The four faces of us all.

The distortions we imagine.

There is a Japanese saying: “We have three faces: The first face, we show to the world. The second face, we show to our family and friends. The third face, we never show anyone and it is the truest reflection of who we are.”

There is, however, another Zen koan: “Who were you before your parents were born?” which transcends the first saying and points to our “original face”—Who all of us are before the clothing of expectations or definitions are applied is this original face, without form or definition—the one that can’t be seen that is doing the seeing. Look at it this way: If there is a face that can be perceived it can’t be who we are since it takes both a perceptible image (what is seen) and one who sees. All of us are that imperceptible seer, not an image.

The first face we show the world because we believe it is the expected ideal. The second face is the one we risk showing, based on the assumption that we can relax with family and friends: still a risk, but one we accept. The third face, the one we never show, is the one we fear the most and holds the greatest risk of exposure, persuading us that if ever revealed will destroy us. All three are unreal projections, based on our criteria within us that we construct. None of these are real. Instead, they are based on the expectations we each hold as yardsticks against which we measure who we imagine we are as acceptable beings, worthy of love.

The only face that is real is the fourth: the one that can’t be seen. This face alone holds no criteria of acceptability since by nature it is wholeness itself: complete, indiscriminate, lovable beyond measure and understanding of all, because IT is all. 

Preparing the soil.

As a boy living in the Kansas heartland, I learned about farming. My grandmother reared me, and her first rule was “good soil.” Consequently, we used a fair amount of fertilizer, and before ever planting a seed, she had me till the soil. After that, the soil had to sit a few days, and then we planted seeds. That lesson stuck with me all these years and I employ that method in teaching and writing. Tomorrow I intend to fertilized your mind to be receptive to a few seeds and expose you to an innovative way of exploring creativity.

Creativity depends on input just, like the soil depends on fertilizer and seeds. The more information the better, but eventually, all of that input needs to be digested, assimilated, and processed for creative output to emerge. Fortunately, we are quite capable of both rational analyzing and creative insight, but they are different. People who are predominately analytic may not be the most creative and vice versa. Others seem to be more balanced and excel at both.

People who engage in Zen meditation are trained toward the middle road of balance, and in one tradition (Rinzai Zen), a device is employed to foster this balance. The device is known as a koan, which is essentially a means to force you to move beyond the limitations of the rational mind and use another part of your mind to tap into insight and intuition. 

A koan is a riddle, and the only way to solve it is by using your intuitive mind. There is no rational solution to these riddles, and the harder you try, the further away you get. That results in frustration and reaching the point of yielding. If you immerse yourself in the koan process long enough, you eventually “break open,” the struggle ends, resulting in a flash of insight and an intuitive answer, unexpectedly leaps out. 

The opposite way (incorporated in Sōtō Zen) is to engage in an extensive intellectual study until you become saturated with the ingredients, and then hopefully experience enlightenment. In either event, both the intellect and intuitive faculties are important. The Rinzai way fuels the sudden way, and the Soto way fuels the gradual way but common to both practices is zazen—the meditation process of calming and emptying your mind, which causes a shift to the intuitive side of you brain.

So tomorrow, I will walk you through a particular koan to demonstrate how this process works. 

Names and Faces

"Happy Face/Sad Face"

What’s in a name? We love and hate names. We cherish some names that bring us pleasure and correspond with our thoughts about how things should be. We hate other names: the ones that bring us pain and disrupt our sense of order. 

One of the most famous Zen koans concerns names: “Who were you before your parents named you?” It’s a good koan since it forces us to release ourselves from the unimportant and move toward what is important.

In truth, names are just handles—pointers to what is real. If we use the name “God,” a certain image is evoked along with a lot of residual baggage. If we use the name “Buddha-Nature,” a very different image is evoked with different baggage. Since Buddha-Nature has no baggage, the question is, “who does?” Some of us were given dharma names when we received precepts. We had a name before and a different name afterward. Sometimes when a woman has married, her name changes (less and less nowadays). Our names can change, but our fundamental nature remains the same. Sometimes in Zen terms, that original nature is called “Original Face.”

Bodhidharma put it in a slightly different way. He said, “Despite dwelling in a material body of four elements, your nature is basically pure. It can’t be corrupted. Your real body is basically pure. Once you recognize your moving, miraculously aware nature, yours is the mind of all Buddhas. If you don’t see your own miraculous aware nature, you’ll never find a Buddha even if you break your body into atoms.”

Names are just waves on the ocean of consciousness or like the moon reflected on surface ripples. They are fleeting handles pointing to the deep.