Pie In the Sky.

Of the many posts I’ve made over the years, this one may be among the most important.

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Shakespeare’s words for Juliet fit the messages of wisdom. His words could easily be re-framed: genuine wisdom from any other source would remain genuine wisdom.

Some time ago, I wrote about a message of wisdom from within a Christian context. That message was about different forms of life and the call by Jesus to surrender from one way to gain a different kind: Death of the old, life of the new. That exact same message comes from the second chapter of the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra in the form of the allegorical story reflecting a dialogue between a common man by the name of Cunda and The Buddha. 

The wisdom expressed from these two sources is the same message of surrender: Releasing from one form of life and receiving a different kind of life. Does it matter from which source this wisdom comes? Genuine wisdom from any other source would remain genuine wisdom.

Various forms of surrender are like Lao Tzu’s ten thousand things that arise from the seed of wisdom. The seed is essential life, and that seed manifests in many ways, one of which I’ll share today. But before I deal with specific forms, I want to examine what it means to surrender, in any kind. Surrender is release. We let go of one thing, and when we do, we receive something else; a sort of trade. Nature abhors the vacuum. The fundamental idea is that we can’t focus on two things at the same time, at least not this side of complete release. 

Here’s my first example of surrender: The one that completely transformed my life—Pie, as in “Pie in the sky.” Suppose you had a gift that you didn’t know you had. Without knowing, the gift would be of no value to you. The only way the gift would be of value would be if you knew that you had it. If you didn’t know (but were intent upon getting it), it would be like not eating pie but instead trying to grasp Pie in the sky. For too many years, that is precisely what I did. 

When I first began Zen practice, my teacher, in his great wisdom, encouraged me to go for broke to gain enlightenment. Authentic Zen masters are like doctors of spiritual diseases who exercise refined judgment when working with ill students. They craft appropriate remedies for each student, known in Sanskrit as upāya: expedient means. No one solution fits all students since each person is spiritually ill with a different sickness. Every illness requires just one tailor-made remedy from an infinite list of ten thousand treatments.

Dayi Daoxin (the fourth Chan patriarch) had this to say regarding crafting specific teachings: 

“Therefore the Sūtra (Nirvana Sūtra) says: Since there are numberless (types of) capacities among sentient beings, the buddhas, preach the Dharma in numberless ways. Since the Dharma is preached in numberless ways, the meanings are also numberless. Numberless meanings are born from the One Reality. The One reality is formless, but there is no form that it does not give form to, it is called the true form. This is total purity.”

My teacher knew what I needed better than I did and prescribed a unique dose of medicine for my illness, which is most common. I was very sick with the disease known as accomplishment—never being good enough and always pressing for greater and greater degrees of worth. The medicine was, therefore, “more pressing.” 

There was no way for me to understand his wisdom at that time. That knowing took more than a quarter of a century for me to fathom, which came about only by completely exhausting myself in the quest for being good enough.

Twenty-five years later, when the time was right—when I was fully ripened—I fell like a perfect plum. By this time, I had moved to a different city and had a new teacher who prescribed a different dose of medicine, which came in the form of the message, there is no enlightenment to attain. To be perfectly honest, I was extraordinarily upset when hearing this message, felt as if I had been manipulated for 25 years, and encouraged to chase a non-existent windmill. 

I had trusted my first teacher entirely and thought he had deceived me. It took me a full year more before I got it, and when I did, I fell kerplunk right down into myself like a ripe plum. And as soon as I did get it, I threw back my head and laughed myself silly until tears rolled down my cheeks. I still laugh every time I think about it.

Without realizing, what I had been doing was trying to grasp air which was already in my hand: the pie in the sky—the payoff for my persistence and diligence— was already in my stomach where it had always been, already digested. There was no way for me to get what I already had, and there was no way to be good enough since I, like everyone, came into this world complete, yet I was persuaded I was incomplete. 

No one will never get more complete since that is an oxymoron. There is no attainment, just like it says in the Heart Sutra, which I had repeated a million times but never understood. That is what surrender is all about. Letting go and getting what we already have. That is enlightenment, not some “pie in the sky.” Trading away illusions (the ideas) and getting real, is an excellent trade!

By the way, this expression “Pie in the sky” came from the book “The Preacher and the Slave,” a composition by legendary labor hero Joe Hill. The song became part of the widely distributed ‘little red songbooks’ around 1910. The complete verse goes like this:

“You will eat, bye and bye,
In that glorious land above the sky;
Work and pray, live on hay.
You’ll get pie in the sky when you die.”

Well, there are still slaves today: The ones we make of ourselves all by ourselves. This illness of accomplishment is vast. From birth, we are encouraged to get better. The message comes from every dimension of our world to become somebody. But there is no becoming somebody. We already are somebody, just not the somebody we think we are. The real truth is the pie is already in our gut, not in the sky, bye, and bye.

We are like Eskimos with plenty of snowballs but are being duped into believing that we need more. If you want to put that into a spiritual context reflect upon Zen Master Hakuin’s Song of Zazen: 

“How near the truth, yet how far we seek. Like one in water crying, ‘I thirst!’ Like the son of a rich man wandering poor on this earth we endlessly circle the six worlds. The cause of our sorrow is ego delusion.” 

And if you prefer the same message from a Christian context, try the parable of the Prodigal Son, who wandered away from his birthright of splendor and ate from the trough of pigs. Only then did he know what he no longer had. Wisdom from any source remains genuine wisdom. It’s the message. Not the messenger that matters.

Is there a “Self?”

Fabrication? Or real?

We humans have a big problem: language. We have invented words for everything regardless of whether the thing is ineffable or not. The opposite of a “thing” is “no-thing/nothing.” A thing is perceptible and nothing is not. When the words we employ relate to perceptible matters there is less of a problem, but even then words mean different things to different people. I’ve written previously concerning this dilemma in a post: Does suffering have a positive side? 

All humans imagine they have a unique identity or personality which is, in part, the constituents of a “self.” When we imagine ourselves we draw together composite components, such as how we think others see us, and what we think of ourselves. We dress this ego-self up with variegated clothing of profession, education, relationships, and many other factors we consider important, and end up with an internally perceptible “self-image” (ego). What should be apparent (but remains obscure) is that all images (self-included) are neither real nor the nexus of perception. The logic of this is peerless and we have been educated to know the difference between a perceptible object and an imperceptible subject (the ineffable person we imagine ourselves to be).

In a recent post (Our overturned world) I spoke about the writings of Patañjali who lived in India during the 2nd century BCE. He is credited with being the compiler of the Yoga Sūtras, an important collection of aphorisms on Yoga practice. Patañjali wrote about what he called kleshas (afflictions: causes of suffering) and maintained that there are only five of these. According to him, we have what is called ahamkara or “I-maker” (ego). It is a single thought form, the delusional image of an individualized existence. This premise is fully embraced within Zen and is the foundation upon which the conviction of “no-self” is based. 

It is our nature to label everything and in the case of our true, subjective selves, we apply the name of another self (now we have two, both fabricated). There is the perceptible, objective ego/self and an ineffable subjective Self. But we only apply the label of Self due to our inability to articulate or define pure consciousness, otherwise called “The Mind.” In other words, we know the mind is present by virtue of actions.

This matter is conflated due to seemingly conflicting Buddhist teachings. On the one hand, it is standard Buddhist teachings that we have no self (anattā). And on the other hand, there are Buddhist Sūtras that teach a higher Self, such as the Tathāgatagarbha Sūtras, (one of which The Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra—contrasting these two selves). In Chapter 3 (On Grief) of this Sūtra, the Buddha taught, what he called “four perversions.” He said that the true Self signified the Buddha, the eternal signified the Dharmakāya (the Mind—literally “truth body”), Bliss signified the lack of dukkhā and Nirvana/the Pure, signified the Dharma. He went on to say that to cultivate impermanence, suffering, and non-self has no real meaning and said,

“Whoever has these four kinds of perversion, that person does not know the correct cultivation of dharmas. Having these perverse ideas, their (the lost) minds, and vision are distorted.” He continued, “If impermanence is killed, what there is, is eternal Nirvana. If suffering is killed, one must gain bliss; if the void is killed, one must gain the real. If the non-self is killed, one must gain the True Self, O great King! If impermanence, suffering, the Void, and the non-self are killed, you must be equal to me.” In this same Sūtra, the Buddha said, “Seeing the actions of body and mouth, we say that we see the mind. The mind is not seen, but this is not false. This is seeing by outer signs.” 

This is confusing, but after much study, you come to realize that the labels of “Mind” and “Self” are used interchangeably. In any case, (depending on your preferences) neither the Mind nor the Self can be seen, simply because these are arbitrary words for consciousness: the nexus of all perception. In fact, the Self is just another name for Buddha-dhatu/the true immaculate Self—the only substantial, yet unseen reality.

After all else, we must recognize the limitation of words and, as Lao Tzu said, “The Tao that can be spoken is not the enduring and unchanging Tao. The name that can be named is not the enduring and unchanging name.” The word “Tao” was the same word the Buddha used for “the Mind/Self.” The clue should be, that a name is not the same as what the name represents. Names are expressions of substance but they are nevertheless mental images intended to point to substance, and in the case of a self, the substance in question if ineffably indefinable. A rose by any other name smells as sweet.

Who stands before me?

One of the most profound stories concerning Bodhidharma, the figure who is credited as the originator of Zen, occurred in China during the 6th century CE during a conversation with Emperor Wu. The Emperor had invested himself in many ways to promote Buddhism and thus felt deserving of special merit. He said to Bodhidharma, “I have built many temples, copied innumerable Sutras, and ordained many monks since becoming Emperor. Therefore, I ask you what is my merit?” 

At the level of vast emptiness, there is nothing special, or the opposite: Specialness. In response, Bodhidharma replied: “None whatsoever!” Emperor Wu then responded with, “What then is the most important principle of Buddhism?” Bodhidharma answered: “Vast emptiness. Nothing sacred.” Shocked by his answer, the Emperor then said, “Who is this that stands before me?” Bodhidharma: answered, “I don’t know.”

Without a doubt, to students new to the practice of Zen, this story must seem bizarre. How on earth could such apparent ignorance, expressed by the founder of Zen, be considered profound? To sweep away the cloud that covers over the significance, we must explore a common dimension of human nature: The desire to be somebody special, and the corresponding quest to be involved in doing something we all consider important that moves us toward that goal of specialness. 

So long as we are not doing whatever it may be we consider as important, the more guilt we feel. For many, we begin in childhood with feelings of inadequacy. Some people are so consumed with “doing” they become obsessive-compulsive, doing the same thing over and over to experience some relief. The rest of us, at the very least, feel uncomfortable thinking that we are wasting valuable time by not doing something.

Two points: Who is consumed with this desire? And what’s the difference between “being” and “doing?” Let me address the second point first: The issue of beingness which concerned Bodhidharma’s unknowing. He seemed to be saying he didn’t know himself, and if anything is central to Zen it is the unveiling of our true nature. You really can’t understand this issue without the other part of his answer: “Vast emptiness. Nothing sacred.”

Instead, there is nothing whatsoever, yet within emptiness, is completion. That state of mind is the base upon which everything we do is based. Without “beingness” it is impossible for “doing-ness” to exist, thus the catchphrase, “Be here now.” We have been so conditioned to think that just being without the expression of acting in some way toward our goal, is to be considered as a useless bum. 

There is special significance in being present—fully present in the moment, but the question is “who is being present?” The knee-jerk (and unexamined answer) is, “Me.” But this me can be expressed, both in many definable terms (e.g., The ego, which is mere clothing upon a mannequin, changing moment by moment, depending on changing circumstances), or the indefinable true person that we are, neither special nor not.

So then we come to the first point of the “Who,” to which Bodhidharma answered, “I don’t know.” Why does that make sense, whether we know it or not? It makes sense simply because emptiness—the realm of completion and the lack, is the same realm lacking definition. Nobody, not even a Buddha can define what is essentially indefinable except to note the obvious: doing and being are essential partners. 

If this is the case, how are we to know, not only ourselves but also other people? The Buddha himself pointed to the answer with his statement in the Mahāyāna Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra when he said, “Seeing the actions of body and mouth, we say that we see the mind. The mind is not seen, but this is not false. This is seeing by outer signs.” In other words, we not only know who we are, but we also know who others are, not just by what is said but by how actions speak louder than words alone. Our words and actions together define the person that stands before us all.

Surrendering from Expectations

Everything except essence is fleeting and will come to an end. That was the message Alan Watts made in his book, “The Wisdom of Insecurity.” 

The passing of some things is quicker than others. A Galapagos Land Tortoise lives close to 200 years. Some life forms come and go in a matter of days. The parasitic wasp, for example, lives as an adult for 3 days or less. As far as we know, the universe since the Big Bang has lasted 13.7 billion years, but it too will end at some point.

Life looks long, but by nature, an end there must be.

Whatever flourishes always wanes; met, one must part.

The prime of manhood is not long;

Luxuriance meets with illness.

Life is swallowed by death; nothing exists eternally.”

Holding on to fleeting form invites suffering. The book of Ecclesiastes begins and ends with:

“Meaningless! Meaningless! Says the teacher. Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless”.

Chapter 2 of the Mahaparinirvana Sutra says,

“In all the world, whatever is born must die.

The message is the same. These forms of vapor are easier to see than mental fixations, but the rule still applies. Take, for example, the mental obsession of expectations. We start each day with a set of expectations. We expect clear skies, so we don’t take an umbrella. We hope it will take a particular amount of time to travel from our homes to our destinations. We expect certain acceptable conditions in our environment. Any one of these expectations may or may not come about. If they do, we are pleased. If they don’t, we become upset. Our emotions and repose balance on a razor’s edge of outcomes to expectations. Nobody can predict exactly what will happen in the future, so we walk a fine line and hope for the best.

Often, when things don’t turn out the way we want, we try to force a different outcome. If that fails, we may increase the heat and intensity, believing that we can dominate and prevail. What is not noticed is the interdependent connection to this forcing. From one side, there is shoving. From the other side, there is being pushed, which simply invites a responsive shove. What started with our pressing turns into being shoved back, which then invites more back-and-forth shoving. Some nations and people have been pushing back-and-forth for so long nobody can remember who made the first shove.

It is impossible to function without making predictions, having hopes, and expecting certain conditions. The problem is what happens when our predictions go south. Becoming attached to the outcome is the problem. The secret of emotional stability and release from self-righteousness is to surrender from outcomes. In truth, results are not the product of our isolated actions. Both Krishna and the Buddha said: The greatest effort is not concerned with results. We just do our best and release from success or failure. 

There is, however, a most subtle difference between having no expectations (and possibly no action) of attempting to shape outcomes. I have written concerning this delicate balance in a post In the world: enlightened social responsibility. The story of John Chapman (known as Johnny Appleseed) is instructive in this regard. You can read about what this means in another post: Cleaning house.

It is of vital importance to work for the common good and not withdraw. Ultimately the outcome of any action is not exclusively our own. Our ideas may last an instant or as long as the universe, but they will always be approximate—just reflections on the surface of shimmering water.  

Is that all there is?

“Is that all there is? Is that all there is? If that’s all there is my friends, then let’s keep dancing. Let’s break out the booze and have a ball if that’s all there is.”

These words might very well be the mantra for today. They were however, sung by American singer Peggy Lee and an award winner from her album in November 1969. When your life seems surrounded with corruption it is easy to become disillusioned. Peggy Lee’s song was written by the team of Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller and based on the existential philosophy expressed at the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th-century. 

More specifically the writers borrowed the idea from the 1896 Disillusionment written by Thomas Mann who was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1929. Mann was a big fan of Goethe, Nietzsche and Schopenhauer, all of whom, in one way or another saw life as meaningless and were considered either implicit or explicit nihilists.

Without plumbing the depths of consciousness it seems logical that life is indeed meaningless. The words of the song keep changing but the message appears to be the same. Even among mainline Buddhism that message was first resonating with what was known as “The Three marks of existence.” The Buddha was thought to have taught that all beings, conditioned by causes (saṅkhāra) are impermanent (anicca) and suffering (dukkhā) while he said not-self (anattā) characterized all dharmas meaning there is no “I” or “mine” in life.

If that was the end of the matter, Buddhism would more than likely, have lasted about twenty seconds. But fortunately that was not the end of the matter. It took some time for Mahāyana Buddhism to emerge, which told the rest of the story. In Chapter 3 (On Grief) of the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra the Buddha taught, about what he called “four perversions.” 

He said that the true Self signified the Buddha, the eternal signified the Dharmakaya (the Mind of truth), Bliss signified the lack of dukkhā and Nirvana/the Pure signified the Dharma. He went on to say that to cultivate impermanence, suffering, and non-Self has no real value/meaning. “Whoever has these four kinds of perversion, that person does not know the correct cultivation of dharmas. Having these perverse ideas, their (the lost) minds and vision are distorted.”

When life seems to be characterized by violence, political shark-man-ship, power through money, injustice, a growing wave of corruption, despair, apathy, and hopelessness, it’s easy to wonder, “Is this all there is?” And while we may not yet be able to find our true Selves (which is Sunyata), we don’t need to see life through the lens of a victim. A man who waits for enlightenment before being a balm to others is like waiting for the ocean to warm before taking a bath. 

While facing such adversity in the present moment, it may require strength, endurance, and keeping a level head. But of equal importance is the clear understanding that the only way to have better “nows” for tomorrows is by making those betters today. A single match can either ignite a blazing inferno of hatred or light a lamp of love that shines brightness into the darkness. Whatever we do in the never-ending “now” will make our world of tomorrow. 

We don’t need to be a Malālah Yūsafzay or an Edward Snowden to make a difference. A single act of kindness in whatever sphere we live turns adversity into joy. A single drop of rain waters 10,000 pines.

Tracking a koan.

A story is told in the Platform Sutra of a conversation held between Daman Hongren (fifth Chinese Chan patriarch) and Dajian Huineng (sixth Chinese Chan patriarch). Huineng was an illiterate, unschooled commoner who, upon hearing the Diamond Cutter Sutra, realized enlightenment and subsequently sought out Hongren. When Huineng met the patriarch, he was assigned the lowly job of rice-pounder, where he remained for many months before proving his worth to Hongren.

The conversation between the two was thus: Hongren—“A seeker of the Path risks his life for the dharma. Should he not do so?” Then he asked, “Is the rice ready?”  Huineng—“Ready long ago, only waiting for the sieve.” 

Two questions, and a single short answer which reveals the nature of enlightenment—both sudden and gradual. Sudden, since awakening happened quickly, but fullness required the sifting of life’s sieve—The rice was ready, but the lingering, residual chaff had to be blown away by the winds of life.

The insight flowing from this conversation is enhanced through the lens of an ancient Greek word for perfection. The word is “Teleios,” which means having reached the finale—the logical culmination of maturation. Like birth, first, we come into this world, and then it takes many years of living to reach maturation.

More than forty years ago, I came to a realization of my true nature, but I also needed further shifting to fully grasp the magnitude of what had occurred. It is one thing to experience profound transformation, and it is another to allow it to flower and revolutionize your life. Besides, the initial experience was so contrary to the ordinary, that when it happens, I barely know which end was up. It took time to absorb the experience, allow it to infuse me, and to settle in.

One of the critical ingredients for me of this settling in concerned the Japanese words “mu” and “shin.” Mu is, of course, the Japanese word for “no,” and you find Mu in the koan about Jōshū’s dog: “A monk asked, ‘Does a dog have a Buddha-nature or not?’ The master said, ‘Mu (No)!’”

When I lived in a Zen monastery, this was my koan and for a long time it made no sense. In Zen, you are taught that Buddha-nature inhabits all sentient beings, one of which is a dog. So how could it be that Buddha-nature infuses everything but not a dog? But as life sifted me, it began to become a part of who I was, and ever so slowly, I understood. 

What I came to understand concerned variations on Mu. One of these is the obvious negation no. An alternative is nothing meaning the absence of something. And another is no-thing, (which is similar to nothing but more precise, meaning not a thing). These latter two can be combined, which rounds out the correct Buddhist understand of emptiness, which the Buddha said is form. Seen in this combined manner, emptiness becomes more than just the absence of form. It then becomes the wellspring of form (and everything else). Mu is not a phenomenal thing. Instead, it is the soil out of whch grows all things. If it was a thing, then it could not be all things.

The Heart Sutra says form is emptiness. That is a profound equation, but it rattles your brain. In a way this is the premier koan. We all think we know what form is. It’s the measurable stuff that surrounds us. We can sense it in every way. But emptiness is an entirely different kettle of fish. How can you perceive that? The truth is you can’t perceive emptiness. You can only experience it, and the reason is actually quite simple (but only when you understand—before that, it makes no sense). 

Emptiness is who we truly are. It has no discernible properties, but all form emanates from there and all form is infused with the indelible dimension of the ubiquitous power of creation. If emptiness had detectable properties, it would be limited. Buddha-Nature (your true nature) is not limited. Buddha-Nature is emptiness and it is you.

I was helped to fathom this when I learned a few things about the Chinese and the Japanese language. Every culture sees things differently, and these two languages see life in ways that are radically different from the English perspective. 

From a Western point of view, we have a heart, and we have a mind. We see these as two separate and different matters. Not so with the Chinese and the Japanese. The heart and the mind are one integrated whole, so they call it XIN (Chinese) or SHIN (Japanese), and both of these terms mean heart/mind—the integration of thinking and emotions. That was one piece of the puzzle.

The next piece concerned the seeming dichotomy between illusion and reality, and here again the cultural framing played an essential role. What we ordinarily consider real is what we can perceive, whether internally or externally. We see the objective world of form and the fabrication of thoughts and consider both real. But there is a problem here: Both our thoughts and the outside world of form are constantly changing, and both lure us into identity attachment and thus suffering. 

That part is the illusive dimension of XIN/SHIN, otherwise known as form. But The Buddha had said that form is emptiness, so in essence, he was saying that we could only perceive the manifestations but not the source of mind. In fact, this is what he had said in the Mahāyāna Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra:

“Seeing the actions of body and mouth, we say that we see the mind. The mind is not seen, but this is not false. This is seeing by outer signs.” Elsewhere he spoke of finding the fire of mind only by seeing smoke.

When we look for the mind, we find nothing—the mind can’t see itself, and this is where Zen shines because what we aim for in zazen is a cessation of form, long enough to experience the lack. Bodhidharma had said: “That which exists, exists in relationship to that which doesn’t exist.” And Rinzai’s teacher Huang Po, was particularly lucid in his teaching about the relationship between abandoning form and finding yourself. In the Chun Chou Record, he said: 

“To say that the real Dharmakāya of the Buddha resembles the Void is another way of saying that the Dharmakāya is the Void and that the Void is the Dharmakāya ...they are one and the same thing.... When all forms are abandoned, there is the Buddha ... the Void is not really void, but the realm of the real Dharma. This spiritually enlightening nature is without beginning...this great Nirvānic nature is Mind; Mind is the Buddha, and the Buddha is the Dharma.”

One of the fascinating aspects of Zen study is to begin patching together apparently disparate pieces into a seamless tapestry of meaning. When we arrange all of these pieces, a picture emerges centered on this notion of Mu and Shin and what it reveals is this equation: “Mu shin=Shin” where the first part “Mu shin” (the absence of thoughts and emotions) is joined to our true nature (Shin) which is formless/the void/true mind/the Buddha/yourself. 

Formlessness is lacking form. It is emptiness itself: “…the void is not really void, but the realm of the real Dharma. This spiritually enlightening nature is without beginning...this great Nirvānic nature is Mind; Mind is the Buddha, and the Buddha is the Dharma.” 

And that is who we are. Now the curious thing about my own awakening is what was taking place within me while immersing myself in Mu practice. Yes, I had been given the Jōshū’s dog koan, and yes, I was following the prescribed method, but there was a much deeper internal koan occurring that had been haunting me for many, many years, and there didn’t seem to be any way to either get rid of it or make rational sense of it. That koan was the mind-bender: who am I? So while I was immersing myself in dogs, this deeper koan was down there underneath. It didn’t seem to be even slightly related to dogs or Mu but what happened was that the answer to my who am I? question, emerged as the solution to the Mu koan because the answer to one is the answer to the other.

I had been struggling for years, believing all the time that I was a worthless excuse for humanity, and in my moment of awakening, I realized that I was already Teleios (complete). I knew, at the most fundamental level of me, I was perfect, had always been perfect, and would never stop being perfect, and ever so slowly, the winds of life began to blow away the chaff of the terrible part of me.

Pluses and Minuses

The notion that anything can exist, separate, and apart from any contextual framework is, of course, absurd. “Up” makes no sense apart from “down;” good and evil define one another. Everything is defined and understood in such a manner, and this is true of Buddhism as well.

There are two truths in Buddhism, just as there are two truths in everything. There is a negative truth and a positive truth. One truth concerns impermanence; the other permanence and neither could exist without the other, just as up couldn’t exist without down. Countless Zen Masters have spoken of these two truths in various ways. Nagarjuna used the terms conventional and ultimate truth. He further said that we will never be free until we know how they differ and experience the ultimate.

Sadly too often, just the negative/impermanence side is emphasized with no mention of the positive side. All phenomenal life is indeed impermanent, and clinging to what constantly changes does produce suffering. Various words and concepts are used to define this problem. Words like attachment or resistance are often employed, but the important point is that we create distress by linking our sense of well-being to a vapor.

While that part is indeed important, it is just the negative truth leaving a vacuum for the positive. Buddhism teaches that there is no substantial “mind” but rather a constellation of interdependent contributing factors. Sensory phenomena, perceptual capacities, mental processing, and consciousness contribute to a solid mind’s illusion. And our sense of self is a function of this illusion, which ultimately drives greed, anger, and ignorance. When we fathom the elusive nature of this constellation, we realize no basis for independent isolation and conflict.

This realization is an important milestone along the way to enlightenment. Before we can become genuinely self-aware, we must relinquish these negative and poisonous illusions. Simultaneous to the realization of who we aren’t is the realization of who we are. The enlightenment experience is affirmed by the esoteric and intuitive teachings intended for Bodhisattvas. The late and great Nyogen Senzaki said this was revealed in Sūtra such as the Mahāyāna Mahāparinirvāṇa that teaches that our true nature is buddha—the universal, never-born One Mind, uniting us with all life. When we can embrace this constant presence, we finally know who we are, gain emancipation, and discover that we are not alone.