Hōan Taishin's Dharma Talks

This talk centers on the Dhammacakkapavattana Sutta (“Setting in Motion the Wheel of Dharma”), the Buddha’s first teaching after enlightenment. I explore how the Buddha addressed his five companions and introduce the Middle Way between two extremes. Also, I summarize the Buddha’s Four Noble Truths as practical insights for living nobly and compassionately. While suffering is unavoidable, we have agency in how we relate to it—learning to respond skillfully rather than reactively. The talk concludes with reflections on compassion as the heart of wisdom. I encourage self-compassion in the lifelong process of learning to relate well to suffering and extending that compassion to others.

Yesterday, I offered a Dharma talk on the mirror-like quality of all things, including religious or spiritual writings and, especially, the Heart Sutra, to No Barriers Zen. You can listen to the talk via the above embedded audio.

The recording opens with Ōshin Jennings Sensei signing and Tess Wenderski interpreting for him. I begin speaking around the two-minute mark.

In time, a video recording with side-by-side and live ASL interpretation will be available here.

Enjoy—and thank you for your on-going practice and study.

Yesterday, I offered a Dharma talk to the No Barriers Zen sangha. You can learn about us here and listen to a recording of the talk by pressing the Play Button above. A video recording, complete with captions and live interpretation in ASL, will be available in the future.

The centerpiece of the talk are the opening lines of Hongzhi Zhengjue’s poem, “Guidepost for the Hall of Pure Bliss.” Specifically, the couplet that reads:

[The Way's] purity is constant,

I reproduce the poem in its entirety below.

The whole of the Dharma talk—the lesson or message I receive from Hongzhi’s words—is expressed in a single line from Rumi: “Your naked freedom is your shield.” It takes time and play in conceptual space to see some of why that is, though.

Enjoy—and thank you for listening, your practice, and your support.

Guidepost for the Hall of Pure Bliss

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This morning, I had the pleasure of offering a Dharma Talk to the No Barriers Zen sangha—my sangha. I’m grateful for the opportunity, and humbled by everyone’s attentive presence and thoughtful comments and questions.

The talk centers on the practice of zazen (seated meditation), “choppy waves,” how we can navigate them, and what we might find along the way. Part playful and part serious, I speak from my experience and encourage reconnecting with our bodies, all while pointing toward great trust in ourselves.

I refer to Eihei Dogen Zenji’s Fukanzazengi (Universal Recommendations for the Practice of Zazen) several times. You can read a translation of the text here.

Also, I use one of Rumi’s poems to describe how unsettled I felt in zazen during a year of transition. The poem is reproduced below.

Enjoy—and may you discover “the vital path of letting your body leap.”

The moon swooped down the dawn sky

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The following is an approximate transcript of a Dharma talk that I offered on Saturday, July 27th, during O-An Zendo’s Udumbara Sesshin. You can also listen to a live recording.

Enjoy.

Almost one year ago, I sat in this seat and offered a Dharma talk on the topic of the transmission of the teachings. Specifically, I spoke about the first transmission of the Dharma from Shakyamuni Buddha to Mahakasyapa and began with an excerpt from Dogen’s Shobogenzo Menju (Face-To-Face Transmission). Since that talk went well, I will begin this talk in the same way.

Dogen writes:

Shakyamuni Buddha graciously entrusted and transmitted the Dharma face to face to Mahakashyapa, saying, “I have the treasury of the true dharma eye. I entrust it to Mahakashyapa.”

At the assembly of Mount Song, Bodhidharma said to Huike, who would later become the Second Ancestor, “You have attained my marrow.”

From this we know that entrusting the treasury of the true dharma eye and saying, “You have attained my marrow” is this very face-to-face transmission. At the exact moment of jumping beyond your ordinary bones and marrow, there is the buddha ancestor’s transmission face to face. The face-to-face transmission of great enlightenment, the face-to-face transmission of the mind seal, is extraordinary. Transmission is never exhausted; there is never a lack of enlightenment.

Now, the great way of buddha ancestors is only giving and receiving face to face, receiving and giving face to face; there is nothing excessive and there is nothing lacking. Faithfully and joyously realize when your own face meets someone who has received this transmission face to face.

Whether you are hearing this excerpt for the first time, the second time, or the some-number-greater-than-two time, you might have the impression that transmission of the Dharma happens when someone in possession of the Dharma gives the Dharma to someone who is not in possession of the Dharma. You might understand the transmission of the Dharma in the same way you understand someone entrusting a family heirloom to another member of the family, the way a grandmother might entrust a gold locket to her granddaughter, for instance. The grandmother is in possession of the gold locket, and her granddaughter comes into possession of the gold locket when the grandmother transmits it from her hands to her granddaughter’s hands, perhaps accompanied by some words chosen for the occasion.

I have the treasury of the true golden locket of the Jones family, and I entrust it to Betsy! I wager that no grandmother has ever said this, probably.

This is one way of understanding what happened when Shakyamuni Buddha held up a flower, Mahakasyapa smiled, and then the Buddha said, “I have the treasury of the true dharma eye. I entrust it to Mahakashyapa.”

This impression is reinforced by the way our excerpt closes. Dogen writes that this great way of buddha ancestors is nothing other than giving and receiving face to face, receiving and giving face to face. One has, the other does not; one gives, the other receives. Furthermore, sometimes we describe this giving and receiving as happening mind to mind, heart to heart, and warm hand to warm hand—again, not much different from the way a grandmother might entrust a family heirloom to her granddaughter.

Yet, this is not the only way to understand the first transmission or transmission of the teachings generally. Bodhidharma’s expression “You have attained my marrow” suggests less giving and receiving from a “has” to a “has not” and more an acknowledgment of a shift or transformation brought about by Huike’s great effort and sincere practice.

There is also the expression “jumping beyond your ordinary bones and marrow,” which happens at the exact moment in which the Dharma is transmitted. Who can jump beyond your ordinary bones and marrow but you? Where can this leap occur but wherever you are when it happens? You may not feel yourself jump or leap, though you do not need to. Your teacher will recognize it in the same way that Bodhidharma did for Huike: “You have attained my marrow.”

From this point of view, transmission is not exclusively something that happens from without. Instead, transmission also includes that which arises from within.

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Some weeks ago, I offered a Dharma talk on Dogen’s Shoaku Makusa (Refraining From Evil), which opens with the following gatha:

Refraining from committing various evils

Then, several lines later, Dogen writes:

The actual Dharma teaching and Way of practice of the seven buddhas [Vipassi, Sikhi, Vessabhu, Kakusandha, Konagamana, Kassapa, and Gautama] necessarily include the transmission and reception of that reality and of that practice. Further, it is the internal and direct transmission of how all things are, and it is held in common by all the buddhas.

Giving and receiving, acknowledgment and recognition—that which comes from without and that which arises from within—transmission and reception from teacher to student and internal and direct transmission from within the buddha ancestors themselves.

The first transmission of the Dharma occurred between Shakyamuni Buddha and Mahakasyapa, and the first transmission of the Dharma happened when Mahakasyapa transmitted to Mahakasyapa. I want to explore the latter point of view today.

Sometimes, we say a lot about separation, by which I mean the feeling of separation between us and anything (or everything) else. In truth, there is no separation; it is only a feeling, though a powerful one and its presence can contribute to a great deal of suffering. Other times, we say only a little about separation, usually as a gentle reminder or a passing comment.

However we mention separation, we tend to highlight the mind’s role in producing this feeling. We might mention the mind’s discursive activity and its capacity for abstraction. Or we might focus on the way in which the mind drags attention from the present to the past, from the present to the future, from the future to the past, and from the past to the future through its “secretions.” It also pulls us into the present, by the way, but we tend not to say much about that; the mind is not an outright burden, despite the impression offered by some authors, teachers, and writers.

Or we shine a light on language. Perhaps you have heard someone say that language is “necessarily dualistic.” That is a fancy way of saying it has and creates division and difference—only with fewer words.

Consider the structure of a sentence: there is a subject, an object, and a verb that indicates the relation between the two. “Taishin rings the big bell.” How am I and the big bell related? By the action of ringing: when I bring the striker into contact with the big bell. But what about when I am not bringing the striker into contact with the big bell because I am outside moving woodchips? I still am, and the big bell still is, and we are still in relation to each other. But without some signification of that relation there arises an opportunity to believe the big bell and I are disconnected, separate, each existing independent from the other, and that we need to be brought into a relation once again.

The more time we spend in the world of words, concepts, and ideas, the more opportunities for this belief to become rooted and grow appear. When the belief takes root, you can see it at the edges of questions, such as How do I connect with so-and-so? How can I relate to such-and-such?

Response: You already do, but the form of that connection changes. Its shape is co-dependent on particular circumstances. We cannot quite predict the form in advance, though we try; it never quite matches our predictions, either. For that reason, we feel that there is separation, even though there is not; that we could somehow be “closer,” even though we could not. We feel that there is some barrier to break through or gap to bridge, when there is not.

If we become fixated on this feeling or if it comes to dominate our awareness, we can form the additional belief that something is lacking, that we are somehow incomplete and need to be made whole through the acquisition and continued possession of such-and-such an object. We begin looking outside of ourselves for something to cling to and hold on to, which runs counter to Dogen’s teaching: “Transmission is never exhausted; there is never a lack of enlightenment.” We are always attaining the marrow; we continually receive the treasury of the true dharma eye.

Recently, it occurred to me that it is not only the mind and the linguistic ways it oozes that facilitate feelings of separation. The eyes do it, too. The poet Pattiann Rogers writes in Eyes and the Sea:

I believe eyes were born of the sea,

So many are the ways in which feelings of separation arise, though none of them deliberate. The mind’s activity is simply oozing—that is what it does. The eyes hold depth and surface and distinguish different waves of light “simply by being,” observes Rogers. Given how visual perception dominates our experience, it is unsurprising that we sometimes talk about seeing differently: with the mind’s eye or the third eye, through the eyes of practice, with the eyes of Jiko, which means “all-inclusive self” or “universal self.”

And sometimes, we feel that we do, for just a moment, see differently. Something shifts, and—what do we say?—distinctions drop away, everything is suddenly and immediately whole, and I am embraced, held gently in the arms of the universe! Maybe. But such experiences, if they ever happen, never last, and chasing them or trying to hold onto them only fuels feelings of separation.

I prefer to not continue in that direction. So, let us pivot and proceed in a different direction.

There is a pair of expressions in Zen that you may be familiar with: “Your thoughts are the scenery of your zazen (seated meditation). Your surroundings are the scenery of your life.” I have been practicing, reading, studying, and recently writing about Zen for fifteen years—and I do not understand these expressions. Fortunately, Zen is not about understanding, so I am free to use these expressions about the scenery of your zazen and your life as I see fit.

So, if you would indulge me, please take a moment to look around.

This. Is. It.

This. Is. It.

This is your life, and it is nothing other than this, just as it is, right now. You are not anywhere else; you are right here, in this space, sitting on cushions and chairs on this floor.

In the previous two Dharma talks, Case 16 of the Mumonkan has been mentioned. It reads:

The world is vast and wide! Why do you put on your seven-panel robe at the sound of the bell?

An appropriate response to this case could be: “The world is not that vast and wide!” I am here. The bell has rung. I respond accordingly.

All things in the entire universe of the ten directions are in their proper place, including you and me. In fact, because all things in the entire universe are in their proper place, so too are we in our proper places—this is like this because that is like that—for and at this singular moment. And for and at this singular moment, our lives are here in this place—this zendo (meditation hall), this talk, this sesshin, these trees, birds, squirrels, and each other are the scenery of our life. This. Is. It.

I spoke about separation earlier, by which I meant a feeling of separation that can arise in different ways. Because of this feeling, we might believe that something is missing. I also said that, in truth, there is no separation. Since there is no separation, nothing is missing.

There is no separation because we ourselves are the universal self, the total dynamic functioning of the universe. Few, perhaps, are able to express this truth better than Alan Watts, who wrote, “What [we] do is what the whole universe is doing at the place [we] call ‘here and now.’ [We] are something the whole universe is doing in the same way that a wave is something that the whole ocean is doing.” And similar to an ocean, the universe’s constant activity happens across distances farther than our eyes can see or minds can grasp—but for us, it is happening right here.

This is why Dogen can say, “Transmission is never exhausted; there is never a lack of enlightenment. [… Why t]here is nothing excessive and there is nothing lacking.” This is why transmission of the Dharma is not exclusively something that happens from without; it also includes that which arises from within.

Or, if you prefer—and since we are on the threshold—ultimately, there is no without, and there is no within. There is only a non-exhaustible, all-inclusive activity. For this reason, when conditions are just so, Mahakasyapa transmits to Mahakasyapa.

As I begin to close this talk, I feel the need to speak as plainly as I can about how Mahakasyapa transmits to Mahakasyapa. As I reached this point in my preparations, I was reminded of something Dogen writes in Shobogenzo Zuimonki about himself:

One of my greatest faults is that as soon as I pick up a pen, my writing naturally becomes elaborate and florid.

I do not quite feel this way. Still, I am aware of how, in the beginning, I try to write simple, straightforward sentences. But at some point, I can feel my feet start to leave the ground, and I begin flying among—even above!—the clouds. Allow me, then, to try returning to the earth.

Being right here does not require that we renounce all those things that foster feelings of separation: our dreams, fantasies, and ideals; tendencies to entertain hypotheticals or strategically plan for the future; ruminating on past events; the deep desire for control because we fear coming face to face with that which most frightens us.

It does, however, invite us to let each of these things (and more) rest in open hands. When our hands are open in this way, all things flow freely. When all things flow freely, our presence remains in the present. And when where we are is right here, how else can we respond but in the very way that Mahakasyapa did when Shakyamuni Buddha raised a flower?

Personally clarifying how this being right here manifests in our day-to-day lives is the internal and direct transmission of the Dharma from ourselves to ourselves. We can begin by attending to the scenery of our life, which is just as alive, vibrant, and bustling as anywhere else, as the following lines from Theodore Roethke’s A Field Of Light show:

Listen, love,

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The following is an approximate transcript of the Dharma Talk I delivered as part of O-An Zendo’s Sunday Program on July 14th, 2024. You can also listen to a live recording of the talk.

Enjoy.

Good morning. Thank you for being here and for continuing to participate in the great effort together. As we begin, I ask two things of you. First, please remember this line from Hsin Hsin Ming (Song Of Trusting Mind):

Don’t get tangled in the world, don’t lose yourself in emptiness.

Second, please wiggle in your seat. Yes, wiggle. Thank you for humoring me. I am reminded of Suzuki Roshi’s saying: “What we are doing here is so important that we ought not take ourselves too seriously.”

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This morning, I want to continue the conversation that followed last week’s Dharma Talk. I spoke about The Verse Of The Kesa and one understanding of what it means to “wear the kesa” and what we commit to when reciting the verse. When we wear the kesa and recite The Robe Chant—another name for the verse—we commit to participating in the great effort to free all beings from suffering. “That is our commitment,” I said. “That is our vow,” I concluded.

There followed a thorny question about the relation between “serving” all beings and “liberating” all beings, which assumes that the two are distinct (though not separate). If we grant that assumption, then, from one point of view, we can consider the former discrete actions and the latter the end goal; we can ask how, say, practicing zazen (seated meditation) with a sangha, how sitting in a room together, facing a wall, and “doing nothing,” contributes to liberating all beings from suffering. This is a common and important question—and a particular instance of the thorny question we explored last week.

By the way, in August, we will have a chance to explore this question about the relation between zazen and liberation in some depth. Then, I will offer a series of talks on Dogen Zenji’s Bendowa (A Talk On The Pursuit Of The Truth).

We also discussed being role models, trusting others, not meddling, and “taking off the cape.” (Or, for some of us, not putting on the cape in the first place.) I am someone, for instance, who would benefit from removing his cape and wearing only robes—they are not the same. I tend to assume that too many things are my responsibility and that things will fall apart if I fail to act and fail to maintain some order. Yet, there is no need for me to fashion myself a superhero who will liberate all beings without help from others. Freeing all beings from suffering is something we do together.

Finally, the Bodhisattva Vows received a mention; that is where I want us to pick up the thread.

Traditionally, we chant The Four Great Bodhisattva Vows in the same way that we chant The Verse Of The Kesa:

Shujo muhen seigan do

The above translation of the Vows is in our liturgy; we chanted them this way two years ago during the Winter Ango period.

There are other translations, too. Sometimes, I mention how Kobun Chino Roshi expressed the Vows:

Sentient beings are infinite, they will save themselves.

I am not interested in shredding the hero’s cape to pieces right now, so I will say only that I appreciate the alternative perspective offered here. Specifically, that all things need not be in my hands. Instead, I can let them be. Furthermore, if there is engagement, then, as I said above, it is collaborative, perhaps even harmonious. It is not all on my shoulders; I do not need to have all the answers or figure everything out. Hallelujah.

I came across yet another expression of The Four Great Bodhisattva Vows. It is an older expression which connects the Vows to The Four Noble Truths, and it reads:

I vow to enable people to be released from the truth of suffering.

Interesting! As I sat with it, I noticed several things and thought each of them attractive. A few things, too, raised an eyebrow, especially the surface suggestion that we enable others to be released from “the truth of” suffering instead of simply “suffering.”

I do not want to say anything more about these several expressions of The Four Great Bodhisattva Vows, though. This is not a Dharma Talk in which the finer points of their formulations are subjected to analysis and debate.

Instead, I offer them this morning because these three expressions of The Four Great Bodhisattva Vows can show us that we need not become tangled in the world. Once more, we read in Hsin Hsin Ming:

Don’t get tangled in the world, don’t lose yourself in emptiness.

They show us that there is “wiggle room.”

We tend to become tangled in the world when we believe that something is just one thing and are attached to that belief about that something being just one thing. For instance, we might believe that there is one way to express The Four Great Bodhisattva Vows. If we believe that the only “correct” or “true” expression of the Vows is that which displays an apparent contradiction, then we are likely to become involved in disputes when others offer different expressions. We “go on the offensive” to stamp out whatever it is that we judge as “incorrect” or “false.” We might even become fearful because we view that presentation of the teaching as threatening. “No more will others pollute the buddha-dharma with these poisons!” you have probably never said—but you could if positioned in this way.

Rarely is changing someone else’s mind an easy matter or abolishing an alternative accomplished without difficulty. Why? Because we get tangled up with others! We wrestle with people who believe just as much as we do that their judgment about the Vows is the only one that is “correct” or “true,” who are also on the offensive, and who are just as tough, even downright stubborn, as us—and we are not going down without a fight, you can count on that! And I can already hear the chest-thumping.

We might also adopt a “defensive posture.” Here, we attempt to maintain distance from potential wrestling matches. Sometimes, we call this “keeping the world out” or “not letting the world in”—and I assume that each of us is familiar with someone who has gone to great lengths to pursue such a goal. But it is challenging to keep the world out, not to let the world in; it is as though the world were all around you, and there is no escape from it. I wonder where those who posture in this way believe they are, for you cannot be anywhere else but in the world, and how can you keep that in which you are at a distance?

It is summertime, and it has been very warm, even hot. At some point, you may have been in a swimming pool, a lake, or an ocean; perhaps you are looking forward to being in one later today or during a vacation. Whichever is the case, I invite you to keep the water at a distance once in the pool, lake, or ocean. With all your effort and heart-mind, keep it at a distance. Then, you will see that adopting the defensive posture is as foolish and futile as the offensive posture.

By the way, these responses I am describing, which tend to follow from the belief that something is just one thing and attachment to that belief, show up everywhere. It is not just about The Four Great Bodhisattva Vows or other Buddhist teachings. It could concern sports teams, literary or musical genres, whether cats are better than dogs (or vice versa)—anything at all. Recognition of this opens an opportunity to pivot.

What other responses are there?

Hsin Hsin Ming opens with the following:

The Great Way isn’t difficult for those who are unattached to their preferences.

What other responses are there? If you are tangled in the world, let go of what you hold on to. It is not others who cause the entanglement. It is you, by which I mean your attachment to the belief that something is just one thing (or what is called a “preference” above).

Don’t get tangled in the world, don’t lose yourself in emptiness.

So much for the first half of the line. What about the second half? If we are unattached to our preferences, our beliefs about this or that thing—if we hold with a loose hand all suppositions that some thing is just one thing—how do we not “lose ourselves in emptiness? How do we not enter into a space where “anything goes,” a sort of nihilistic dreamscape?

A response starts with remembering that emptiness is not nothingness—it is the other side of form—and what things are empty of is what we might call an “essence,” a “fixed nature,” or a “substantial self.” This is why nothing is just one thing but many things, through movement, change, and blending with others—what we sometimes call “dependent origination.” It is a testament to the interconnection of the whole universe. It is why there can be different expressions of The Four Great Bodhisattva Vows; this is why the Vows can “wiggle.”

But does anything prevent an expression of the Vows that permits heinous actions? That is the question, and you can feel its force if you assume that what prevents religious teachings from permitting (or worse, sanctioning) heinous actions is a dogmatic, and therefore fixed, view about what it is for something to be good, just, or kind. And the Dharma, the Buddha’s teachings, is without fixed views—as best as I understand it, anyway.

What we are coming up against, perhaps you can feel it, too, is the question: What is the Dharma? When the teachings on emptiness are front and center, it is understandable why Buddhists seem well-liked, why even those hostile to religion set Buddhism aside as the sole exception and may share that they have a soft spot for it. “It is not a religion,” they say. “It is a philosophy or a spiritual path.” The Buddha offered something quite different in his teachings. But what was it? What is it? And what are we, as students of the Buddha and practitioners of the Way, doing here? What are we doing here?!

In Hsin Hsin Ming, we read:

The struggle between good and evil is the primal disease of the mind:

What is the “deeper meaning,” “deeper reality,” or “true nature” mentioned in these lines? At what are we gesturing when we describe “the world of things as they are” as “not two”?

I want to close this Dharma Talk with an extended excerpt from Dogen Zenji’s Shobogenzo Gyoji (Continuous Practice):

Guishan, who would later become Zen Master Dayuan, went to the steep and rocky Mount Gui immediately after receiving a confirmation of enlightenment from Baizhang. He mingled with birds and beasts, assembled a thatched hut, and tempered his practice. While living on acorns and chestnuts, he was not intimidated by storms or snow. Without temple or property, he actualized continuous practice for forty years. Later this place became a monastery renowned throughout China, where excellent practitioners like dragons and elephants came to follow in his footsteps.

If you vow to establish a temple, do not be swayed by human concerns, but maintain the strict continuous practice of buddha dharma. Where the practice is tempered, even without a [monks’] hall, is a place of enlightenment of old buddhas. The teaching given outdoors under a tree may be heard afar. Such a place can be a sacred domain for a long time. Indeed, the continuous practice of one person will merge with the place of the way of all buddhas.

Foolish people in this declining age are consumed with erecting magnificent temple buildings. Buddha ancestors have never wished for such temple buildings. You uselessly decorate the halls before you clarify your own eye. Rather than making offerings to buddhas, you are turning the house of all buddhas into a pitfall of fame and gain. Quietly ponder the continuous practice of the ancient Guishan. In order to do this, identify yourself with Guishan.

The sobbing rain of deep night pierces moss and pierces rock. On a snowy night of winter when even animals are rarely seen, how could the aromas from people’s houses reach you? This kind of search is impossible without the continuous practice of taking your own life lightly and regarding dharma as precious. Without cutting grass or moving earth and lumber, Guishan was fully engaged in tempering practice of the way.

What a deep feeling we have for him! With what great determination the hardship was endured by the authentic heir transmitting the true dharma on the steep mountain! It is said about Mount Gui that there is a pond and a brook where ice accumulates and fog becomes dense. It is not an inviting place for retreat, but it is where Guishan’s practice of the buddha way and the depth of the mountains were merged and renewed.

Continuous practice is not something we should take casually. If we do not repay the gift of the hardship of Guishan’s continuous practice, how can we, who aspire to study, identify with him as if he were sitting in front of us? Due to the power and the guiding merit of his continuous practice, the wheel of air [a layer upon which the world is settled] is not upset, the world is not broken, the palace of devas is calm, and human lands are maintained.

Although we are not direct descendants of Guishan, he is an ancestor of the teaching. Later, Yangshan went to study and attend him. Yangshan, who had studied with Baizhang, was like Shariputra, who gave one hundred answers to ten questions. Attending Guishan, he spent three years watching over a buffalo. This kind of continuous practice has been cut off and not seen in recent years. Such a statement by Yangshan as “spending three years watching over a buffalo” cannot otherwise be heard.

What was Guishan doing on the steep mountain, in harsh conditions, for forty years? Would you become Guishan’s student and spend three years watching over a buffalo? What are we, as a sangha, doing here? What are you doing here?

These are important questions, both about the Dharma and about you. The former is not something abstract, nor does it fly high in the clouds. It blends with the air that fills your lungs and the earth that supports your feet. It is found both high in rocky mountains and down low in bustling metropolises. You cannot get away from it; in the same way, you cannot be distant from water when in the ocean. Yet, it is not stiff or suffocating but wiggly; fluid and free, it is the path to the end of suffering. And when we walk that path, which we can only do together, we manifest the teaching:

Don’t get tangled in the world, don’t lose yourself in emptiness.

We find ourselves in that place described as “not two,” and we honor the gift of Guishan’s continuous practice.

Thank you very much.

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If you benefitted from this offering, you might enjoy the following:

The following is an approximate transcript of the Dharma Talk I offered on June 16th as part of O-An Zendo’s Sunday program. You can also listen to a live recording.

Enjoy.

Last week, we explored one way of relating to the precepts. As a way of complementing Roshi’s admonishment to “forget the precepts,” I suggested that we can also see the precepts as “invitations to exploration.” I said asking questions is part of being a Zen practitioner. We also looked at the precept that encourages supporting life in its many forms to illustrate that sort of relationship.

I want to continue this effort today and discuss a group of precepts we have yet to focus on: the Three Pure Precepts.

Sometimes, we find the Three Pure Precepts presented in the following way:

First, to embrace and sustain right conduct.

You will see this way of expressing them next week during Jukai (Lay Ordination Ceremony) for three of our Dharma Sisters.

This presentation has its roots in an ancient gatha—a short verse or prayer—shared by all Buddhist practitioners, and I learned that, in Japanese, the gatha is called Shichi Butsu Tsukai (no) Ge or “The Gatha of the Commonly Held Precepts of the Seven Buddhas.” The gatha is:

Refrain from committing various evils

Well, that sounds simple—does it not?

If you spend time with this gatha, you will see how it and the Three Pure Precepts provide a foundation for the Ten Clear Mind Precepts. 

We can notice the Clear Mind Precepts’ prohibitory form in the gatha: no killing, stealing, abusing sexuality, lying, misuse of intoxicants, dwelling on past mistakes, praise or blame, hoarding teachings or materials, harboring anger, and abusing the Three Treasures. Collectively, these are ways in which we embody the essential teaching, “refrain from committing various evils.”

Also, there is the “positive form” of the Clear Mind Precepts in the gatha: cultivating and encouraging life, honoring the gift not yet given, remaining faithful in relationships, communicating truth, polishing clarity, creating wisdom from ignorance, maintaining modesty, sharing understanding and freely giving of self, dwelling in equanimity, and respecting the Buddha, unfolding the Dharma, and nourishing the Sangha. These are ways in which we embody the essential teaching of “carrying out all sorts of good actions.”

Finally, we call this group of precepts the Clear Mind Precepts, which implies that by refraining from various evils and carrying out all sorts of good actions, we also “personally clarify this mind.” Thus, we embody the essential teaching of all the buddhas.

The matter is not so simple, however. You may have seen this gentle turn coming if you have been around for a while. Or perhaps the matter is as simple as I said it is, but not in the way you think it is simple. Whatever the case, we are going to change direction presently, and I leave it to you to decide (or not) how simple (or not) what we find as we walk together is.

So far, it might seem to you that the ancient gatha and the Three Pure Precepts state general rules, while the Ten Clear Mind Precepts offer specific rules. Yet, for a few weeks now, Roshi and I have said that the precepts are not rules according to our best and shared understanding of the teachings.

But if these precepts are not rules, then what are they? What is the essential teaching of all the buddhas if it is not a collection of rules?

Dogen describes the essential teaching as the same as “awakening to the living reality” and “responding to each matter” in Shobogenzo Shoaku Makusa (Treasury of the True Dharma Eye, Refraining from Evil). That is where I want us to begin—and with a story.

Haku Kyoi was a high-ranking government official and unparalleled poet. Dogen tells us that he was

[…] sometimes referred to as the Manjusri of literati or the Maitreya of poets. There was no one who had not heard of his poetic artistry. The influence of his verse spread everywhere. However, when it came to the Buddha Way, he was just a beginner and was not yet mature.

One day, Kyoi called on Dorin Choka, a Master whose “Dharma-voice,” says Dogen, “was louder and clearer than a roll of thunder.” The story goes that

Kyoi asked Dorin, “What is the gist of the Buddhadharma?” Dorin replied, “Refrain from committing various evils and carry out all sorts of good actions.” Kyoi responded, “If that were the case, even a three-year-old child could say that.” Dorin replied, “Although a three-year-old child may be able to express it, not even an eighty-year-old can actually carry it out.” Hearing the reply, Kyoi thanked him gratefully, bowed, and left.

“Although a three-year-old child may be able to express it, not even an eighty-year-old can actually carry it out,” says Dorin. We can glean from Dorin’s reply that Kyoi’s impression of the essential teaching of all the buddhas is not quite right. “Even a three-year-old could say that,” says Kyoi—meaning, how could “refrain from committing various evils and carry out all sorts of good actions” be the gist of the Buddhadharma? Surely, the essential teaching of all buddhas is something else, something not utterable by a three-year-old, something profound. Only it is—“refrain from committing various evils and carry out all sorts of good actions” is the essential teaching of all the buddhas, and it is profound—but not in the way that Kyoi supposes that it is.

Dogen continues:

Kyoi probably speculated that Dorin earnestly encouraged people to refrain from various evils and carry out acts of good at the conscious level. […] Make no mistake, even if we are cautioned to intentionally avoid various evils and, with every intention, encouraged to carry out good deeds, the actuality takes place in absolute refraining.

This essential teaching of all the buddhas is not embodied at the conscious level; it is not found in the intention that arises before action or the general intention set at a day’s or week’s beginning. It is not what “people ordinarily conjure up in their minds.” It is something altogether different. 

What could that something be? Dogen calls it “absolute refraining,” “refraining from,” and again, “awakening to the living reality” and “responding to each matter.” At what are these expressions pointing? Where is the moon?

A response—it is tempting to say, “the answer”—is emptiness. Emptiness is absolute refraining; emptiness is refraining from. Awakening to the living reality is absolute refraining; awakening to the living reality is refraining from. The living reality to which we awaken through zazen is an empty one. All things are empty; there is only one living reality, and there is only refraining from.

Now, let us return to the beginning once more.

I spoke about the Heart Sutra last week, using it to illustrate Karuna, the “intention and capacity to transform suffering and lighten sorrows.” Avalokiteshvara had the desire and the means to do this. Notably, they had the insight and capacity to share with Shariputra that “form is emptiness, emptiness is form, form is not separate from emptiness, emptiness is not separate from form […]” and so on. But it is not just form that is emptiness; it is also sensation, perceptions, volitions, and consciousness. It is also eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind; it is also shape, sound, smell, taste, touch, feeling, and thought. Nothing, it turns out, is that is not also empty.

So Avalokiteshvara says:

Here, Shariputra, all dharmas are defined by emptiness

All dharmas, including, although not found in the Heart Sutra’s list of things for which the expression “X is emptiness” is true, good and evil. In fact, we can include “good and evil” in two ways. First, we can say that “good and evil” are defined by emptiness, not birth or destruction, purity or defilement, completeness or deficiency. Second, we can say that all dharmas are defined by emptiness, not birth or destruction, purity or defilement, completeness or deficiency, or good or evil.

Dogen is explicit about this, writing:

In different societies, that which is considered evil or unwholesome sometimes appears to be the same, sometimes it does not. In former and later times, sometimes evil appears to be identical, sometimes it does not. Evils in the heavenly realm may or may not be the same as evils in the human realm. Much less, looking at the Way of the buddhas and the ways of the conventional world, there are enormous differences concerning what is good [and evil]. Good and evil occur in time, although time is neither good nor evil. Good and evil take the form of dharmas, although the dharmas are not of themselves good or evil.

If you feel uncomfortable, that is all right. That discomfort arises, perhaps, because we are starting to let go of what feels certain. Namely, this sense that we know what is good and what is evil. Or if it seems too much to say that we “know what is good and what is evil,” we sometimes feel that we have a partial grip on what is good and what is evil. “I cannot define ‘good’ and ‘evil’ for you,” you might say, “but I can identify specific instances of them. Cultivating and encouraging life, honoring the gift not yet given, and communicating truth—these are good things. And killing, stealing, and lying—these are bad things.”

By the essential teaching of all the buddhas, however, this is not quite right. Why not? When the function and power of refraining from are entirely revealed, “we cannot say definitely that various evils are necessarily evil; not even a weapon can be said to be intrinsically evil! It is a matter of picking up and putting down.”

It is not that various evils do not exist, but rather that all there is, is […] refraining from. Nor is it a matter of evils existing; again, all there is, is refraining from. Neither are evils empty; there is only refraining from. Nor do they have a substantial form; all there is, is refraining from. Evils are not of themselves refraining from; for all there is, is refraining from. 

Now, let us return to the beginning for a third time.

I started this talk by raising some questions about the essential teaching of all the buddhas and the Three Pure Precepts. Namely

If these precepts are not rules, then what are they? What is the essential teaching of all the buddhas if it is not a collection of rules?

I wonder if you are starting to see why they are not rules. 

As we move with the world, we observe various behaviors, their consequences, and how sentient beings (others and ourselves) are affected by various behaviors. Based on our observations, we declare that particular behaviors are necessarily “good” and others necessarily “evil.” Moreover, we come to believe that “good” and “evil” are substantial things “out there,” instantiated in specific behaviors. Then, we establish rules to regulate our behaviors. Specifically, we prohibit the performance of “evil behaviors” and prescribe the performance of “good behaviors.”

Refrain from committing various evils

Yet, the Heart Sutra teaches that all dharmas—all phenomena—are empty. No dharma, that is, is any thing or any kind of thing all on its own, but is what it is owing all and only to the totality of relations at a specific time, and only at that time. Therefore, no behavior is necessarily good or evil, nor are good and evil substantial things “out there” capable of instantiation in specific behaviors. Nowhere to be found is the firm foundation necessary for the entire enterprise of rule-building and behavior-regulating by way of rules.

And so we return once more to our questions:

If these precepts are not rules, then what are they? What is the essential teaching of all the buddhas if it is not a collection of rules? What does it mean to refrain from committing various evils, carry out all sorts of good actions, and personally clarify this mind?

Dogen uses the expressions “absolute refraining,” “refraining from,” “awakening to the living reality,” and “responding to each matter.” I want to take up the last expression by returning to the exchange between Kyoi and Master Dorin.

Kyoi asked Dorin, “What is the gist of the Buddhadharma?” Dorin replied, “Refrain from committing various evils and carry out all sorts of good actions.” Kyoi responded, “If that were the case, even a three-year-old child could say that.” Dorin replied, “Although a three-year-old child may be able to express it, not even an eighty-year-old can actually carry it out.” Hearing the reply, Kyoi thanked him gratefully, bowed, and left.

I wonder if you can see that so much of our life is present in this exchange. Question. Response. Response. Response. Bow. There is a pattern here, but not a “contentful” one.

What do I mean by this? There is no presence in the pattern until that time when it becomes embodied by a pair of sentient beings. What is someone’s question before they ask it? What is the other person’s response before they hear the question? What are the responses that follow before the ones that they follow appear? To what is there bowing before an exchange has happened?

Master Dorin was awake to the living reality and so he could respond to the matter of Kyoi’s question with a Dharma-voice as loud and clear as a roll of thunder. “Refrain from committing various evils and carry out all sorts of good actions,” says Dorin, is the gist of the Buddhadharma. Kyoi could not hear the thunder nor see the bright lightening and dismissed Dorin’s response with, “If that were the case, even a three-year-old child could say that.” How could Dorin meet Kyoi’s dismissal but by responding to it as it appeared right then, right there? “Although a three-year-old child may be able to express it, not even an eighty-year-old can actually carry it out.” How could Kyoi understand when and to what he was bowing until Dorin tried again to open Kyoi’s ears and eyes?

Responding to each matter as it appears, with immediacy, with full-presence, happens when we are awake to the living reality, the emptiness of all phenomena, of all dharmas. Being awake to the living reality takes place only through absolute refraining. And absolute refraining is the same as “refraining from.”

So, I want to leave you with the question: What is refraining from?

Thank you very much.

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If you benefitted from this offering, you might read or listen to the following:

The following is an approximate transcript of the Dharma Talk I offer on Sunday, June 9th, as part of O-An Zendo’s Sunday program. You can also listen to a live recording of the talk.

Enjoy.

Precepts—that is what I want us to explore this morning. What are the precepts? How do we work with the precepts? How do we incorporate them into daily practice and our everyday lives?

Roshi offered one response to these questions in her talk last Sunday. (You can listen to that talk here.) She spoke about "spontaneity" and the uselessness of the precepts when there is a need for immediate or near-immediate action.

Consider the following scenario. You are walking through a park one morning. You are on your way to a job interview and dressed in your best outfit. "Dressed to impress!" as the anonymous they say. Your outfit includes a nice pair of shoes, by the way.

As you round some bushes and approach a shallow pond, you notice a small child in the pond. Only the small child is not simply in the pond; it is drowning in the pond! And its guardians are nowhere in sight, and neither is anyone else.

At this moment, you have a choice. You can either continue walking to your job interview and leave the small child to (likely) drown in the shallow pond. Or you can wade into the pond and save the small child from drowning, but you will ruin your nice shoes. And I will stipulate that there is no time to take your shoes off or change your shoes before the job interview. In fact, you will be late for the interview if you do not miss it altogether.

What would you do?

I do not know what you would do. I am confident, however, that to decide what to do, you would not remove a list of the Sixteen Bodhisattva Precepts from your bag or pocket and begin reviewing them. And I will guess that you would, without any thought or hesitation, wade into the shallow pond and save the small child from drowning. Without any thought or hesitation—never mind your shoes, the job interview, or anything else than responding appropriately to what is in front of you.

This scenario, fanciful though it is, illustrates one of Roshi's main points from last week's Dharma Talk: that the precepts are useless in the moment. We could say that intellectual engagement with the precepts hinders an appropriate response; the situation requires immediate or near-immediate action. It is better to heed Roshi's advice and "forget the precepts." Trust that you see what is needed and act to meet that need.

Yet, some of us keep a Precept Journal. Precept Journals can take many forms, but one common feature is that we do not forget—we remember—the precepts and work with them in various ways.

Sometimes, we explore how the precepts were embodied in a specific situation. Other times, we outline the relation between two or more precepts and notice how the precepts show up together and everywhere in our lives. At still other times, we investigate what obstructed a particular response. What "got in the way" of that response? Was it greed, anger, or ignorance? Was I concerned with securing pleasure and avoiding pain? Was I seeking praise and attempting to dodge blame? These are appropriate questions to entertain, whether by yourself, with a wise friend or teacher, or in a group—just not when a small child is drowning in front of you in a shallow pond.

Zen Questions. How do you hear this expression? Is it as an adjective followed by a noun, together identifying a particular group of questions? "These are not home-economic questions, but Zen questions," someone says. Or as a noun followed by a verb, something that Zen does? "What does Zen do?" a curious person inquires. "Zen questions," replies the teacher. Or, perhaps, as the title of a book by Taigen Dan Leighton, Roshi? That is another possibility, too.

Questioning. Inquiry. Investigation. These are essential ingredients—or, we might say, ever-present invitations—in Zen practice.

The riddles or short stories called "koans" extend them. One of the more well-known koans and often the first case a student receives is "Joshu's Dog," Case 1 of the Mumonkan (The Gateless Gate). The case is:

A monk asked Joshu in all earnestness, "Does a dog have Buddha nature or not?"

Joshu said, "Mu!"

As you meet this exchange for the first time, the tenth time, the ten-thousandth time, you might ask: What has happened between the monk and Joshu? What is Buddha nature? Why a dog? What is "Mu"? What is going on in this case? Although only two lines long, the case is pregnant with invitations for exploration.

The same invitations are present in the precepts, although that may not be obvious because of how you relate to the precepts and the form in which we usually see the precepts.

Roshi said last week that the precepts are not commandments or rules. That is correct, according to our best and shared understanding of the Buddha's teachings. No omniscient, omnipotent being formulated them; no one received them from such a being through a mystical experience. They do not reside somewhere else, over and above your life, hovering and watching with a critical and, perhaps, condemning eye. You cannot "break" a precept or "violate" it partly because the precepts do not demand obedience. And even if they did—suppose the precepts came alive and, as a group, held up signs that read, "Obey us!"—you are free to ignore their plea (and without fear of punishment). Perhaps you should ignore their plea, too.

Yet, most of us tend to relate to the precepts in at least one of these ways. I leave it to you to investigate why if you find that you do. I used to relate to the precepts in all of these ways. Some of that stems from my childhood and adolescent environment; some stems from the kind of person I am. For these and other reasons, I had some "unlearning by learning" to do, which allowed for possibilities once only merely possible to change my way of relating to the precepts.

However, I also said that the form in which we usually see the precepts contributes to a particular way of relating to them. Of course it does, by the way, as nothing is any thing or any kind of thing all on its own; everything is what it is owing to the totality of relations at any given time.

Consider the first of the Ten Clear Mind Precepts. Often, we see it stated as:

Do not kill

Or

Refrain from killing

Its form is simple, straightforward, and direct. There are no "ifs," "ands," or "buts," only three words: Do not kill. It looks a lot like a commandment, something that you can either do or not do, fail to do, or act contrary to and, since it is an imperative, demands that you do.

It is no wonder that Kobun Chino Roshi thought to offer a few more words. We read in our liturgy:

No killing life / Cultivating and encouraging life

The precept is no longer purely prohibitive but also positively prescriptive, which dulls some of the sharp edges.

There are other expressions of the precept, too. Thich Nhat Hanh articulates the first Clear Mind Precept in this way:

Aware of the suffering caused by the destruction of life, I vow to cultivate compassion and learn ways to protect the lives of people, animals, plants, and minerals. I am determined not to kill, not to let others kill, and not to condone any act of killing in the world, in my thinking, and in my way of life.

I want to stay with Thich Nhat Hanh's expression for a while. Specifically, the words, "I vow to cultivate compassion and learn ways to protect the lives of people, animals, plants, and minerals."

What does it mean to "cultivate compassion"? How do we understand this refrain, and how do we do it?

The word "compassion" translates from the Pali and Sanskrit word Karuna, and Thich Nhat Hanh describes Karuna as "the intention and capacity to relieve and transform suffering and lighten sorrows."  

We see this intention and capacity in the opening lines of the Heart Sutra.

The noble Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva

Avalokiteshvara's seeing the five skandhas for what they are—void, hollow, and insubstantial, or, in a word, empty—and sharing this insight with others—in the Heart Sutra, it is Shariputra—is karuna. The bodhisattva desires to relieve and transform suffering and has the means. Aware of the suffering of others, they proceed to teach that

form is emptiness, emptiness is form;

But was Avalokiteshvara suffering when they saw the emptiness of the five skandhas? Were they suffering when sharing this insight with Shariputra? (You may recall that "compassion" means "to suffer with."  Com means "together with," and passion means "to suffer.") We cannot know, but there is a possibility that they were not also suffering. "Doctors, for instance, can relieve their patients' suffering without experiencing the same disease in themselves," writes Thich Nhat Hanh.

Is "compassion" an appropriate translation for karuna? Or does it bring unnecessary baggage with it, specifically, the requirement that I also need to be suffering to relieve the suffering of others? And if I am not suffering yet still relieving suffering, does this mean I am not acting compassionately? Should we leave karuna untranslated, use the word "compassion" less frequently, and avoid the impression that we can only alleviate suffering if we also suffer?

What do you think?

I do not raise these questions because I desire to find some answer. Instead, I raise them because I want the freedom to look around and see other alternatives.

Zen Questions.

When we "cultivate" something, sometimes we mean that we are "trying to acquire or develop" something that we either do not possess or do but is only nascent. I am not sure about you, but it does not seem to me that I lack—and so need to acquire—the capacity to suffer with others, nor has that capacity only just come into existence and could benefit from development. I suffer well, with others, and a lot, thank you very much.

And how much does the capacity to suffer with others need to be developed, anyway? Thich Nhat Hanh shares that, when he was a novice monk, he "could not understand why, if the world is filled with suffering, the Buddha has such a beautiful smile." Continuing, he writes:

Later I discovered that the Buddha has enough understanding, calm, and strength; that is why the suffering does not overwhelm him. He is able to smile to suffering because he knows how to take care of it and to help transform it. We need to be aware of the suffering, but retain our clarity, calmness, and strength so we can help transform the situation. The ocean of tears cannot drown us if karuna is there. That is why the Buddha's smile is possible.

This desire and capacity to "relieve and transform suffering and lighten sorrows"—that we can develop continuously. How? By learning ways to "protect the lives of people, animals, plants, and minerals." Right there, at the heart of the precept, is an invitation to exploration and investigation.

I am, as you are, familiar with some ways of relieving and transforming my own and others' suffering—and I can learn new ways, too.

So, from one point of view, when we receive the Sixteen Bodhisattva Precepts, we commit—we vow—to continue acting in ways that we already act and learn new ways, all to benefit others. But if that is the vow, how can you possibly fail? What could it mean to "break" or "violate" this commitment?

As you can see, once the form in which we see the precepts changes, how we relate to the precepts also changes—in this case, invitations for exploration appear everywhere.

Now, I want to step backward and with the aid of Dogen Zenji. Dogen writes the following in Shobogenzo Genjokoan:

[…] when you sail out in a boat to the middle of the ocean where no land is in sight, and view the four directions, the ocean looks circular, and does not look any other way. But the ocean is neither round nor square; its features are infinite in variety. It is like a palace. It is like a jewel. It only looks circular as far as you can see at that time. All things are like this.

Although there are many features in the dusty world and the world beyond conditions, you see and understand only what your eye of practice can reach. In order to learn the nature of the myriad things, you must know that although they may look round or square, the other features of oceans and mountains are infinite in variety; whole worlds are there. It is so not only around you, but also directly beneath your feet, or in a drop of water.

The whole of my talk this morning is in these words. I am encouraging you to loosen your grip on how the oceans and mountains look from where you are sitting. That is, how you relate to the precepts from wherever you are and in whatever position you find yourself.

Sometimes, we forget about them. Sometimes, we remember them. Sometimes, we regard them as rules and feel a great weight, as if they were resting on our shoulders. Other times, we feel their support, as though they were underneath our feet, and their presence marks a path of inquiry before us.

There may be times when we cannot see them because our surroundings are too unfamiliar. Then, suddenly, their presence becomes apparent. Our position shifts; it feels as though we discovered a new world.

The reason is simple. It is not just oceans and mountains whose features are infinite in variety. The precepts' features are infinite in variety, too. And to see this, it is sometimes skillful to ask questions. That is part of what it is to be a Zen practitioner: to ask questions. Not, however, because we seek answers, but to see what else is around us, beneath our feet and in a drop of water.

Please feel confident that you can let go of what feels certain. Please trust yourself to navigate what appears misty and murky. And please have faith that, though you leave many questions unanswered, you can respond appropriately to whatever arises.

Thank you very much.

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If you benefitted from this offering, you might consider these, too:

Below is an approximate transcript of the Dharma Talk I gave on May 5th as part of O-An Zendo’s Sunday program. You can read the transcript or listen to the live recording.

Thank you for listening, reading, and supporting. I bow with gratitude.

Two weeks ago, I spoke about the “essential art of zazen [seated meditation]” and kin hin (walking meditation), a companion to our sitting practice. I said that kin hin is an opportunity to “walk our zazen around the room” and that, with a bit of practice, we can also carry zazen into our day-to-day lives.

That might be an attractive proposition to you, however your sitting practice is at some time. If sitting is enjoyable, you may welcome expressing that enjoyment elsewhere. If sitting is not enjoyable, you may welcome other opportunities to be active with an open and expansive awareness. You may even entertain the story—it is only a story, by the way—that spending time off the cushion, whether walking, washing dishes, or weeding with awareness, will bring a change upon returning to the cushion. And it will, necessarily, as all things are connected with all things. “This is like this because that is like that,” as Thich Nhat Hanh taught us.

Will your walking, washing, or weeding bring the change you desire and hope for upon returning to the cushion? Probably not—and I am not sorry about that. What arises when we return to the cushion is not up to us, no matter how much we try to “curate our experience” with beads, candles, incense, and scarves. How we respond, however, to what arises—whether on the cushion, in the garden, or inline in the market—is up to us. From one point of view, that is what it means to “carry zazen into our day-to-day lives.” And from that point of view, zazen is a practice of generosity—specifically, unbounded generosity.

Today, I want to bring these two threads together and introduce a third. I want to talk indirectly about “service,” which means offering to fulfill a service position, whether on Sundays, during a retreat, or some other events. I also want to talk indirectly about samu (work practice), where we give our energy and time caring for the temple, our place of practice. “Indirectly” because a Dharma talk is not the place to remind you that we strike the big bell after announcing the title of a sutra, not before; that roll downs develop at a slow, steady pace; and that we play the drum during Jundo with Umph!

A Dharma talk is also not the place to inform you that we need three more holes dug for trees outside near the Friendship Garden.

What I want to talk about directly is Generosity, the spirit with which we sit, walk, and volunteer to support the Sangha (community of practitioners) and care for the Zendo (temple, meditation hall). To do these things, I want to spend time with the founder of our Sōtō Zen lineage, Dōgen Zenji, and a section from Shōbōgenzō Bodaisatta-shishōbō, “The Bodhisattva’s Four Methods of Guidance.”

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Shōbōgenzō Bodaisatta-shishōbō begins with the following:

The Bodhisattva’s four methods of guidance are giving, kind speech, beneficial action, and identity action.

Our focus is the first method: “Generosity” or “Giving” (Dāna). What is “Giving”?

“Giving” means nongreed. Nongreed means not to covet. Not to covet means not to curry favor. Even if you govern the Four Continents, you should always convey the authentic path with nongreed. It is like giving away unneeded belongings to someone you don’t know, offering flowers blooming on a distant mountain to the Tathagata, or, again, offering treasures you had in your former life to sentient beings. Whether it is of teaching or of material, each gift has its value and is worth giving. Even if the gift is not your own, there is no reason to abstain from giving. The question is not whether the gift is valuable but whether there is genuine merit.

“Giving” means nongreed. Nongreed means not to covet. Not to covet means not to curry favor.

If you read even a little Zen literature or literature about Zen, you will notice a pattern of describing something “negatively.” Here, Dōgen describes “Giving” as “nongreed,” meaning “not to covet,” meaning “not to curry favor.” Non. Not. Not.

“All right,” you might say, “I got it. But please tell me something positive—meaning without a negation!” Actually, you have not “got it.” So, let us stay with the opening sentences.

What does it mean to “not be greedy”? When we say that something is not some other thing, do we mean the opposite of that other thing? Are Generosity and Greediness opposed to each other? Or do we mean that one thing is present only when the other is absent? Wherever we find Generosity, are we unable to find Greediness? And where we find Greediness, are we unable to find Generosity? Or can the two qualities co-exist? How could we tell? How does it feel when you are generous, when you are greedy? Can you experience both groups of feelings? How about at the same time?

When we “covet” something, we feel a desire for it. But what sort of desire? Must we feel it strongly, or can it escape our notice? Must it always be the same, or can it wax and wane? If the latter, for how long? Can you covet something for many months, many years?

Allow me to speak with Dōgen’s mouth: You should investigate these questions forward, backward, from the middle outward, and all at once as though you were sitting zazen on a zafu filled with red coals.

Whatever the answer to these questions, when we covet something, Dōgen suggests that we seek to “curry favor” with something—probably someone—to obtain that which we covet. The New Oxford American Dictionary describes “currying favor” as “ingratiat[ing] oneself with someone through obsequious behavior.” I trust that you are all familiar with this way of operating because you have observed it in others and done it yourself, too.

Generosity is not this. Giving is not this, which is one way of saying: It is not about you.

The examples that follow illustrate this very point.

Even if you govern the Four Continents, you should always convey the authentic path with nongreed. It is like giving away unneeded belongings to someone you don’t know, offering flowers blooming on a distant mountain to the Tathagata, or, again, offering treasures you had in your former life to sentient beings.

The examples are not chosen at random. Collectively, they form a wide broom well-suited for sweeping away even the slightest impulse toward ingratiating behavior.

Why are there Four Continents? It does not matter! What does is that your station in life is irrelevant when considering whether to “convey the authentic path with nongreed.” Do you preside over the whole world? Great. Still, practice giving. Do you preside over nothing? Great. Still, practice giving. Are you somewhere in between? Great. Still, practice giving.

We are familiar with “giving away unneeded belongings to someone [we] don’t know.” Perhaps you donate gently used furniture to CentrePeace, and though you may say, “I know the people who work there,” they may not be the same people who bring your furniture into their homes. The same applies to offering clothing to Goodwill or contributing to a food drive. You may purchase canned goods for the food drive, but this does not mean they are not “unneeded belongings.” The dollars stored digitally in a financial institution are, and your action demonstrates that they are unneeded. You use them in a way that is “not about you.”

A point of clarification feels necessary. Saying that “giving away unneeded belongings to someone you don’t know” is “not about you” does not mean that you must be unaffected when giving. Someone may express gratitude for your gift. That is all right. You may feel good about giving the gift. That, too, is all right. You will be affected by your generosity! Why? Because you are not separate from all that is. The expression “not about you” does not raise high walls designed to keep the world out; it invites passing through walls to look within.

What is your motivation for giving? Are you greedy? Do you covet something? Are you attempting to curry favor with someone to obtain that something? What causes the giving of a gift, and what sustains it? What could be a clearer expression of generosity than “giving away unneeded belonging to someone you don’t know”?

It is the same when we state our willingness to learn a service position, sign up to serve on a specific Sunday or during a sesshin, or volunteer a morning or afternoon to weed a garden bed. For some, that is the giving away of time that is not needed. For others, that is the giving away of comfort that is not needed.

The giving away of comfort? Yes. It is nice, I bet, to arrive on Sunday with everything ready: cushions vacuumed, liturgy set out in an orderly way, steps swept, and meditation trail cleared of debris; other Sangha members standing in the spotlight playing the Han, tending to the altar, or leading service—and the last, once more, with Umph! It is nice to be relatively anonymous. It feels comfortable. But is it needed? Can you give away some of that comfort to those that you do not know? If not, why?

It is like […] offering flowers blooming on a distant mountain to the Tathagata, or, again, offering treasures you had in your former life to sentient beings.

You do not need to see what you are giving to give it, nor do you need to see the person to whom you are giving that which you cannot see, someone who “has come and has gone.” Indeed, you can give that which do not possess to numberless beings, not more than a hundred of which you can even name. Dōgen writes later in Shōbōgenzō Bodaisatta-shishōbō:

To leave flowers to the wind, to leave birds to the seasons, are also acts of giving.

Honoring that which is not yours to meddle with is an act of giving.

It is not just flowers and their petals on distant mountains that can be given, though we do not see them. Traditionally, Generosity is expressed in three ways: by giving material gifts, giving the gift of the teachings, and giving fearlessness.

By now, most of us have heard Zoketsu Norman Fischer Roshi’s line about fearlessness. Still, I will share it at least one more time:

The sense that [you] matter; that [you] are respected, cared for, secure within a loving reality, and therefore ultimately protected.

How do you give this gift? Where is the sense that someone matters? Can you hold it with your hands? Can you show it to me? What about respect, care, security, and protection? And can you fathom that some act of yours today may ripple thirty years into the future when someone, remembering it, will be given the gift of fearlessness? Every action has this potential. Yet, there is a tendency to squander it by making things “about us.”

Whether it is of teaching or of material, each gift has its value and is worth giving. Even if the gift is not your own, there is no reason to abstain from giving. The question is not whether the gift is valuable but whether there is genuine merit.

Some months ago, a Sangha member told me they wanted to schedule dōkusan (private meeting) with Roshi but could not afford the suggested donation. I told them any offering was all right, even coming to work on the grounds for an hour or two. My response was dismissed—either the suggested amount would be given or nothing. If the latter, no dōkusan.

The exchange left a lasting impression, though not about this specific individual. I felt and still feel strongly about the final word: I cannot give what is suggested, so I will give nothing and miss the opportunity.

Please permit me to speak plainly: Get over yourself. It is not about you. Each gift has value and is worth giving.

A king gave his beard; someone of no rank offered a particle of dust. Another person helped launch a boat; still another assisted with building a bridge. Great King Ashoka gave half a myrobalan fruit, fed one hundred monks, and demonstrated the greatness of giving. A child offered sand to the Buddha.

If you study giving closely, you see that to accept a body and to give up the body are both giving. Making a living and producing things can be nothing other than giving.

[…]

Not only should you make an effort to give, but also be mindful of every opportunity to give. You are born into this present life because you originally embodied the merit of giving [in the past].

When I lived in Santa Barbara, CA, I practiced with several Sanghas, especially with the Santa Barbara Zen Center. As a graduate student, I could not offer the suggested financial contribution every Sunday, even most Sundays. But I could offer my time—and I did.

I arrived an hour early every Sunday and set up with Zendo with my Dharma brother, Joku. Together, we laid out the cushions, neatly tucked the sutra books, and arranged each station of the Dōan-ryo just so. We prepared the altar together and picked flower petals for the offerings during service. I stayed an hour after service, too, to help tear down the Zendo and carefully store everything in their respective large plastic bins, before returning them to the storage closet. Only then would I depart.

Others were able to give money; I could give energy and time. I could not help with each month’s rent at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History, but I could ensure that the pop-up Zendo had popped and was ready for practice. I gave in other ways, too—but this is not about me—and you should see my point now.

You do not need to give in the same way as others but give. You do not need to give as much as others but give. You do not need to give as frequently as others but give. If there is any hindrance to giving, it is you—by which I mean your fixed ideas about what giving is, how it should happen, with what regularity, and in what form.

Get out of your own way. Get over yourself. It is not about you.

Since this is the case:

[…] give even a phrase or verse of the truth; it will be a wholesome seed for this and other lifetimes. Give your valuables, even a penny or a blade of grass; it will be a wholesome root for this and other lifetimes. The truth can turn into valuables; valuables can turn into the truth. This is all because the giver is willing.

Whatever it is

[…] you should rejoice in your own act, because you authentically transmit the merit of all buddhas, and begin to practice an act of a bodhisattva. The mind of a sentient being is difficult to change. Keep on changing the minds of sentient beings, from the moment that you offer one valuable, to the moment that they attain the way. This should be initiated by giving. Thus, giving is the first of the six paramitas [realizations].

Mind is beyond measure. Things given are beyond measure. And yet, in giving, mind transforms the gift and the gift transforms mind.

Thank you very much.

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Quotations of Shōbōgenzō Bodaisatta-shishōbō are from “Treasury of the True Dharma Eye,” edited by Kazuaki Tanahashi.

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.

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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

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.”

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The quotations from Dogen Zenji are from “Treasury of the True Dharma Eye,” edited by Kazukai Tanahashi.