Master Mayu Waves His Fan
Master Mayu Waves His Fan
The Essential Art Of Zazen
O-An Zendo, the small Sōtō Zen temple where I live, practice, and serve the local community, resumed in-person gatherings last week. This change in the temple’s activities, mostly on Sundays, also changes my activities. Notably, I once more serve as the Doshi (Officiant) roughly every other week during our Sunday program and offer the Dharma Talk.
Zen temples, Buddhist temples, and Dharma Centers are generally structured in specific ways, both in their presentation and in the forms of conduct prescribed and prohibited. These forms help create and maintain a particular sort of experience. It is not much different from a recovery meeting or your local bookstore and coffee shop; as the young people might put it, it is about the “vibes.” And just as some recovery meetings are pretty formal, rigid, or strict about these things, while others are not, so are some temples quite formal, rigid, or strict about these things, and others are not. In all places where there is Buddhist practice, though, there is a “container” of some sort, and that container is important.
Here is how Shunryu Suzuki, Roshi, describes its importance in a Dharma Talk titled “Control” from the now-classic Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind. Suzuki Roshi has been speaking about “perfect freedom” and closes with:
But perfect freedom is not found without some rules. People, especially young people, think that freedom is just to do what they want, that in Zen there is no need for rules. But it is absolutely necessary for us to have some rules. But this does not mean always to be under control. As long as you have rules, you have a chance for freedom. To try to obtain freedom without being aware of the rules means nothing. It is to acquire this perfect freedom that we practice zazen.
Since containers are important and much of the temple’s non-residential sangha has been away for four months, Meidō Barbara Anderson, Roshi—my Guiding Teacher—and I decided to offer a series of “reorientation talks.” This past Sunday, I talked about zazen (seated meditation) and kin hin (walking meditation). My focus was the “essential art of zazen,” the spirit recommended for zazen and kin hin, the latter sometimes described as “walking your zazen around the room.”
What follows is an approximate transcript of the Dharma Talk. You can also listen to the live recording. I recommend the recording as it includes “moments of inspiration.” In either case, though, enjoy.
This morning I want to talk about zazen, our sitting practice, and what often follows when we stand up after sitting down for a while, kin hin. I am not inclined, however, to say much about the “physical posture” part of sitting practice. That is, I am not inclined to spend time on how we approach our seats. When we arrive at our seats, bow to the zafu, seiza bench, chair, or stool that is there. Then, we turn and bow in the other direction, where others may be sitting. Both bows are, from one point of view, expressions of gratitude. The first to your seat, the second to others—and since our zendo (meditation hall) has a window wall, the “others” include the trees, deer, squirrels, and everything else “beyond” this room. All of it supports us, and we support all of it, too.
I am not inclined to spend time on how we take our seats. Generally, simply “plopping down” on the cushion is discouraged. Sit down gently and with awareness, and once you settle the base of your body, sway the upper half from side to side, front to back, letting your spine find its balance and uprightness. Exhale completely, then breathe naturally as you either dim your gaze or close your eyes, and your hands rest either on your thighs or in the cosmic mudra.
Swaying the body in this way also happens at the end of zazen. There is no reason to leap from your seat as soon as the bell rings unless the zendo is on fire—and maybe not even then. During Oryoki—a ceremonial, three-bowl meal—we try to “keep pace” in eating together, neither emptying our bowls too quickly nor too slowly. So, too, when we rise from our seats at the end of zazen. Please stand neither too quickly nor too slowly. I promise kin hin will not begin sooner because you were standing first. More importantly, though, that transition should be done with “utmost care and consideration”—menmistu no kafu, in Japanese—since kin hin is an opportunity to walk our zazen around the room.
Again, though, I want to spend my time on something other than these things. I want to spend time on what Dōgen Zenji calls “the essential art of zazen,” the spirit recommended for zazen. And so that we are clear, this spirit and the physical posture we take when we sit down, while (perhaps) different, are not separate from each other.
Sometimes, we hear that Zen practice is “beyond words and scriptures” and that “thousands of words, myriad interpretations, are only to free [us] from obstructions.” How can I use language to share with you something that is not easily captured in the familiar form of phrases, sentences, paragraphs, and pages? Why do I need to say anything if a particular hindrance—attachment, aversion, boredom, restlessness, or doubt—does not obstruct your way? And might I contribute to the arising of a hindrance because I did say something when I could instead “refrain from”?
It is unsurprising, therefore, that questions, poetry, and stories are standard vehicles for Dharma Teachers, especially when the topic is zazen. Thus, Dōgen begins Fukanzazengi (Universally Recommended Instructions for Zazen) in this way:
The real way circulates everywhere; how could it require practice or enlightenment? The essential teaching is fully available; how could effort be necessary? Furthermore, the entire mirror is free of dust; why take steps to polish it? Nothing is separate from this very place; why journey away?
What is the practice of zazen or shikantaza (just sitting)? What is the specific style of practice recommended here at O-An Zendo? There is no goal, no striving, nowhere to go. That is all.
When Chinese ancestor Shitou Xiqian was asked about the essential meaning of the Buddhadharma, he responded with “Not to attain. Not to know.” When asked if there was any other pivotal point, he said, “The wide sky does not obstruct the white clouds drifting.” I typically offer the latter when I meet with someone for beginner’s instruction to describe the spirit of shikantaza. I am considering, though, using the following lines from a poem by W. H. Auden instead:
It was Easter as I walked in the public gardens Hearing the frogs exhaling from the pond, Watching traffic of magnificent cloud Moving without anxiety on open sky—
That is pretty good, too. And I am confident that some of you are familiar with this story from the Genjōkōan (Expressing What Is Most Essential):
Mayu, Zen Master Baoche, was fanning himself. A monk approached and said, “Master, the nature of wind is permanent and there is no place it does not reach. Why, then, do you fan yourself?”
“Although you understand that the nature of wind is permanent,” Mayu replied, “you do not understand the meaning of its reaching everywhere.”
“What is the meaning of its reaching everywhere?” asked the monk.
Mayu just kept fanning himself.
The monk bowed deeply.
The actualization of the buddha dharma, the vital path of its authentic transmission, is like this. If you say that you do not need to fan yourself because the nature of wind is permanent and you can have wind without fanning, you understand neither permanence nor the nature of wind. The nature of wind is permanent; because of that, the wind of the buddha house brings forth the gold of the earth and ripens the cream of the long river.
There are many other examples of oblique attempts to express the spirit of our sitting practice, ways of sharing the heart of the matter that skirt along the edges of discriminatory thinking.
Some expressions state the spirit of zazen as directly and plainly as possible. Here is Dōgen’s well-known instruction from Fukanzazengi:
[…] sit steadfastly and think not-thinking. How do you think not-thinking? Beyond thinking. This is the essential art of zazen.
No questions or clouds are here, and no exhaling frogs or Zen masters are waving their fans. There is only the directive to “sit steadfastly and think not-thinking.”
OK. But how do I do that?
There is a widespread impression that meditation practice has an aim or objective, which is “cutting off thinking,” “stopping thinking,” or attaining a condition or state that could be described as a “blank slate.” No activity is present; nothing happens at all. The impression is odd—when and where has this ever happened?
You may recall that during Donald Trump’s presidency, a great hurricane was approaching some parts of the United States. Many feared that the hurricane would cause great destruction to coastal communities and perhaps some further inland. As a way of addressing this threat, then-President Trump suggested that we “nuke the hurricane.” When many of us heard the suggestion, we became perplexed: What?! You want to blow up a hurricane?! Yet we assume we should be able to bomb our thoughts out of existence, at least for a while.
Dōgen’s directive to “sit steadfastly and think not-thinking” does not mean this. But if not this, then what? What am I doing if I am not launching mindfulness missiles at my thoughts while on the cushion, seiza bench, chair, or stool?
For some time now, I have felt a strong desire to introduce Kobun Chino Roshi’s expression of the Four Great Bodhisattva Vows into our ongoing conversations about practice. Now seems an opportune time to do that.
Traditionally, the vows are expressed in many American Zen Centers in this way:
Beings are numberless, I vow to save them.
Delusions are inexhaustible, I vow to end them.
Dharma gates are endless, I vow to enter them.
Buddha’s way is unsurpassable, I vow to become it.
Sometimes, a few of the words are different. For instance, sometimes we read “serve” instead of “save” or “understand” instead of “end.” There seems to be a standard form, though.
Kobun, however, wrote out the vows in this way:
Sentient beings are infinite, they will save themselves.
Desires are infinite, they will reach an end by themselves.
Dharmas are infinite, so there is learning, study.
Buddha’s way is not above, so it is always accomplished.
Although you are hearing this expression of the vows for the first time, I trust that you can feel the difference—not hear the difference, but feel the difference. Shining through in Kobun’s expression of the Four Great Bodhisattva Vows are two things. One of them I just mentioned is trust—trust in the universe, trust in others, and trust in yourself and this so-called “monkey mind.”
The desires you feel, and the thoughts that dominate your awareness will all pass in their own time. You do not need to meddle with them. Occasionally, bring some awareness to that incessant activity between your ears. And you can set the stepladder, compass, and atlas clutched in your hands to one side. Everything you need is right here; it has already been accomplished. So sit with ease, as though it were Easter morning and you were walking through a public garden.
The second thing is patience.
Some might say that patience is part of trust and that where there is trust, necessarily there is patience. So, there are not two things here. There is only one thing, and that is trust. That is fine; I am not interested in this word game.
I encourage you to be patient as you practice and sit. Sitting steadfast and thinking not-thinking does not stop the monkey mind from monkey-ing. There may be periods of zazen—or parts of periods of zazen—where the monkey is napping, and there will be periods of zazen—or parts of periods of zazen—where the monkey has finished sipping four shots of banana-flavored espresso. When the former happens, you may be delighted. “It was so peaceful! It was so quiet!” you may exclaim. You may feel that progress is happening, that the quality of your zazen is improving. When the latter happens, you may be disappointed. “Ugh! That was so hard! Why was everything so noisy?!” you complain. You may feel that any progress that you have made has been lost and that the quality of your zazen is deteriorating.
Although you might feel these things are so, they are not. Not because you need to “take the long view,” however.
It is not so because sitting is not about progress, improvement, or deterioration. And for those of you who remember my Dharma Talk from the Vesak Sesshin, no comparison is possible. Both past and future are “cut off.” There is just this period of zazen—this instant of zazen—in its specific position and with its own before and after. That is all.
You may not see this yet, by which I mean see it with the eyes of practice. You will, though. Trust yourself, trust the whole lineage of Buddhas and Ancestors, and be patient—with yourself, the monkey, and others—and receive what appears in front of you with attention and care.
It is time for me to say a few things about kin hin, the companion of zazen. Here, too, I could focus on the “physical posture” part of walking your zazen around the room. For example, that kin hin begins with the right foot, always; that when our hands are in shashu, the forearms are parallel to the ground; or that when the bell rings to signal the end of slow walking, we step backward, bringing the front foot and the back foot together, and then bow.
But I am not interested in doing that.
I want to stress the importance of transitioning from sitting to standing and standing to walking. I encourage you to sway, stand, and prepare for the Inkin bell with utmost care and consideration. Although we do not aim at some special state during zazen, we sit in “receptive samadhi,” as Dōgen calls it. We sit with open and expansive awareness—from one point of view, with unbounded generosity—which can be carried around the zendo and out into the world, into our day-to-day activities, with a bit of practice.
As you rise from your seat and ready yourself for kin hin, you can imagine that you are walking not only yourself around the room but your seat, too. You could imagine that, with palms turned upward toward the sky, your zafu sits on top of them. You and your zafu will walk around the room together.
What would that be like? How might your walking meditation change if you carried your cushion, seiza bench, chair, or stool? Would you pay more attention to each step and whether you are holding tension in your neck or shoulders? Or would you still daydream, look out the window, and wonder if there will be time for a nap this afternoon? We should try it sometime.
Actually, our cushion is always with us, whether we are lying down, standing up, walking, or sitting. But it starts with sitting, with zazen, “because [it] is the front gate for buddha dharma.”
For some additional reading, please consider these offerings:
The quotations from Dogen Zenji are from “Treasury of the True Dharma Eye,” edited by Kazukai Tanahashi.