Introduction

Zhaozhou: the great Ch’an master. His formal name was Congshen. In Japanese he is known as Joshu. Zhaozhou is the name of a small town not far from Beijing where Congshen spent his old age and from which he is named. His dates were 778-897. He lived to be 120 years old.

He studied with Nanquan. Nanquan is the famous Ch’an master presented in the koan about the cat—where the two groups of monks were fighting over whose cat it was. After Nanquan’s death, Zhaozhou went on pilgrimage throughout China. Before departing he made a famous statement. He said that if he were to meet a child of three years old who could teach him, he would become the child’s pupil, and if he were to meet someone over a hundred years old whom he could teach, then he would teach that person.

It was not until Zhaozhou was around eighty that he settled at Kuan-yin monastery in the eastern suburb of Zhaozhou. He was ascetic in his habits. During the forty years of his abbotship, he did not install a single piece of new furniture, nor did he ever write a fundraising letter.

He mostly spoke softly. They say his lips gave off Light. Zhaozhou was famous for everyday conversation rather than shouting or beating with a stick.

As abbot, Zhaozhou upheld the custom of universal labor in his small community of monks. Dogen says that Zhaozhou’s community contained around twenty monks at the most.

Most of what we know of Zhaozhou is taken from the many koans in which he appears, either as master or one of the participants or disciples. The books containing these stories, koans, and poems are listed at the end of this book. The Zhaozhou of this account is “reconstructed” from these sources.

Zhaozhou is a man who is modest, kind, simple, and ascetic. Zhaozhou knows who he is. And he is a poet. Here is a poem he may have written

I know what I don’t know.
I don’t know what I know.
I am what I am not.
I am not what I am.

Zhaozhou reminds me of the great Don Quixote who boldly declares, Yo sè quién soy, Y sé que puedo ser.

I know who I am,
And I know who I can be.

Yes, he knows who he is and is not shy to present himself at the appropriate time; yet he does not push himself. His language is simple. Language not fettered with Buddhist clichés. Language that does not have to begin or end with words. He is not interested in “figura,” or the presentation he makes. He is not interested in fine robes, brocade, silk kesas, or Buddhist ceremonial robes. He is not interested in fancy furniture. When the leg of a chair breaks, a piece of firewood will do for its replacement. He has no pride in his Ch’an achievements. A wonderful koan illustrates this.

A visitor who was very impressed by the fame of the great Zen Master Zhaozhou approached him with great reverence and asked, “What is it like to be like you—at the very point of absolute immediacy?”

He is open to the learning he can receive from others, male, female, young, old, Buddhist, or non-Buddhist. Whoever and whatever can teach him—he will receive their learning. And he is open to teach anyone interested to learn from him. He won’t tolerate any form of sham and exposes it directly and immediately. But with kindness. No blows from Zhaozhou. No shouting of obscenities. This is the Zhaozhou of this account. I hope you get to know, respect, and love him as I do. This great Ch’an Master will enrich you.

This fictional diary of Zhaozhou is an attempt to get closer to him more than I have ever been able to. Please know that everything that follows is fiction. In fact, the actual koans themselves may be fiction. But the Dharma and the teachings of these koans, stories, and poems are not.

***

My name is Congshen. I’ve been thinking about writing down my thoughts for some time. I don’t know how regular I’ll be but I’ll try to put down what happens from time to time.

I’ve been messing about with my life and don’t really know who I am or what I am. But I know I need to find out. I’ve tried everything—the martial arts, archery, and swordsmanship. But there’s no money there. And the military is not for me. The simple fact is that the purpose of the military and military training is to kill and to blindly follow the orders of your superior no matter what they may be. There is little room for conscience in the military.

So what do I do? There’s poetry. Poetry could get me a court appointment, if I licked enough backsides of the nobility of this country. But even the great poets—Li Bai, Du Fu, Wang Wei—couldn’t make it in court. They never were able to find a patron who took care of their practical needs of eating, living under a roof, and having a safe and warm place to sleep, with a little extra thrown in for a bottle of wine every now and then. So who am I to think this could be a way for me? Nobody makes it on poetry alone.

Last night I drank wine with the poets. Many poets were there. And later in the evening, after the wine had flowed for some time, when everyone was well in his cups, the beauty of the evening began. One poet after another rose, and plucking melodies on a lute sang their poems. It was wonderful. Ahhh, wonderful poems of Li Bai, Du Fu, and Wang Wei. Here’s one of Li Bai’s poems to his beloved moon.

Full Moon

Above the tower—a lone, twice-sized moon.
On the cold river passing night-filled homes,
It scatters restless gold across the waves.
On mats, it shines richer than silken gauze.

Empty peaks, silence: among sparse stars,
Not yet flawed, it drifts. Pine and cinnamon
Spreading in my old garden...All light,
All ten thousand miles at once in its light!

Drinking Alone With the Moon

From a pot of wine among the flowers
I drank alone. There was no one with me—
Till, raising my cup, I asked the bright moon
To bring me my shadow and make us three.
Alas, the moon was unable to drink
And my shadow tagged behind me vacantly;
But still for a while I had these friends
To cheer me through the end of spring.
I sang. The moon encouraged me.
I danced. My shadow tumbled after.
As long as I knew, we were boon companions.
And then I was drunk, and we lost one another.

Gazing at the Sacred Peak

For all this, what is the mountain god like?
An unending green of lands north and south:
From ethereal beauty Creation distills
There, yin and yang split dusk and dawn.

Swelling clouds sweep by. Returning birds
Ruin my eyes vanishing. One day soon,
At the summit, the other mountains will be
Small enough to hold all in a single glance.

In the Rear Buddha Hall of the Broken Hill Temple

I walk into the ancient shrine at dawn,
The rising sun gliding the green wood tall.
A winding path leads to a calm retreat,
And deep the greenery round the Buddha Hall.
The birds are gladdened by the mountain light;
Shaded pools bring my heart to peaceful climes.
All fretful stirring of the world now hushed,
I only hear deep bells and tingling chimes.

Three master poets. But there’s something about Wang Wei. They say that he found the Buddha Way. That he visited Ch’an temples and meditated with bald-headed monks.

From the beginning is completion,
Why labor to pile up stones?
Images may be carved,
But they are far removed from me.
If someone were to ask me
I’d say, “Don’t bother to draw up the plans.”

Too bad! Nobody pays you for poetry. The only thing you can do is sing your poems in a tavern and maybe somebody will buy you a drink if they like your poem. Sometimes you may even get a meal for a really good poem. You spend your money drinking the wine that gives you the courage to rise and sing your poems.

But what you need is a job so you can have the freedom to write your poems. And in order to have that job you need to pass the state examinations. And it’s very difficult to pass these examinations. You have to memorize the Analects of Kongfuzi. You have to memorize all the rituals and forms. You need to memorize all the mathematical equations. You have to become a Master at calligraphy. And if you pass the examinations, and you get a state job the best you can hope for is some minor post is a remote area of the country. What a way to die! I think I’ll see what else life has to offer.

The only thing left is religion. But that’s another quagmire. I’ve studied the way of Kongfuzi and the way of Laotzu. Kongfuzi’s way seems so cold. It turns me off. It’s so elaborate with ancestor worship rituals. I know, I know, the entire ethical structure of China is based on the Analects. But, it’s so boring. I can’t do Kongfuzi.

Then there’s Laotzu and Daoism. I like Laotzu, but I don’t like Daoism. Why do the disciples ruin their Master? Daoist priests just soak their hides in their secret esoteric sayings, and rituals and whatnot. So involved. So abstruse. So intellectual. So refined and abstract you hardly know what they’re talking about. It’s a maze that twists into itself and chokes its own gut. My eyes spin when I try to read Daoist texts. But the writing of Laotzu is OK for me.

Then there’s this foreign religion, Buddhism that came from India. And Ch’an, which they say is the most interesting part of Buddhism. I like Ch’an because it reminds of Laotzu. The things I like of Laotzu seem to be picked up by Ch’an.

It is said that in order to study Ch’an you need to find a teacher. One you can click with. So here I go, visiting the temples. I think I could find a teacher easy. Who am I kidding? Is there a Ch’an teacher in the whole of China who can put up with me? And so many of these Ch’an Masters do nothing but shout and scream and beat their students. Where’s the teaching in shouting? In kicking? If that’s what Ch’an is all about, forget it.

So I wander on and on, going from temple to temple looking for a teacher. Here I am: seventeen years old. And what have I done with my life? Nothing? I haven’t got a wife, children, a cow, a home. Nothing but this old horse, Dragonfly, who takes me from place to place. Do I know where I’m going? No. Does my horse know where I’m going? No. Does my horse know where it’s going? No. We just wander. On and on. Stopping at a temple here. A temple there. Sitting with baldheaded monks in temple after temple. Looking for something. Whatever. And the monks! I don’t know how to talk to them. Mostly they prattle their Master’s prattle. Prattle prattle. “My Master says this. My Master says that.” Prattle prattle. I haven’t heard from any of these monks I talk with anything really coming from them. If that’s what Ch’an is, forget it!

So here I am in the city of Nanquan and here’s another temple. Puyuan is the Master here. His last name is Wang, and I hear he often refers to himself as ‘Old Teacher Wang.’ They call him Nanquan. What a funny thing, to call a guy by the name of the place he lives in. Nanquan was the student of Mazu, a shouter. But they say Nanquan doesn’t shout. They say he is a philosopher. That he studied the teachings of Hua-yen. Then he went to Mazu. Now here he is in his own temple. And what a temple it is. I’ve never seen anything so big. The front gate alone is two stories high. The temple door is shut. So I knock on the door.

“Whattaya want?”

“I want to come in?”

“Go away.”

“Please let me in?

“Why? Whattaya want?”

“I want to see Nanquan.”

“No, I want to see him. I must see him.”

“Why? Whattaya want with him?”

“I want to see if he’s the teacher for me.”

“He’s not. Go away.”

“Why do you say he’s not? You’re here with him aren’t you? Let me in. Let me see him.”

“You look like you’re twelve years old?”

“I’m seventeen.”

“Too young, go away. He won’t see you.”

“How do you know that? You haven’t even asked him.”

“I don’t have to. I know.”

“It’s no use, go away.”

“I won’t go away.”

“Then you can rot there.”

“OK, I’ll just keep knocking until you open the door.”

The door opens. An old grizzled-face monk is there. “Thanks,” I say.

“Now can I get to meet your Master?”

“Who do you think you are? You can’t just walk in here and get to meet the Master. Sometimes we monks who have been studying with him for years don’t get to see him for weeks at a time. Do you think you can just ride up to the temple and get to see him right away? Take your horse to the stable, brush him, feed him, and one of the stable monks will tell you what to do.”

I did so. As I was brushing down my horse a monk came by. “So you’re the new troublemaker.”

“Yeah, I heard. Everybody wants to see the Master. But nobody sees the Master unless the Master wants to see them.”

“Please tell your Master that I want to see him.”

“You’ve got balls! I can’t do that.”

He then looked around to see if anyone was watching and he said, quietly, “But I’ll tell you what. When you leave the stable, if you go around the main monastery building to the other side, you’ll come to an open field. There may be someone lying down in a hammock for his rest.

And so I went to find Nanquan. I saw him, lying in a hammock, reading a book. So he wasn’t asleep. I went right up to the hammock, and stood by him. He looked up. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Congshen.”

“And what fatheaded monk let you in?”

“OK, so you forced yourself into this place. Now get out!”

“No, not before I get what I came for.”

“And what have you come for?”

“I’ve come to see you.”

“OK. You’ve seen me, now beat it!”

“No, not before I get what I came for.”

He looked at me hard, straight in the eyes. Then he said, “Where have you come from?”

“I’ve been traveling for many years, going from place to place.”

“Yes, I have.”

“And did you see the famous statue of the Buddha there?”

“No. I only saw a reclining person!”

The reclining Nanquan clapped his hands. “You win round one. You can stay for one day. Now tell me, are you a novice under a Master, or are you without a Master?”

“I am a novice with a Master.”

“Where is your Master?”

“The midwinter cold is very severe. I am happy to see you in such good health, Master.”

¹ A famous temple in Peking that contains a mammoth statue of a reclining Buddha. People from all over the Buddhist world, and especially from all over China, make pilgrimages to this temple to see the reclining Buddha.

And so I’ve found my Master: Nanquan.

I’ve been at this place more than a year and I still haven’t been able to see the Master privately. In fact, I’ve rarely seen him at all during this entire year. Most of the time I try to figure out what’s going on.

This monastery is huge. Many many buildings. Probably close to fifty of them. Just going though the monastery is like going through a maze. And I haven’t been able to get to many of the parts of this place because newcomers like myself are limited to the west side of the monastery where they live. The monastery is a small city. They say there are 1,000 monks living here. The major buildings of the monastery are the main gate, which is not really a gate. It is a two-story building with a very large ornamental gate down below on the ground level. There are ritual halls on the second story. Then following this building is the Buddha Hall. Inside is a very large statue of Buddha. I guess this is the major image of the monastery. Right behind the Buddha Hall is a smaller hall that, they tell me, is used for the cult of the Vairochana Buddha. I don’t know what goes on there yet, since I haven’t been allowed to go to any of the services. Behind this hall is the Dharma Hall where they say all the speeches are made. Behind that is the Abbot’s Reception Hall, and I certainly don’t know what goes on there. That’s the place where the Master meets with donors or other important people. And then there are the Abbot’s private quarters. Behind that is the Meditation Hall. All of these buildings are in a straight line, right in the center of the complex. There are two groups of buildings on either side of this line. On the west side are the buildings in which the monks and postulants live. There are around ten buildings. Here you find the kitchen, the bathhouses, and the latrines. On the east side are the administration buildings. Only the high and mighty monks, who become administrators, get to go there. I don’t know what goes on that side. That’s where the routines are made for the running of the monastery. And that’s where all the business of the monastery takes place. The monastery runs a large rice farm. And the monks as well as hundreds of slaves work the farm. The rice is sold in the major markets of the capital Chang-an, and I understand we make enough money on rice to support this place. Of course there are also the donors who give a lot of money to the Abbot.

The Sangha Hall is the major building on the west side of the monastery. It’s a large building. The meditation room is inside this building and there is a raised platform next to the wall circling the room. Each of the monks has their own place on the platform. On the wall side there’s a little shelf, and a small closet. In it the monk keeps his entire possessions. Since I am not a monk and a newcomer I didn’t have any of these things. So I’m not allowed in the large meditation room but instead I get to sit in an outer, smaller meditation room, reserved for newcomers like me. And there I began my Ch’an practice.

There are four hours of meditation during the day. The first period is between three and four o clock in the morning. The second period is between nine and ten o clock in the morning. The third period is between three and four o clock in the afternoon. And the fourth and last period is between eight and nine o clock in the evening. The rest of the day is filled with sleep and work—mostly work outside in the rice fields.

To say that I began my Ch’an practice is not really saying much. Because they don’t teach you anything here. They just tell you here’s your place. Here’s where you sit, eat, and sleep. Here’s where you piss and shit. And that’s it. They don’t tell you what to do, or how to do it. They don’t tell you what it’s all about. I asked the monk who brought me to my place in the hall what I should do? He gruffly said, “Watch the others.” And that’s it. And so I do just that. When the monks sit to meditate, I sit to meditate. I watch how they cross and fold their legs. And I cross and fold my legs. I watch how they place their hands on their laps. And I place my hands on my lap. When the monks rise from their seats to do slow walking, which they do as if in a sleepwalking trance, I rise and do likewise. When they chant sutras, I chant sutras. I watch how they hold their books, and hold mine the same way. And so I learn by watching. But I don’t know what I’m doing or why.

Eventually, I managed to speak with one of the younger monks who were willing to talk to me, and he told me about counting the breath when you meditate. You count until you get to ten, and then you go back to one. And they say to stop all thinking. And so that’s what I try to do. And that’s my Ch’an practice.

The meditation hall is dark, cold, and windy. The wind blows through the cracks in the wall. I hear they keep it this way to keep the monks awake. This way, they say, we focus on how cold it is and avoid stray and random thinking. I have all I could do just to try to keep myself warm. Never mind trying counting of my breaths or settling of my mind. Who the hell cares about the breath or the mind when it’s freezing? It’s so cold that I could see my breath. I could see the exhaled breath of all the monks sitting in the hall. Then there’s that crazy monk with his stick who goes around the hall whacking people all over the place. Ouch, that whack on a cold back stings like icy fire. Anything to keep warm I guess is the trick around here.

They say there’s a brazier with hot coals in the Master’s private interview room. I’ve got to get there. Maybe if I can I’ll get warm. It was only in the late evening sit of the second week of the second year that I was first allowed to see the Master face-to-face. The Master’s attendant beckoned to me, so I rose from my pillow and followed him. Outside the Master’s room the attendant told me how to enter the room and how to bow. He then told me I should ask the Master a question.

So I entered the interview room. Yes, it’s true, there’s the brazier with the hot coals. I did my bows but I didn’t know what to do or say next.

“Well,” said the Master, “get on with it? What do you want?”

I didn’t know what to say. I was so cold. “I want to ask you about the Way?” I blurted out.

“What about the Way?”

I didn’t know what to say—how to prolong this interview and not get thrown out before I could get warm.

“I don’t know. What is it? What are we talking about when we say the Way? Everybody here says this is the Way, that is the Way. And I don’t know what they’re talking about? What is the Way?”

Master Nanquan must have seen that my question came from nowhere, so he said, “It’s easy. It’s whatever you’re doing. That’s the Way.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Is this guy kidding? I just about shouted, “That’s the Way? That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it?”

“Nothing more?”

“Nothing more.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “If it’s whatever I’m doing—because, to tell you the truth—all I’m doing is trying to put you on and get warm. So how is that the way?” I thought I had him.

The Master replied, “Whatever you’re doing, even if you don’t know what you’re doing, even if what you’re doing is putting me on, that’s the way.”

“True and false have nothing to do with the way.”

I didn’t expect this crap. What’s he talking about? “I don’t get it, I said.”

“You can’t get it,” he said, “as soon as you try to get it, as soon as you try to find it, you miss it.”

“But if I don’t find it, how will I ever know it?”

“No,” he said, “The Way has nothing to do with knowing it or not-knowing it. How can anybody really know anything? What do we know? How do we know? Through our senses. Through our eyes, our ears, our nose, our fingers. And our senses lie. We never really see the things we think we see. We never hear the things we think we hear. Ask ten people who see and hear the same thing and you get ten different accounts of what they saw or heard. Also with non-knowing. That’s just a blank.”

“So then, what the hell is the Way!” I shouted.

I can’t really describe what happened when the Master next spoke. There was, I can only call it, a sweetness, in his words that I have never before experienced. He spoke quietly. His words seemed like a caress. He said, “I can’t tell you exactly. It’s like space, clear and empty and full. It’s like the light of the moon. Clear and bright. That’s what truth is really about. It’s something you can’t force in any way. And it’s right here. (And he pointed with his stick.) In your heart. In the questions you ask.”

Hearing these words, I broke out into a sweat. Pointing to my heart I said, “Here?”

The Master said, “Yes.”

I couldn’t believe it. Does he mean to say I have it? I am the Way? The Truth? The Light? It’s in my heart? In my breathing? In my questions? In my walking? In my looking at the moon? In my sleeping? In my eating? In my pissing and shitting even!?

I said again, pointing to my heart, “Here?”

He said, “Yes.”

I bowed deeply to my Master, Nanquan. I was warm now. But not warm from the hot coals of the brazier. The heat came from inside me. From deep within. I rose from my pillow, made another full bow and left the room. I didn’t go back to the hall. Instead I went straight outside. I looked up into the sky. The moon was full. And my mind suddenly became flooded with the brilliance of the full moon. I could no longer see or hear or speak or think. I dropped down on my knees, covered my flooded eyes, and knew what it meant to be ruined and homeless.

I knew that whatever the Way is, that is the way I have to go. So the next time I was able to see the Master I asked to receive the precepts. Nanquan told me I had to go the Precept-Giving Altar at Shao-lin Monastery on Sung Mountain. That’s where Bodhidharma used to live. Where he sat in front of the walls of the monastery for nine years. They say his legs shrunk up on him. What a Way. And yet, I know it’s for me. Even if it means my legs shrink. So I went to Shao-lin Monastery and received the precepts. Then I returned to Nanquan’s monastery. This time there was no trouble getting in.

What kind of a place is this? What kind of monks are these baldheaded fatheads? And what kind of Ch’an Master is this Old Man Wang? Yesterday just about the most terrible thing happened. I was sent out by the cook to buy shitake mushrooms from the Japanese ships in the harbor for the kitchen and was out all day. I got back to the monastery just in time for the evening meditation. When I entered Master Wang’s room, after I made my bows and sat before him, Master told me what took place that day. The monks of the eastern and western halls had been fighting over Mau, the monastery cat. Mau had been around for a month. She just suddenly showed up and came into the monastery one day. She was skinny. You could see her skeleton she was so emaciated. She was a gray cat and had long black whiskers. Everybody took to her. Everybody saw that she got fed, and always had something to drink. And everybody competed to pet the cat. Soon, Mau put on weight, grew some skin, and even some fat on her bones. Well, you can imagine, in no time at all, Mau had the run of the monastery. She soon bossed everybody around, including Old Man Wang. And everybody loved Mau. She came and went wherever she wished. She would even enter the meditation hall, pick out a nice cushion and pillow, make herself comfortable, and settle down for a snooze. Mandy’s the time I So they were fighting over whether Mau should belong to the eastern hall or the western hall. Master Nanquan happened to walk along the hallways when he heard the shouts of the monks. So he went over to them to see what was going on. And, as he approached, he heard them arguing over which group Mau belongs to. Without saying a word, he stepped right into the middle of the two groups, picked up Mau, cradled Mau in his arms, took out a knife from beneath his robes, and said, “If any one of you can say the right word, I’ll spare the cat. If not, I’ll kill it. Now quick, say it?”

Nobody spoke. So the master killed Mau!

I couldn’t believe my ears. That’s what he said to me! That’s what he told me! “So I killed the cat,” he said.

At that moment, when I heard his words, I said to myself, "What the hell is this?" What kind of monks are these guys? That they would fight over Mau. And seeing Mau about to be killed, not one of them said, “Don’t kill Mau. We’re the fatheads! Don’t take it out on Mau!” Why couldn’t anyone of those idiot monks have said something like that? It would have saved Mau’s life. And then, to top it all how the hell can one kill a fellow sentient being—albeit a cat—in order to make a Ch’an point? In order to present a Ch’an teaching? What kind of a teaching is this? What kind of a teacher is this? Is the Dharma, the Teaching—is the Way outside of right and wrong? Of justice and injustice? Of compassion? Isn’t the Buddha Way the way of peace and compassion, and kindness to all sentient beings? Do we recklessly, arrogantly, exploit other sentient beings—in this case a cat—so that we can make a Ch’an point, express a Ch’an teaching? Isn’t the whole point about the old story about Baizhang and the fox that nothing and none is beyond the laws of causation?

OK. So the monks of the eastern and western hall are idiots! But they probably were all shocked by the drastic measure the Master took. They were frozen when he picked Mau up and held a knife to his throat. I’m sure they couldn’t believe what they were seeing, what they were witnessing. So they were speechless, frozen to the spot. I can understand that. And then Master Nanquan cuts Mau’s throat, drops Mau at their feet, and calmly walks away.

I also was speechless. Tears welled up in my eyes and rolled down my face. Master looked at me and said, “How about you? Could you have saved the cat?” Not saying a word, I rose, took my sandals from the corner of the room, put them on my head, turned and left the room. As I was leaving, the Master called out, “Ahhh, what a pity, Congshen, if you had been there, you would have saved the cat.” With these words ringing in my ears, I walked right through the meditation hall, went outside, sat in front of the cypress tree in the front yard, and wept.

This morning, as I made my way to the dining room for breakfast, what do I see, but Mau, lapping up a saucer-full of milk, in front of the kitchen door, so he hadn’t killed Mau. She is alive. It was all just a story? A trap? It was all meant to press my buttons? I am dumbfounded. Why did the master do this? What is the master trying to teach me? I entered the kitchen and asked the cook, “I thought Master killed Mau.”

“What?” he said, “What are you talking about? Who said Master kill Mau?”

“He told me himself. He said the monks of the eastern and western halls were fighting over Mau, and that he picked up the cat and threatened to kill it, if nobody could say the right word of Ch’an. He said nobody did so he killed Mau.” “Beats me,” said the cook. “I never heard anything about it. And as you can see there’s Mau, alive and well.”

I spent the rest of the day sitting with this. In the meditation hall, I caught glances of the Master, sitting up there in his high seat. His face was solid and impassive. Not a hint of what was going on. During slow walking time I again caught glimpses of his face. No change in his expression. I tried to catch him looking at me. I expected to see him smirking. But no. There was nothing. What the hell is going on?

During the evening sit, I went to the interview room. I entered. As soon as I finished making my bows, Nanquan said, “Miaow!!!”

I was dumbfounded. I didn’t know what to say. I was angry at the Master’s tomfoolery, so I grabbed the stick from his hand and raised it to hit him with it. He raised his arms and hands in horror and said, “Ahhh, so now Congshen kills the cat!”

I put the stick down. Ashamed. I realized then that I myself was not free of anger, suspicion, mistrust. And of killing. I wanted to strike Master dead, so angry was I. “I think I’m beginning to understand,” I said.

“What do you understand?”

“You were going to kill Mau and nobody had the guts to stop you. You even challenged, ordered them, to say a single word to stop you, and nobody dared. They assumed that you, the teacher, can do no wrong. ‘No! Don’t do it. Don’t kill Mau. Killing is wrong—even for a Ch’an Master.’ Nobody had the guts to challenge you. And there’s more. You pushed all my buttons. I have the three poisons running wild inside me. I have to learn to get them out of my being, out of my heart. I’m full of judgments. Judging the monks. Judging you. Judging even dear Mau.”

“And what if I had slit Mau’s throat?”

“You would have slit Mau’s throat.”

“And was that good or bad?’

“You would have slit Mau’s throat.”

“Yes, you begin to understand.”

I made my bows and left. Returning to my place in the meditation hall I sat down and sat with the knowledge that if there is a fathead in the monastery it is me. I realized that I had a head full of opinions of right and wrong, or what is moral and what is immoral, of what is appropriate and what is not appropriate, and of what is good and what is evil. I had opinions on just about everything imaginable. So I have to empty my self of my opinions, of my cherished principles of right and wrong, moral and immoral, appropriate and inappropriate. Get to the place of no trace. No trace. No opinions. No fault. Get to the place of shunyata. Emptiness. And yet I now know that when right speech is called for I must speak. Speak no matter to whom. Speak no matter the place. Speak. Speak— even against those I love, even against my own teacher—even against the emperor and I must speak the right word! In this case, the right world to killing is simply, ‘No!’’ That’s what Mau is all about.

I also realized that my venerable Master is a trickster. He likes to have fun. His teaching is fun. So I better learn what it is to have fun with the dharma.

This afternoon I managed finally to go toe-to-toe with the Master. He and his attendant and I were walking along one of the hallways of the monastery, going towards the Nirvana Hall, when he turned to me and said,

“You know, I don’t think I want to live and work with people anymore. I think it’s better to work with a different species from us.”

“Forget ‘different,’ “I said, “what do you mean by ‘species?’ ”

The Master immediately threw himself on the ground and continued walking on all fours like an animal.

So I jumped on his back and trampled him flat on the ground. Then I got up and ran into the Sangha Hall crying, “I’m sorry! I’m oh so sorry! What a great pity! What a great pity!”

The Master’s attendant followed me into the hall and told me the Master wanted to know what I was so sorry about. I told him I regretted not trampling the master twice over, instead of just once.

May 796 The master and I were walking. We came to a small mountain and climbed it. We were high up looking at the valley below. It was beautiful. The sun was a brilliant red. The sky was deep blue. Clouds slowly danced in the sky. The redness of the sun spread like the spokes of an umbrella stretching across the blue heavens. Down below the buffaloes were quietly munching on the plentiful, thick, rich grass. It seemed as if all in the world was in a state of peace and contentment. Then the master turned to me and said, “Last night in interview you really hit, didn’t you.”

“Yes, master, I felt I did.”

He said, “Where are you now?”

“Well, that’s one of my questions, master. Where do I go after I get it? After I realize it? Where do I go? Where do I rest? What do I do?”

The master lifted his arm and pointed to the buffalos below. “You become one of those buffalos.”

And once again, I got it! “Thank you, master.”

I didn’t know what he meant by these words, but kept silent. We went down the mountain and returned to the monastery. I thanked the master for allowing me to have this wonderful walk with him.

Later, that evening while doing meditation, preparing once again for interview with the master, I pondered over his words. What’s he talking about now? The window. The moonlight. Last night. Was he talking about last night? Or was he talking about now. That now which passed. Was he talking about moonlight, or about my arrogance at having caught a glimpse of the Dao? Was the window my being? The entrance way into my consciousness? Into my heart? Into my self? Is the window my mind? Why a buffalo? Why a fat chewing cow? Is it because I’m proud of my opinions? My attainments? My realizations? Do I need to get down on my knees and munch grass? Wash my brother’s feet? Wash their shit-stained underwear? Scrub the dirty toilet holes in the floor? Empty all the slop buckets, and then wash and clean them until they shine? Forgetting everything? Forgetting my realizations? My attainments? Forgetting even the Dharma? The Dao? Is that it? Maybe if I can do that. Maybe if I can strip myself of my pride, my opinions, my attainments, my realizations, my achievements. Maybe then I can understand the When my turn came, I entered the interview room on my hands and knees, crawled over to the master, and rested my head in his lap. He stroked my head. No words were spoken.

This morning, after meditation, I walked outside the temple grounds. It was a beautiful morning. The sky was so blue. It entered into and filled my heart. When I returned to the monastery, I stepped right into a commotion. Master Nanquan had spread ashes outside his doorway. He then entered his room and locked the door. Then he shouted through the door, “I will not unlock this door and leave this room until someone says a true Ch’an word. If you don’t find someone to say that word, I will stay here until I die.”

All the monks in the hallway outside the locked door were dumbfounded. They were unable to speak. Nobody knew what to say. No one knew what was going on. What confounded teaching was the master giving now? Why can’t he ever give us a rest? Give us a break? Why is he always on? Always challenging us with his nonsense?

They saw me enter the hallway. They rushed to me and told me what was going on. They reasoned with me. “You know there’s no answer to the master’s challenge. You know there’s no such thing as a Ch’an word. Whatever word we say is the Ch’an word by saying it becomes the wrong word. Everybody knows that. So why the hell does the old fool demand a word from us? When there is no word. And how do we get him out of his room? Do we break the door down? Do we plead with him to be reasonable? Fat chance for old master Nanquan being reasonable. What do we do? You, Congshen, what do you say?”

Still filled with the beauty of the morning, I turned to the locked door and said, “It’s a pity the old fool’s locked himself up in the room. The sky is so blue and beautiful outside.” Immediately, the door opened.

Later that evening when I went to interview, the master asked me, “Do you have any questions?”

I said, “Yes. If the Dao is not outside things and if outside things are not Dao what is the Dao beyond things?”

The master immediately lifted his stick to strike me. I intercepted his blow, grabbed his stick and said to him, “Don’t ever do that again!”

The master said, “Aha! Now I see we no longer have a snake. We have a dragon. And I see that this young Ch’an monk can no longer be fooled.” He then rang his bell dismissing me.

I rose, did my bow, and returned to my seat in the meditation hall. I was still shaking. Why did I do that? How dare I grab his stick to prevent the master from striking me? How dare I threaten him not to ever do that again? Who the hell do I think I am? Striking goes on all the time in Zen. Everybody does it. Mazu, Nanquan’s teacher was always striking, and shouting, and slapping, and being coarse and dirty. Who am I to prevent this from happening? I don’t know and yet I know that that’s not for me. That striking is not for me. That shouting is not for me. That’s not my way. It may be Mazu’s way. It may be Nanquan’s way. It may be Linji’s. And all the old Ch’an masters. But it’s not my way. Their way is the way of the whirlwind and the storm. My way is the way of quiet in the heart of the storm.

Many visitors came to the monastery. And these visits and visitors always had to be greeted as highly special and venerated guests. They came from all over China, for old man Wang was greatly respected by his peers. First of all there was his own old teacher, Master Shitou Xiquin. Of course when Master Shitou came Master Nanquan Puyuan pulled out all the stops. In honor of his old teacher, Master made us monks memorize Master Shitou’s great poem, the “Identity of Relative and Absolute.” Fortunately, it was very brief. And we even incorporated this poem into our daily Service. Master Shitou couldn’t hide his pride and pleasure when we chanted his wonderful poem. He himself was a wonderful guy. I always treasured the opportunity to have private inteview practice with him when he came. Master Nanquan encouraged us monks to do so. I think old man Wang wanted to show off his students to his old Master.

Whenever a guest was to arrive Master Nanquan ordered that the monastery be cleaned from top to bottom. Since our monastery was very large and there are many buildings. And of course, the Buddha and Service Halls had to be spotless. I spent many hours scrubbing down these halls. Then when the big day came, Master Nanquan would go to the entrance and wait outside the large double doors of the monastery to personally greet the visitor. Fortunately, I was one of the monks who were allowed to one of Master’s attendants. Also present were the senior monks who held responsible offices in the monastery such as the treasurer, executive director, steward, senior monk of training, and the guest master.

As soon as the guest arrived Master would do a full prostration at the feet of the guest. Usually, the guest would respond with a simultaneous prostration, so that both were bowing at each other’s feet. Then the guest would be escorted to the Buddha Hall and both Master and guest would repeat their prostrations to each other inside the Hall. Then the guest would approach the altar and do his prostrations to the Buddha. In the case of Master Shitou we usually would do an abbreviated Service and chant the “Heart Sutra,” and, of course, his own “Identity of Absolute and Relative.” After this short service we would retire to Master Nanquan’s private quarters where he would entertain the guest. I personally got to meet many of the most distinguished and also not quite so distinguished Ch’an Masters of the day.

Sometimes I found the people who came to be very amusing. Some of them were pure quacks. There was a great Korean monk. He has established Ch’an Centers all over Korea as well as many in China as well. His big thing was that he had the reputation of being able to lay out the grounds of a monastery according to the various auspicious locations of mountains, hills, water, sun, moon, the four directions of north, south, east, and west, and other manifestations, such as the location of the turtle, the dragon, the fish, and centipede, and all such creatures. (Was he referring to the constellations?) It was a riot following him and his flowing robes, which were quite colorful, and somewhat outlandish. He would make his pronouncements, in the case of Master Nanquan’s monastery, everything of course was located exactly in the right place. The Buddha Hall faced north, as it should; the Kitchen faced whatever, as it should. The stream, which passed through our lands, did so at the most advantageous and auspicious position as well as time (which was a concept I failed to understand). And even the latrines were fortunately placed where they ought to be. I thought their position was because of how the wind blew.

Some guests who visited were, in my eyes, walking Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. Like Layman Pang, and his beautiful daughter Lingzhao. What a wonderful man he is. And what a beautiful daughter! Pang was struck by the dharma in his middle years after he was married and had already had two children, a son and a daughter. He convinced his wife that he must follow the way. She agreed with. During the course of their married life they had amassed quite a bit of property. Pang was convinced that the way of the Buddha is the way of poverty. If he truly wanted to become a follower of the Buddha than he had to give everything up. He had to strip himself of all his possessions. Once stripped, he would be free. Free to follow the dharma. But as he was, he was encumbered and trapped in the tangled web of his possessions. So he convinced his wife to give away their house to a nearby monastery for their use as a hostel or rest house. He owned and was the master of six slaves and gave them their freedom. But he went further. He put everything they owned—in spite of his wife’s protestations—all of their possessions—on a big barge, floated it to the center of a large lake and sank it. And I mean everything, including many of strings of cash, furniture, clothes, and all. Everybody thought he was crazy. His friends and relatives tried to persuade him to at least give everything to the poor. But Pang was stubborn. No, he said to them, possessions were in themselves evil. They obstructed and prevented one from pursuing the Dharma. The way of the Buddha is the way of Poverty.

They then built a little hut for themselves. Pang’s wife decided to stay put in the little hut and remained there with her son who supported her and himself with a little bit of farming. Their way of life was frugal and quite simple.

Pang and his daughter Lingzhao took to the way of wandering pilgrims, traveling the length and breath of China. Sleeping in caves, under trees, begging for their food, spending the night in various monasteries, meeting with the Ch’an masters and discussing the Dharma with them. He always returned home and to his wife and son to be there with them. This was his base, so to speak. Lingzhao learned the art of basket weaving, taught her father, and with the weaving of baskets they earned the little money they needed to keep themselves alive, fed, and clothed.

Pang’s embrace of poverty is a great challenge, teaching, and inspiration to me. One of the major problems I have with present-day Ch’an is its opulence. All of the monasteries are rich rich rich. All have huge glorious golden Buddha images, as well as images of all the ancestors and other bodhisattvas. The walls are plastered with gold leaf. All have highly ornate altars, precious altar cloths, and large, costly temple equipment. All have vast land holdings with many paid workers and slaves working the rice fields and other agricultural vegetable and fruit orchards. Some monasteries are so rich that they make a business of lending money to government officials at considerable interest. And naturally, all temple grounds and buildings are tax free, thus adding another burden to the government. For this reason it is not a surprise that often the government attempts to place severe restrictions on monasteries. Of course what I say is not only true of Buddhist monasteries but of the other sects as well. And the abbots of these monasteries—Buddhist or otherwise are all regally clothed in expensive rare silk robes. How dependent are these abbots to their benefactors and donors? How much of their precious time is spent fundraising? Rather than teaching the Dharma?

What a travesty that the blessed and holy Buddha robe has degenerated to such silken excess. What happened to the old Vinaya rule that a monk may only have three robes, according to the season of the year? What happened to the practice of gathering scraps of cloths from garbage dumps and cemeteries as fit material for the Buddha robe? This was known as “pamsula.” What happened to the vow of poverty? That a monk owns nothing. Not even the ragged robes on his or her back? That the only Then there’s my own master, Old man Wang—Nanquan. His robes are the finest silk. A far cry from poverty! And yet there’s something about how he wears his robes which makes it all right. I don’t know quite how to express it. He simply wears his robes as if he isn’t wearing anything special. There’s no puff and strut. He is a wonderful example of nonattachment. And yet he wears the most expensive things. He also really goes for all the pomp. I remember the elaborate ceremony when he was installed as abbot. Ch’an masters came from all over China. Some even came from Korea. And talk about opulence! It seemed to me that the various Ch’an masters were competing with one another to see who could outshine the other. Like a bunch of strutting peacocks fanning their tails. I remember the time of Dharma combat, when the abbot is to demonstrate his skill by fielding questions from all and sundry. I approached his throne and asked him, “Why all this pomp, ceremony, and circumstance? Why all this puffing and strutting?” Master Nanquan merely smiled and responded, “You know better.” And, of course, I was forced to accept his answer and reply with the customary, “Thank you for your answer.” But I didn’t know better then and I still don’t know better now!

As for me I’ll go the way of Pang, the old Buddhas of India, and the way of poverty. I’ll wear my robes, shabby though they are and look for nothing finer. My chief robe is something a seamstress made for me out of black women’s under apparel. My kashaya is something I made for myself out of scraps and bits, according to the old principle of pamsula— using what was available. Then I have that great robe and kashaya, which I rescued from a monk, who was throwing it away. It was of the sheerest and lightest material, ideal for the hot summer months. So it was torn. And full of holes. And shabby. And I had to do much repair work on it to make it useable. The sleeves of the robe had to be trimmed down and do not extend to the floor like a real monk