature—Buddha-Nature, our true nature.
Consider the words of Ch’an Master Sheng-yen in his commentary on the Sutra of Complete Enlightenment. 

“We practice until the self is gone. When the self disappears, all obstructions will be gone too. There cannot be a self that is free from all obstructions. If there is a sense of self, then there are also obstructions. There cannot be obstructions without a self to create and experience them because the self is an obstruction.”  

This is just another way of speaking about dependent origination. Thinkers/thoughts; self/obstructions. It’s the same thing. When we reach this samadhi state, there is no self/thinker, no subject/object. Both disappear and fuse into a single, non-perceptible state. The two become one. So what about this non-thinking/non-obstructive state? Let’s share a passage spoken by The Buddha from the Vajrasamadhi-sutra.

“The Buddha replied, ‘Bodhisattva, ordinary meditation is, in fact, mental activity. Being neither distracted nor concentrated is the true non-thought-creating meditation. Since the nature of this meditation is non-thought-creating, therefore, abandon any meditation that fabricates sense-objects. The nature of non-thought-creating meditation is non-abiding [meaning, it doesn’t last]. Therefore, one should abandon any sign of abidance in meditation. If one knows that the true nature of meditation is free from both distraction and calmness, one immediately accesses the wisdom of non-creation of a phenomenon. This wisdom of non-creation does not depend on abidance. Consequently, the mind will not be distracted. With this wisdom, this is how one attains the Nirvana—prajnaparamita.’”

“Think non-thinking,” wrote Master Dōgen Zenji. “How do we think without thinking? Think from the depths of non-thinking.” The ‘depth of non-thinking’ refers to mind-essence—the realm of ‘pure mind’ where no thought defilements exist. This state of consciousness is hard to describe in words. Still, it comes from practicing the correct mind’s correct attitudes within a deep state of concentration while maintaining the zazen posture and rhythmic breathing. The goal of zazen is to reach Hishiryo consciousness. ‘Hishiryo is the harmonizing of objective and subjective views, ultimate consciousness beyond time and space, the highest consciousness beyond thinking and non-thinking. To experience Hishiryo consciousness—That is Zen.’”

“Without Thinking”

• No subject-object distinction: The subject has disappeared—this being the Zen interpretation of Buddhist anatta or no-mind. The ego/subject disappears since the subject is not real anyway. 

• Immediacy: Without a subject standing back (Or obscuring reality; No illusionary filters), the experience is one of immediacy within the dynamic field of consciousness.

• Fullness: Because the object is not filtered through an intentional act, it presents itself in its fullness. Things become what they are. They are thusness/Tathatā.

Such immediacy and fullness are Genjōkōan, “the pure presence of things as they are.” A Zen monk asked Master Deshimaru, “In Zen when you have satori, you can say, ‘I am God!’ Can that be interpreted as being like Saint Paul when he said, ‘It is not I who lives but Christ who lives in me?’”

Master Deshimaru answered: “Zazen is the same thing as God or Buddha. Dogen, the master of transmission, said, ‘Zazen itself is God.’ By that, he meant that during zazen, you are in harmony with the cosmos. In hishiryo consciousness, there is no more anything. It is satori consciousness. The self has dropped away and dissolved. It is the consciousness of God. It is God. People have a personal God. We are not separate. There is no duality between God, Buddha, and ourselves. If I say, ‘I am God or Buddha,’ I am a little bit crazy. Mushotoku is important. If you think consciously about God or Buddha, it’s not good. If I say you are God or Buddha while you are practicing zazen, it’s not the same thing as if you say it about yourself. In Zen, you must have no goal. In hishiryo consciousness, the personal self, however illuminated it may be, is still here. Meister Eckhart said, ‘If you empty yourself, God enters into you.’ In Zen, the ego enters into God. God enters into the ego. Both.”

It is a serious mistake in the understanding of Zen to refer merely to the “denial” or “cessation” of conceptual thinking. It is quite clear that in Ch’an Buddhism, no-mind, rather than referring to an absence of thought, refers to the condition of not being trapped in or attached to thoughts, not adhering to a certain conceptual habit or position.

The error of interpretation made by many scholars (and by Zen practitioners as well) lies precisely in taking the term “no-thought” to refer to some kind of permanent or ongoing absence of thought. While this assumption is routinely made, it is impossible to corroborate it in the Ch’an canon. If we study the seminal texts carefully, we do find a description of the experience of an instantaneous severing of thought that occurs in the course of a thoroughgoing pursuit of a Buddhist meditative exercise. But nowhere in the Platform Sutra, Sutra of Perfect Enlightenment, Diamond Sutra, or any other major Ch’an text is the term “no-mind” explained to be permanent incapacitation thinking faculty or the permanent cessation of all conceptual activity.

In my next post, I’ll summarize the steps we’ve taken along the Noble Eightfold Path and then return to the matter which launched this discussion—The five ways of seeing and how the Path relates to these “eyes.”