Bodhidharma, The First Chinese Ancestor
Spaciousness and a Sobriety Milestone
The month of November—Sunday, November 17th, to be exact—saw the fulfillment of another sobriety milestone: 1,000 days. In some sobriety circles, this is called “joining the comma club.”
How significant is the introduction of this punctuation mark to my recovery story? It depends on where my boat is, of course; the same is true for you, too.
Both the reader and writer of prose and poetry understand the effects of a well- or misplaced comma—or a comma’s outright absence. In the same way, those in recovery who transform an ordinary object into a memento of their effort and time feel how its presence and placement all but determine their orientation in the world. We might feel hopeful and secure when it is near and unsettled when it is far away.
I used to carry in my left front pants pocket the day, month, then year chips from Alcoholics Anonymous. Today, I carry a fifty-four-bead mala made by my partner. Its inspiration was the Serenity Prayer; a pedant bearing an image of Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva sits at its bottom. I also carry a five-panel Sho san-e, a miniature Okesa. I sewed the latter earlier this year, and a seven-panel version is in progress.
Introducing a comma into my enduring day count reminds me that recovery is possible. The comma reminds me that transformation is not merely possible but actual and ongoing: the transformation of ignorance into wisdom, suffering into liberation. It reminds me of difficulties that I met with over the last 1,000 days, including the loss of a career, loss of a community and home, loss of two (constructed) identities, financial and food insecurity, bullying and sexual harassment, and low-level persistent emotional and verbal abuse.
It also reminds me that I could—and did—remain upright and meet those difficulties. I am proud of that.
The comma confirms the adage “It works if you work it” and the wisdom found in a gatha I recite often:
I am here.
This is the way it is right now.
This is a moment of suffering.
May I give myself the care I need at this moment.
May I accept this without struggling, but also without giving up.And I will add: May I maintain a commitment to rigorous honesty and humility and just. keep. going.
,
While sitting in a café the other morning, a Dharma brother visiting from California said, “I am all Dogen-ed out. Dogen, Dogen, Dogen. There is so much Dogen! What about everyone else?”
I couldn’t help but smile and nod in agreement. “I hear you,” I thought.
This expression of exasperation reminded me of my years studying ancient Greek and Roman philosophy in graduate school. I was drawn to philosophical schools and figures outside the mainstream, meaning what (so far as I could tell, anyway) was popular then.
Plato and Aristotle were (and remain) popular figures of study, especially the former’s Republic and the latter’s Nicomachean Ethics. Sometimes, when reviewing a conference program, I would sigh when counting the number of presentations on Plato’s tripartite theory of the soul or Aristotle’s taxonomy of friendship. “Bah!” I would exclaim. “Too many presentations!” I would say.
How many is “too many”? More than one, probably. More than two, certainly. “Study Empedocles! Study Chrysippus! Study Philodemus! Or any other less popular figure. Enough with Plato and enough with Aristotle!” I would continue. I was Plato-ed out, and I was Aristotle-ed out—never mind that I would direct my efforts toward a dissertation on abstract objects and language in Plato toward the end of my graduate studies. Never mind, also, that I was in my late twenties at that time; my Dharma brother is in his seventies or eighties. He is better positioned to be exasperated, I assume.
Over the last year, much of what has been published here at A Phoenix’s Hut has connected to Dogen Zenji and his varied presentations of the Dharma. Dogen occupies a vital place in the history and lineage of Zen, but he is not the history or lineage. His writings (or the transcriptions of his talks by Koun Ejo Zenji) are instructive and penetrating, but not the only writings with these qualities.
As A Phoenix’s Hut prepares to enter its second year, there will be more space for ancestors other than Dogen.
I still hear you, Dharma brother, although that meeting has gone. What about everyone else?
On one of my shelves is a book entitled Zen’s Chinese Heritage: The Masters and their Teachings. The volume features approximately 170 Chinese Masters; I write “approximately” because I counted quickly and did not wish for a recount when the count passed 150.
The first ancestor in China is Bodhidharma, whom the Continued Biographies of Eminent Monks describes as:
A Brahman from Southern India. His spiritual wisdom was expansive. All who heard him became enlightened. He was devoted to the Mahayana practice of the profound solitary mind. He attained high comprehension of all aspects of samadhi. Through compassion for this place [China] he taught the Yogacara [teachings]. He first arrived in South China during the Liu-Song dynasty [before 489 C.E.]. At the end of his life he again traveled to live under the Wei [the dynasty that ruled North China]. Whereever [sic] he went he taught Chan …
I encourage purchasing a copy of the volume to learn more about Bodhidharma’s life. There are plenty of online (read: free) resources, too. Although familiar with it, I lingered when reading the exchange between Bodhidharma and Emperor Wu. Something about it felt as though I was reading it for the first time.
The exchange, with context, reads:
After sailing for three years, [Bodhidharma] arrived at Nanhai [Guangzhou]. The date was the twenty-first day of the ninth [lunar] month of [the year 527]. The governor of Guangzhou, [named] Xiao Angju received him ceremoniously and made his arrival known to Emperor Wu. When the emperor learned of this report, he dispatched an invitation [for Bodhidharma to come to the capital Nanjing]. [On the first day of the tenth lunar month of 528] Bodhidharma arrived in Nanjing.
The emperor spoke to him as follows: “Since I’ve assumed the throne I’ve built temples and written [about] scriptures, plus I’ve brought about the ordination of an incalculable number of monks. What merit does this [activity] have?”
Bodhidharma replied, “No merit whatsoever.”
The emperor then asked, “Why does this have no merit?”
Bodhidharma said, “These are matters of small consequence in the affairs of men and gods that are caused by transgressions [literally, outflows]. It’s like shadows chasing form, nothing real about it [literally, although it’s there it’s not real].”
The emperor then asked, “What is genuine merit?”
Bodhidharma said, “Pure wisdom of sublime perfection, experiencing one’s [personal] solitary emptiness, seeking nothing in the world.”
The emperor then asked, “What is the first principle of the holy truth?”
Bodhidharma said, “Across the vastness, nothing holy.”
The emperor said, “Who is facing me?”
Bodhidharma said, “I don’t know.”
The dialog is rich. The opportunities it offers to meet the ancient mirror are boundless. And I want to explore what arises for me, specifically (re)connecting with spaciousness.
I imagine the exchange between Bodhidharma and Emperor Wu to be fast-paced, though I cannot be confident it was. Emperor Wu seems eager to learn the effects of his activity; he assumes that merit has been created through his efforts, but a question remains concerning how much merit.
“No merit whatsoever,” Bodhidharma says.
How might we approach this response? As an invitation to investigation, I suggest, what another Chinese ancestor describes as “turn[ing] around the light to shine within.”
Bodhidharma meets Emperor Wu’s how much with a why: Why assume that your activity yields merit? From this why, there follows a what and a how: What is your intention in building temples, writing about scriptures, and ordaining monks? How are you oriented toward the world, because of which you labor in this way?
These are questions we can ask ourselves each day when encountering something that feels incongruous. What am I assuming about this person, place, or thing that contributes to the current discomfort, friction, or dis-ease? Why do I assume that, whatever the that is? How am I oriented right now?
My old irritation with Plato-and-Aristotle-heavy conference programs, for instance, suggests a group of assumptions about how much attention particular philosophical figures deserve and what would benefit the discipline and its next generation of scholars. Those assumptions stem from an intention to see the field of study grow in a specific direction. And that direction reflects my orientation: it is about me and my preferences and what I want—though I might dress these three in different clothing when sharing them in public. In many of my own investigations, I arrive here eventually, but rarely is this the end.
I can write out these observations, either in brief or at length, and become aware of “the things behind the thing.” Still, the assumptions remain, as they do for Emperor Wu.
“Why does this have no merit?” he asks.
“What is genuine merit?” he says, his final move in this direction.
Sometimes, I wonder how often I ask questions as questions. Questions present as requests for clarification, confirmation, or additional information about a subject or topic. The request is born from curiosity supported by an open mind.
Sometimes, however, questions are not questions in this sense but attempts to catch one’s interlocutor in confusion or contradiction. An open hand, indicative of an open mind, is replaced with a tight fist ready to strike, indicating a person’s defensive posture.
What is the tight-fisted questioner defending? That which is dear to them. And what is it that is “the dearest”? Assumptions about who we are and how we are related to all other things.
I, Emperor Wu, have built many temples, written about many scriptures, and brought about the ordination of many monks. Indeed, I am great for this and my activities generate great merit! But how much?
The answer fills out and helps secure an already well-formed identity.
“No merit whatsoever,” Bodhidharma says.
Shakiness appears. Discomfort as fear and frustration are felt.
No! That cannot be the case. Let me press the sage from India, catch him in confusion or contradiction, and then the story I tell myself about myself will be safe once more.
The emperor then asked, “Why does this have no merit?”
Bodhidharma said, “These are matters of small consequence in the affairs of men and gods that are caused by transgressions [literally, outflows]. It’s like shadows chasing form, nothing real about it [literally, although it’s there it’s not real].”
The emperor then asked, “What is genuine merit?”
Bodhidharma said, “Pure wisdom of sublime perfection, experiencing one’s [personal] solitary emptiness, seeking nothing in the world.”
It is impossible to catch and twist that which cuts without a trace.
At this point, Emperor Wu is rattled. He has made an effort—I will say it has been a great effort—in a particular direction. Now, though, he feels though he cannot quite say why the matter is, as Bodhidharma says, of small consequence from non-substantial outflowings. An imminent loss is appearing, and Emperor Wu, aware, begins to feel terror.
Yeats writes at the beginning of The Second Coming:
Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.
Still not ready to let go altogether, Emperor Wu asks:
“What is the first principle of the holy truth?”
Merit, let alone how much merit, is no longer the concern. Instead, the emperor’s focus is the potential for reorientation toward what is holy, and somewhere in hiding, there is the assumption, I feel, of the promise of safety and tranquility brought with it.
Bodhidharma says, “Across the vastness, nothing holy.”
As soon as the potential for reorientation arises and is seen, it vanishes. “Do not cling here, either,” is the lesson that infuses Bodhidharma’s words.
Enough with philosophies of merit! Enough with holy truths and sacred rituals! Enough with that which is proper to the realm of words and phrases, sentences and paragraphs! Enough with conceptual construction, collection, and division!
Let me find comfort by modeling my life on he who faces me. Then, surely, what I desired and am deserving of will be mine, just as it is for this Indian sage. He has it; I want it, too!
“Who is facing me?” asks Emperor Wu.
“I don’t know,” says Bodhidharma.
Bodhidharma could vanish at this point if he had ever been there in the first place. Bursting into 84,000 grains of sand would have a pleasant theatrical effect.
Though present, he is simultaneously absent. In a few words, Bodhidharma left Emperor Wu utterly alone, unsettled, and probably unsure of how to proceed. He was unsure because, now, Emperor Wu was reconnected to the spaciousness of his life.
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