June 24, 2017

June 17 groundbreaking at Korinji

On Saturday June 17th, we came out from our Solstice Sesshin schedule to conduct a ceremony consecrating the ground where Korinji's future residence will stand. This summer the excavators will come in, and our slab should be poured by the end of August. Construction will begin in earnest in the fall, with completion scheduled for February 2018...just in time for our firstango to begin in March.

We were joined at our ceremony by community supporters, members of the Korinji board, and several Soto Zen colleagues from Madison. For an hour or so after the ceremony we enjoyed refreshments and conversation together, before our sesshin trainees dove back in to their training. Thank you to everyone who came!

June 8, 2017

Regarding Buddhist online forums

Online Buddhist forums are interesting things. I personally have found that participating at places like Zen Forum International and Dharma Wheel has been useful for my own practice: it has allowed me to absorb the perspectives of a few other senior practitioners in several traditions that I might otherwise never have encountered. These perspectives have in some cases been instrumental in shaping my own.

Forums do have their downsides, however. I wrote the following to address one of these: the proliferation of self-taught or self-certified "teachers," whose chief activity on forums is to hold forth - usually anonymously - regarding Zen practice, mainly according to their own half-baked understanding. Since this seems to me an important point in general, with usefulness beyond the world of the online forums, I'll share it here as well:

There exists an oddly common idea that one can read a few books (or forum postings) about a tradition or practice - or practice some particular method for a few months or years - and more or less "get" what it's all about. 

The truth, however, is that even the seemingly simplest practices are extremely profound. The courses of practice mapped out in different lineages arose only from the truly (at times inconceivably) severe training those lineage forebears did, and therefore contain vast reservoirs of human experience plumbing the depths, so to speak. 

For these reasons, no one should talk about practice with any authority or certainty without having brought it to fruition for oneself (meaning first of all that one is clear what such fruition entails for the methods one is using, then that one has no doubt the fruition has manifested, and finally that one's teacher agrees). Even in such cases, it is still best to preface talk of practice with "In my experience," recognizing that different practitioners reveal different facets of Zen training more strongly or weakly according to their unique conditions and characters. 

As an example: koan practice as it exists in Rinzai Zen. The manner in which this method functions means that one really doesn't see the whole course of the practice - its full logic and ramifications - until one has completed the formal practice completely. In other words, one could only really speak about it accurately from a "top-down" place, seeing the entire "system" after having passed through it. Before that point, much is hidden. After that point, also, a great deal of ripening still has to occur. In fact, we could say that the real meat of Rinzai practice takes place after one has completed koan training...even, after one has received inka from the teacher. 

And yet, everywhere you go online, you'll find folks confidently telling you what koan practice is, how it's done, what it means. The same also for other methods and traditions. It's really a very odd thing, isn't it! 

It's fine for someone who has done many years of practice, whether they be lay or ordained, to speak about their experience in some manner. But even such people should be very careful not to talk much about practice in an authoritative way. Within the course of practice there are many instances where one realizes how myopic and shallow one's attainment has been. Even someone of very deep and sharp ability like Torei says that at the end of his practice under Hakuin, when he finally was able to grasp the master's functioning, he laughed when he considered his previous efforts and understanding. How much more likely is this to be so for practitioners of fair-to-middling ability, such as we mostly are?

I hope that all of us in our community, starting with teachers and senior students including myself, will repeatedly come to feel the surprise that Torei did, as we clearly see how shallow our own understanding truly is. With that humility and great care, we should then be able to support, guide, and counsel one another effectively.

March 31, 2017

Living at Bright Forest Temple

I am pleased to announce that we have released preliminary information regarding opportunities to reside and practice at Korinji Rinzai Zen Monastery. Our new residence is on track for completion in time for the first ango (period of intensive monastic practice), beginning in March 2018. We are therefore now beginning to take applications from interested persons.

The Korinji website now offers information on the following:

1. RESIDENTIAL ZEN TRAINING: general information for persons wishing to reside at, or visit, Korinji for any length of time.

2. ORDINATION INFORMATION, for persons interested in the training for Rinzai Zen ordination at Korinji.

Information regarding these things may be found here:
https://www.korinji.org/residence-ordination 

Additionally, we have released information regarding

3. FOCUSED INTERNSHIPS IN BUDO OR THE ARTS: these are opportunities to reside at the monastery and do Zen practice, while also devoting time to the mastery of a specific art or discipline. There are three internship tracks, including self-created programs focused on one's existing art or discipline, a traditional martial arts apprenticeship (uchideshi training) under my guidance, and training in forging/metalwork, also under my guidance.

Internship information may be found here:
https://www.korinji.org/zen-budo-arts 

A final note: recommended donations for stay at Korinji are specified in the information. These are necessary so that we may fund our monastery. However, sincere practitioners will not be turned away, and scholarships are possible in cases of need or for those who commit to longer periods of residence.

Please contact me with any questions via the Korinji site (serious inquiries only please, and do read the information on the site first since almost everything you need to know is there).

March 25, 2017

Regarding joriki (samadhi power)

From An Introduction to Zen Training [Sanzen Nyumon] by Omori Sogen Roshi, translated by Dogen Hosokawa Roshi. Calligraphy: "Zen joriki" by Tenzan Toyoda Rokoji (with thanks to Jim Mills).

If we treat things as they should be without being upset by our surroundings and without letting our minds be dispersed by them under any circumstances, we may be called masters wherever we may be. This operating power of our minds is called joriki. It is, in short, the operation of no-self. Master Sogaku writes about it as follows, "The right mind operates at each time and in each place to make you take the right attitude and act properly without deviating from the Way."

Master Yamada Mumon, in his lecture on Zazen-gi, explained the operation of the power of samadhi by telling the following anecdote about Master Toko Shin'etsu (Tung-kao Hsin-yueh), who came to Japan from China in the Ming dynasty.
There was a Lord [daimyo] who learned Zen from Toko Shin'etsu. One New Year's Day, when the Master visited [this] Lord Mitsukuni to exchange New Year's greetings with him, Lord Mitsukuni said, "It is New Year's Day today. Please let me present you with a cup of sake (rice wine)." So saying, Lord Mitsukuni took out a large cup and had one of his servants fill it with sake to the brim [and handed it to the Master]. Just then, "Bang!" rang out from the adjoining room. A gun had been purposely loaded beforehand with a blank cartridge and then fired. The Zen Master, without showing the slightest dismay, drank up the sake from the cup in calm silence. Lord Mitsukuni acted embarrassed and apologized, "It is customary to fire a gun in a warrior's house. Please excuse me." 
The Master returned the cup to Lord Mitsukuni in silent acknowledgement of his apology. When the servant filled Lord Mitsukuni's cup with sake, the Zen Master suddenly gave one loud shout, "Katz!" Taken by surprise, Lord Mitsukuni spilled his sake in spite of himself. The Zen Master said in apparent seriousness, "It is customary for Zen men to give a single shout of 'Katz!' Please excuse me."
After relating the preceding anecdote, Master Mumon said, "The power of such a Zen master is called joriki." It was this power that Master Toko Shin'etsu displayed automatically and without any preparation beforehand. It was the same as the spontaneous action of his selfless self. In other words, it must have been the very power of the one who was the master of everything wherever he might be.

This joriki which anchors itself in samadhi and which thoroughly identifies itself with all matters of daily living, is, needless to say, a precious thing that comes from sitting hard in the midst of quiet. Once that state is achieved, it is protected like carrying a baby. One must not forget that its working is the result of hard training in everything one does. Therefore, the attitude that one takes when standing up after sitting in meditation is very important - one must maintain the intensity of concentration that was achieved during meditation.

March 21, 2017

Forward in the wild fields

Words of Engo (Yuanwu, 1063-1135), compiler of the Hekiganroku

When Bodhidharma came from the West bringing the Zen transmission to China, he didn't set up written or spoken formulations - he only pointed directly to the human mind.

If we speak of direct pointing, this just refers to what is inherent in everyone: the whole essence appears responsively from within the shell of ignorance. This is no different in ordinary people than in all the sages since time immemorial. It is what we call the natural, real, inherent nature; fundamentally pure, luminous and sublime. It swallows up and spits out all of space. It is a single solid realm that stands out alone, free of the senses and their objects.

Just detach from thoughts and cut off sentiments and transcend the ordinary conventions. Use your own inherent power and take up its great capacity and great wisdom right where you are. It is like letting go when you are hanging from a mile-high cliff, releasing your body and not relying on anything anymore.

Totally shed the obstructions of views and understanding, so that you are like a person who has died the great death. Your breath is cut off, and you arrive at great cessation and great rest on the fundamental ground. Your sense faculties have no inkling of this, and your consciousness and perceptions and sentiments and thoughts do not reach this far.

After that, in the cold ashes of the dead fire, it is clear everywhere, and among the stumps of the dead trees everything is illuminated. Then you merge with solitary transcendence and reach unapproachable heights. You don't have to seek mind or seek buddha anymore: you bump into them wherever you go, and they do not come from outside. The hundreds and thousands of aspects and facets of enlightenment since time immemorial are just this. This is mind: there is no need to go on seeking mind. This is buddha: why keep struggling to seek buddha?

If you make slogans based on words and sprout interpretations based on objects, then you fall into the bag of antique curios, and you will never be able to find this true realm of absolute awareness beyond sentiments.

At this stage you are free to go forward in the wild fields without choosing, picking up whatever comes to hand: the meaning of the ancestral teachers is clear in all that grows there. What's more, the thickets of green bamboo and the masses of yellow flowers and the fences and walls and tiles and pebbles are inanimate things teaching the Dharma. The water birds and the groves of trees expound the truths of suffering, emptiness, and selflessness. Based on one true reality, they extend objectless compassion, and from the great jewel light of nirvana they reveal uncontrived, surpassingly wondrous powers.

Changqing said, "When you meet a companion on the Path, stand shoulder to shoulder and go on: then your lifetime task of learning will be completed."

[Excerpted from Zen Letters - Teachings of Yuanwu; translated by J.C. Cleary and Thomas Cleary]

March 20, 2017

Muso Soseki's direct pointing

Sermon of Muso Kokushi Upon the Dedication of Tenryu-ji Monastery in Kyoto, 1339 
From the Taisho Daizokyo, Vol 80, pp. 460c-61a

In the tenth month of the second year of the Ryakuo period (1339), an imperial decree ordered the conversion of the detached palace of the ex-emperor Kameyama into a monastery dedicated to the memory of the ex-emperor Go-Daigo, and also nominated the Master [Muso] to be its founding abbot. In the fourth year of Koei (1345), 4th month, 8th day, the meditation hall was opened for the first time [with their lordships Ashikaga Takauji and Ashikaga Tadayoshi in attendance]. At the hall the Master first performed the ceremony in commemoration of the Buddha’s birth and then proceeded to say: 

The appearance in this world of all Buddhas, past, present, and future, is solely for the purpose of preaching the Dharma and helping all creatures cross over to the shore of liberation. The arts of oratory and types of intonation employed by Shakya were all meant to serve as a guide to the preaching of the Dharma, while the Deer Park and Vulture Peak served as places of spiritual instruction. The school of Patriarch Bodhidharma stressed the method of individual instruction directed toward the essential nature, thus setting themselves off from the schools which stressed the teaching of doctrine. But closer examination of their aims reveals that Bodhidharma’s followers likewise sought to transmit the Dharma and rescue men from the confusions of this world. Thus, all of the patriarchs, forty-seven in India and twenty-three in China, each signalized his succession to the patriarchate by making a statement on the transmission of the Dharma. The great patriarch Bodhidharma said, “I came here primarily to transmit the Dharma and save men from their blinding passions.” So it is clear that Hui-k’o’s cutting off his arm in the snow and the conferring of the robe at midnight upon Hui-neng were both meant to signify transmission of the true Dharma from one patriarch to another. In all circumstances, whether under a tree, upon a rock, in the darkness of a cave or deep in a glen, the Dharma has been set forth and transmitted by such signs to whoever possessed the right qualifications...

What is that which we call the “Dharma”? It is the truth inherent in all its perfection in every living creature. The sage possesses it in no greater amount than does the ordinary man. Enlarge it and it will fill the universe; restrict it and it can be contained in a fraction of an inch. Yesterday or today, it undergoes no change or variation. All that the Buddhas have taught, whether as the Mahayana, the Hinayana, the pseudo or the authentic, the partial or the complete – all are embraced in it. This is the meaning of the “Dharma”.

Everything the world contains – grass and trees, bricks and tile, all creatures, all actions and activities – are nothing but manifestations of this Dharma. Therefore, it is said that all phenomena in the universe bear the mark of this Dharma. If the significance of this were only grasped, then even without the appearance in this world of a Tathagata, the enlightenment of man would be complete, and even without the construction of this hall the propagation of the Dharma would have achieved realization.

As for myself, appearing before you today on this platform, I have nothing special to offer as my own interpretation of the Dharma. I merely join myself with all others – from the founder Shakya Tathagata, the other Buddhas, bodhisattvas, saints and arhants, to all those here present, including patrons and officials, the very eaves and columns of this hall, lanterns and posts, as well as all the men, animals, plants and seeds in the boundless ocean of existence – to keep the wheel of the Dharma in motion.

On such an occasion as this, you may say, “What can we do?” [Holding out his staff, the Master exclaimed:] Look here, Look here! Don’t you see Shakyamuni right here walking around on the top of my staff? He points to heaven and then to earth, announcing to the entire audience, “Today I am born again here with the completion of this new hall. All saints and sages are assembling here to bring man and heaven together. Every single person here is precious in himself, and everything here – plaques, paintings, square eaves and round pillars – every single thing is preaching the Dharma. Wonderful, wonderful it is, that the true Dharma lives on and never dies. At Vulture Peak, indeed, this Dharma was passed on to the right man!”

It is thus that Shakya, the most venerable, instructs us here. It is the teaching which comes down to men in response to the needs of their situation. But perhaps, gentlemen, you wish to know the state of things before Shakya ever appeared in his mother’s womb?

[The Master tapped his staff on the floor:] Listen, Listen!

March 19, 2017

Zen, Ken, Sho: Part II

In a recent post, I briefly touched upon an approach to Zen training that our lineage carries called Zen, Ken, Sho. Summing it up in a general way, I wrote:
Literally this translates as "Zen, Sword, Brush." More broadly, it means that the unity of Zen practice, physical culture, and artistic endeavor is a truly well-rounded training for human beings.
Since that post, however, I have received requests from a number of students for more information. In particular, questions have often centered on whether such-and-such activity can fit into the Zen, Ken, Sho model. A number of questions also have come from students who have no interest in something like martial art training, and perhaps worry that the approach of Zen, Ken, Sho means they cannot practice with us. So I would like to unpack the origin and meaning of all this a bit more.

Regarding the origin of this training model in our lineage, it essentially comes to us from Omori Roshi. It is true, of course, that Rinzai Zen has long had an association with cultural arts and physical culture, and that there were many persons in Zen history who cultivated and manifested the embodiment of Zen insight through activities like calligraphy, painting, tea, martial arts, and so on according to their interests. Omori Roshi, however, appreciated the example of one person in particular who was famous for his mastery of Zen, Ken, Sho: Yamaoka Tesshu.

Tesshu was a deeply realized Zen layman of the late Edo and early Meiji period. Training under Tekisui Giboku of Tenryu-ji, he was able to manifest the fruition of Zen. However, he was someone who arrived at this fruition through a unified training of Zen, calligraphy and swordsmanship. From youth Tesshu trained in the Jubokudo school of calligraphy, as well as the Jikishinkage and Itto schools of fencing. It was his encounter with the Nakanishi Itto Ryu teacher Asari Gimei at age 28, though, that threw Tesshu into the great crisis eventually leading to a decisive awakening experience.

In fencing matches with this teacher, Tesshu found that, though he was by far larger and more physically powerful, he could not defeat Asari nor match his inner state. It is said that Asari would repeatedly force Tesshu back across the dojo, causing him to stumble out the door and into the street, whereupon Asari would shut the door behind him. Redoubling his training with ferocity and focusing on swordsmanship at all hours of day and night, Tesshu sought a solution to this impasse.

Finally, at age 45, Tesshu experienced a breakthrough while sitting in zazen. He rushed to the dojo to confront Asari. The teacher, however, declined to fence with him, remarking simply, "You have arrived." After this, Tesshu founded his own school of swordsmanship, the Muto Ryu.

Omori Roshi, taking Tesshu as an example, was someone who did calligraphy and swordsmanship in a similar way; he even served as head of the Tesshu-kai and lived at Koho-in, a temple that had been built on land previously owned by Tesshu. Because he, like Tesshu, manifested the unified training of Zen, Ken, Sho in his body, Omori Roshi stressed it in his own teaching. His students would not only do traditional Zen practice, but also calligraphy and traditional martial arts (Budo). Because of his own background as a teacher of Jikishinkage Ryu swordsmanship, he was also able to take the four initial forms of that system, the Hojo kata, and use them specifically as a tool to train modern Zen students in the fundamentals of posture, breath, and energy which they lacked. All of this reflected, and was made possible by, his own training experience. It seems clear also that Omori Roshi was something of a genius when it came to training others, able to adapt various disciplines to address whatever strengths or lacks each student displayed.

At Chozen-ji, the temple Omori Roshi founded in Hawaii, this approach to practice was further informed by the background and training experience of Omori Roshi's students, Tanouye Roshi and Hosokawa Roshi, who served as the first two abbots. Tanouye Roshi was an advanced practitioner of Kendo and Judo as well as a music teacher. The Zen, Ken, Sho training program he developed for Chozen-ji included Zen training (zazen and sanzen/koan practice), Budo (traditional martial arts), the Hojo kata, and fine arts like calligraphy, ceramics and music. Hosokawa Roshi, though not a martial artist, was one of Omori Roshi's dharma heirs who refined his calligraphy to an extremely high degree; he also brought to Chozen-ji his experience of traditional monastic practice, and knowledge of the full koan shitsunai inherited from Omori Roshi. Between these two teachers, then, there was a tremendous depth of practice experience.

Toyoda Rokoji, Tanouye Roshi's Dharma heir and through whose work our lineage took root on the mainland, was another exceptional individual. He was, of course, a master of Aikido as well as a Zen practitioner, and had a background of intensive residential practice at Ichikukai dojo, the famous training hall in Tokyo founded by one of Tesshu's students. Because of his experiences, the training system he instituted for his inner students consisted of severe training in Budo as well as Zen practice. He encouraged training in fine arts, though did not himself have much background in them, and valued the Hojo kata, though he did not personally practice them. Above all, we can say that he considered himself a martial artist, and was specifically interested to express Zen through his Aikido teaching. In fact, upon his own breakthrough, he had been told by Tanouye Roshi that he was then qualified to start his own style of martial arts...much in the model of Tesshu.

As for myself, I was primarily Toyoda Rokoji's student for many years, while simultaneously doing sanzen with Hosokawa Roshi. For this reason my training was almost solely in Zen and Budo following Toyoda Rokoji's direction, and I did not train according to Tanouye Roshi's full model of Zen, Budo, Hojo and fine arts. In recent years, however, I have been studying to fill in the gap of artistic training in various ways. I did not ever practice Hojo much. So'zan Roshi, however, is one of the few western Dharma heirs who has practiced sufficiently in all four aspects of the Chozen-ji training model, and experienced training under Tanouye Roshi, Hosokawa Roshi (whose Dharma heir he is) and Toyoda Rokoji. I know he would like me to learn it.

So that is a bit of background. Turning now to some of the questions I have recently received, I would like to stress something that should be obvious when reading all of this: there is no one set model of training. Zen, Ken, Sho is a guiding principle, a way to express that training can, and should, be varied to suit the individual. It affirms that our practice should be of sufficient breadth to not only arrive at Zen insight, but to embody it energetically and with great refinement. The teachers mentioned above all had their own expressions of this approach according to the disciplines they undertook: Omori Roshi practicing Jikishinkage Ryu kenjutsu and calligraphy; Tanouye Roshi practicing Kendo and Judo and further informed by his background in music; Hosokawa Roshi mastering calligraphy and doing Hojo; Toyoda Rokoji training as a Budo master.

So this means that all of you, also, must express Zen, Ken, Sho in some manner that fits your abilities, backgrounds, limitations, and needs. Arriving at the initial awakening which is the entrance gate of Zen practice, we must all then use whatever tools we can to further deepen and clarify our recognition of wisdom, to cause it to penetrate our bodies with great energy, and to refine it again and again such that it functions freely in a seamless samadhi, illuminating all phenomenon and shining forth from our every action. However, it is this general principle of Zen, Ken, Sho - of awakening, embodiment, and refinement -  that we should preserve, not any person's particular expression of it. It may be that martial arts, for example, don't fit a particular student's condition. But in such a case, we could still ask: what other ways are there to cultivate the intense energy (kiai) necessary for the path, and to express it bodily even in situations of duress and crisis? Martial arts are valuable precisely because they have proven useful for accomplishing this. But what other activities might also be used in such a way?

I think, actually, that there could be many such ways to train, and we should not conceive of any limitations whatsoever to activities that might be integrated within our practice. To say that all persons should do a particular practice activity would, in fact, be ridiculous, and would offend against Zen as an expression of the endlessly creative and harmonizing One Vehicle. I thus do not ever describe Ken as solely martial training, but rather more broadly as "physical culture". It is likewise with fine arts: Sho means "brush", but we do not ever say that only calligraphy is useful to impart refinement and master the use of time, space and energy to express Zen realization through a medium. There are actually many possibilities, such as music, ceramics, painting, writing, photography, various crafts, and so on.

In short, I would like my own students to grasp how important it is that our Zen realization be not solely a conceptual thing, but something arrived at - and expressed through - the body. Only that is the genuine Zen realization. It is in order to more quickly manifest such realization, and to do so in ways marked by great creativity and adaptability, that the principle of Zen, Ken, Sho has been set up. What Zen, Ken, Sho therefore truly means is that we must become people who can manifest our Zen awakening in any activity, and who can freely use many such tools to help other beings. We must become practitioners for whom the line between "practice" and "non-practice" disappears.

So, in the future I may suggest to some of my students that they consider taking up various activities. Those who are naturally introverted and nervous, like myself, might indeed benefit from martial arts or other physical culture. Those who have great energy but are, shall we say, a little rough around the edges, might truly benefit from an artistic practice of refinement. And of course, a person without such lacks might not need to do these things at all. In the end, regardless, the choice to pursue anything is up to each of us; all teachers can do in this regard is make suggestions.

As for the future at Korinji, we will certainly offer training reflecting this model of Zen, Ken, Sho for those persons so suited. Unavoidably, the exact forms this training takes will initially reflect my own character and background. Future abbots will develop things in accord with theirs. But for now I can say that I plan to do metalworking there, since I have trained as a bladesmith. I would like also to see ink painting done there, and perhaps ceramics: our locale may in fact be ideal for a traditional step kiln. Finally, in terms of Budo, Korinji will have its own curriculum. I do not wish to reveal too much regarding this yet. However, following Hosokawa Roshi's advice, I believe it needs to contain forms suited to the modern world yet maintaining insights from the past situations. It needs to also include spontaneous, non-kata practice facing an opponent, since this is the way to more truly test non-abiding samadhi in movement and to realize the instant, free manifestation of kiai.

Thus, in the future there will be many interesting practice opportunities in our community, and events featuring teachers of different disciplines. Basically, when it comes to Zen practice we have a versatile and expansive toolbox. You are all very welcome to pursue whatever interests you.

Everyone, however, has to do Zen practice...no exceptions!

March 16, 2017

30 minutes for 30 days

Talk given on March 15, 2017 in Madison, WI.

This lecture is primarily for those who participated in our recent “30 minutes for 30 days” zazen challenge. I deeply appreciated the effort you all made.

To begin - and without taking away from what everyone accomplished - we should recognize that 30 minutes is not really a long time. It’s certainly wonderful if we can sit for 30 minutes or more at least once a day. Even better is twice a day. Omori Roshi said that if we don’t sit for two hours a day, we’re not serious! However, it’s true that most of us cannot do that in the beginning. It’s something we have to build up to gradually. So, this 30-day challenge has been very useful, I think. It’s provided a structure, a ladder, to help everyone begin cultivating their practice.

Of course, the important thing isn’t that we sit for a particular amount of time each day; it’s that we can start to integrate practice with the rest of our daily activity. The line between sitting and not-sitting has to eventually disappear. That’s the real Zen practice. Unless we do formal sitting practice – and a great deal of it – we’ll never integrate in that way. That is the crucial point.

One interesting thing I observed, after speaking with many of the people who participated in this 30-day challenge, is that some of them had difficulty with feeling that 30 days is such a long time. There were also some people who did not take up the challenge, saying “Ah, well, 30 days is too long! I can’t predict that I’ll be able to do that, to not fail.”

But, the thing is, there’s no such thing as “30 days.” You’re only sitting for one day. You’re only ever sitting on one day. “30 days” is just something in our heads, something we project; we don’t actually live 30 days as a block. We only live one day…then one day, then one day. So really, it’s only a One-Day zazen challenge! Each day you sit, you don’t fail. If there is a day on which you don’t sit, it’s also alright: another day comes, and you can succeed again.

This way of seeing is very important. Some of you know that I have a background in martial arts training, so I’ll give another example using that. One year my students and I decided that for our New Year’s day training we were going to do 10,000 suburi: cuts with a wooden sword. There were samurai in the feudal period in Japan who did that kind of practice daily, so we said, “OK, we’re going to do that, let’s bring in the new year with energy!”

Well, it took us all day. If you don’t do that kind of training every day, it’s a hard thing! At the end of that day my hands and arms wouldn’t function. I suppose I had some kind of nerve damage; for a week after I couldn’t type or use a computer mouse. But in any case, I decided that I would brush a calligraphy for each of the participants, even though I’m not a calligrapher. It was very shaky calligraphy since I could barely hold the brush. But the characters I chose read “One cut.” I chose this phrase because, actually, none of us had experienced something called “10,000 cuts.” We don’t live that way. We lived and experienced just one cut, fully, in each moment.

It’s very important to approach practice this way. We don’t have to look at how long our sitting is. We don’t have to judge our sitting, saying, “Oh, today is a good sit, I feel very clear!” or, “Today is not so good, I’m not doing very well today compared to yesterday.” We just completely become one with each breath, using the count, using the koan, moment by moment. Our practice, in fact, can completely change within the space of one breath. It is completely fresh, completely new, with each breath, with each day. All we have to do, moment by moment, is unify body, breath and the method we’re using. If we get distracted or lose the method, there’s nothing to worry about: that moment is already gone, completely gone. A fresh moment is here now, the next breath is already here.

This isn’t anything profound; it’s really just a realistic way to practice. Past and future don’t exist except in our minds. Our actual existence is not past, or future. We exist only here, in this strange, miraculous unfolding, moment by moment. Our practice is also only here…it’s constantly changing. In the space of one moment, we can completely transform. This is the freedom of our existence. It’s not fixed or bound at all. If we can practice in this way, then our practice is always fresh, always new, never stuck. You don’t have to worry about or judge anything. The transformation of the quality of your existence will manifest naturally, with the unfolding of each moment.

Does this mean that we are practicing to “stay in the present?” Well, I guess many people often use words like that. I often say we should “remain present.” But actually, there’s no need to make an effort to “be in” in the present. You already are. There’s no need to cling to each moment as it unfolds. Don’t make “the present” another object of fixation either; the most we can say about the present, actually, is that it’s also just an idea we have, something we’ve created to describe this seeming odd point at which our imagined future becomes our remembered past.

The truth is that we are the present. We are the passing of time. There aren’t 30 minutes, or 30 days, or 70 years. There’s just one moment. Our practice is right here. Where else could you be, or try to remain? Resting into our practice in this manner is the easy, straightforward way to practice.

So, those are my general comments on the 30 minutes for 30 days.

Now, for those of you who participated, it may well be that you began to experience some transformation or fruition in your practice. So I’d like to talk briefly tonight about some things it is important for us to recognize in our practice.

You may already know that there are various things we should understand which can help our Zen training. For example, we should grasp the meaning of Bodhidharma’s famous four lines about Zen, which reveal the intent and general method of our path. We should understand the general stages of Zen practice…not that these are fixed, but it is sometimes useful to discuss “stages” as an aid to seeing whether or not our path has come to fruition. We should also understand the three general purposes of all Zen practice methods.

What I want to discuss now, however, are three things that we should clearly recognize and differentiate within our practice experience. If we do not differentiate these, and particularly if we conflate or confuse them, it is possible for our practice to go in a mistaken direction. These three things are, first, the mind’s capacity for clarity, second, samadhi or meditative absorption, and third, awakening, or what we call kensho: seeing your nature.

Clarity first. If you sat for 30 days, it may well be that you experienced moments in which the mind’s natural clarity manifested. As you practiced breathing the count with your whole body, for example, you may have started to experience times when the mind seemed clear and awake, yet without fixation on thoughts. You might especially notice this at the end of each exhalation: breathing the count “one” then “two” and so on, there is a moment at the end of the exhalation, before it has turned to become inhalation, in which the mind is completely settled and still. That is a moment in which we can recognize that the mind does have a natural clarity, a spacious awareness, within which thoughts, emotions and other movements seem to arise.

Now, this clarity or spaciousness is not a Zen thing, or a Buddhist thing. It’s just a human thing. You can experience it easily at any time, if you know how. For example, in zazen we have a particular way of using the eyes. Try this now: look straight ahead. When I say “go”, just spread your vision out – activating your peripheral field and permeating the entire room with your awareness – as fiercely as you can. Ready? Go. [a few seconds pass] Alright, stop. During those moments, what were you thinking? [students reply: “nothing”, “my mind was clear”, “I was just aware”, etc.]

So, that shows you your natural capacity for clarity. You can use this method any time you need to. If there is a time when you feel awash in spinning thought, emotion, depression, and so on, go down by the lake, look out over the water, spread out your vision, and remember this. It means that you can regain objectivity in a way; you will see that all those things arising and spinning in your mind don’t actually touch or affect this basic, expansive clarity.

There are many other ways to do this. Anything which causes the mind to become still or momentarily stop will work. For example - and I’m sorry to speak now about bodily functions - there is a moment right after sneezing in which we can experience this. Also, right as we begin to urinate…perhaps especially if you really have to go! When you release those muscles and pee, for some reason – just for a moment – the mind stops. The moment of sexual climax is also like this. Any kind of fear or shock can cause it too, for example if I come up behind you and shout “Boo!” Being suddenly frightened like that, we usually fall immediately into annoyance toward the person who did it, but actually before that annoyance arises there is a moment of complete clarity.

Another time you can experience this is at the border between wakefulness and sleep. There is a place, after our minds have stilled but before we slip into unconscious sleep, in which the mind is completely clear and calm. If you practice to recognize that moment, you can learn to sustain it and use it. There are many methods like this which we transmit, but I believe for now you get the general idea. Using the body and mind as a laboratory in this way is actually very interesting!

Now, is this experience of clarity what we call awakening or wisdom? What do you think?

Actually, it isn’t. I won’t say it’s not good, or not true. It teaches us something about ourselves, but it’s not enough. It is common for people who don’t practice correctly to think that this experience of basic clarity and stillness is equivalent to recognizing one’s true nature, the nature of mind, awakening, and so on. By itself, however, for most people that is not sufficient at all. So let’s not be confused about that.

The second thing we should recognize, now, is samadhi. We can say that this condition of meditative absorption arises when we are able to seamlessly sustain the basic clarity we discussed, by unifying body, breath and mind. Another way we describe samadhi is that it’s a state simultaneously manifesting complete relaxation, and complete focus. It is not a trance at all, in other words. It is a condition that is fully aware and functioning freely, stable and uncompromisingly present, and finally with greatly lessened habit of fixation on anything. The central fixation, the great delusion of our existence, also can be greatly lessened in samadhi: that is, the self-referential fixation of seeing from the standpoint of “I” and “me” becomes less rigid.

Samadhi can be of varying depth, and like our basic clarity it is just a human experience, not a specifically Zen one. All of you have already experienced it at some time in your life. Especially when we are young, we may find that we enter such states spontaneously. I expect everyone here has a memory of such moments in childhood, perhaps looking out at a beautiful scene and somehow becoming one with it such that the world seemed magically alive, vivid and timeless.

Those of you who do activities like athletics or art may also know such states; some people call it being “in the zone.” You may sometimes so throw yourself into an activity that the sense of separateness from the activity, and of the passage of time, lessens or even seems to drop away. You may feel that you become the painting, or become your surroundings as you run. You might experience the world becoming completely white and still, or sometimes that colors are very vivid…as if a red flower is somehow revealing the original, archetypical red. These kinds of things are experienced when samadhi arises.

Many of you are using the breath-counting method. It is, in fact, one of the best, most rapid techniques for cultivating samadhi. So there is no need to get excited, or be surprised, if you start to experience such things as I have described. It’s just a sign that your practice is deepening.

Is samadhi awakening, then? No, not yet. Again, I won’t say it’s not nice, or not true. It is. But it’s not yet good enough. Well, I suppose it’s true that no matter what you experience, I’ll probably tell you just that: “not good enough.” So you can get used to that! The thing is, even if samadhi manifests so deeply that we feel we have become completely one with everything…even if I feel “I AM the universe”, there is still an “I” there, isn’t there? In that case, it could be a very big “I”...universe-sized, in fact. It may seem to be something transpersonal, as if this “I” has melted into the expanse of reality, but in fact even in that kind of universal samadhi the sense of separate self is still subtly there. We may have gone from the experience of small self, shoga, to big self, taiga. But there is still one more step, one more turning around that must occur, for it to be true wisdom.

Passing beyond even this experience of “I am the universe”, we must enter a truly all-encompassing samadhi in which even the last subtle grip on “I” is let go, and we “die the Great Death” as it is traditionally said. When that samadhi then shatters, and we emerge from it back into the world, we could then recognize that our true nature is no-self, muga.

That is awakening. Awakening or kensho is not something we come to understand. It is the experience of returning to the world after letting go and plunging completely into the void. Coming back to life, we suddenly recognize that our true nature is in fact no-nature. To use positive language, we can say it is utterly boundless.

I have said too much tonight, so let me sum up now. These are three things we should clearly be able to differentiate in our practice: first is the fundamental clarity of mind that manifests in practice and which we can recognize using various means; second is the condition called samadhi which starts to arise in practice, and by which many of our obstructions – including the core obstruction of self-fixation – can start to dissolve; and third is the actual experience of awakening, by which we gain great faith and confidence to continue our practice, and upon which that practice will be based.

After awakening, actually, clarity and samadhi also are different. Using the various methods to return to basic clarity, we come to see that we are in fact returning to the recognition of awakening again and again. Using various practices to cultivate samadhi, we find that samadhi in fact manifests inseparably from the wisdom of awakening, and so its cultivation then becomes the vehicle by which we can seamlessly manifest awakening in all activities.

Finally, regarding these things and especially awakening, you could perhaps understand now that part of the Zen teacher’s job is to help us differentiate, confirm and clarify them when they arise in our experience.

So I’ll stop there. Thank you all again for coming tonight, especially those of you who participated in the “30 minutes for 30 days” zazen challenge. Quite a few people in the USA, and also in our community in Europe, took part. I’m very happy. To be honest, when Myoan came up with the idea for this challenge, I wasn’t so excited. My old-style attitude was something like this: “If they want to sit, they’ll sit. If they don’t, they won’t. It’s up to them!” But she said, “No, you have to give people some encouragement and structure.” I guess that’s right, so I’ll try to be more open to such ideas in the future.

But now, you might want to know, what’s next? So let's say: 45 minutes a day for the next 30 days!

March 10, 2017

Work in progress: direct pointing

Zen describes itself in four famous lines, traditionally attributed to Bodhidharma:

A special [or separate] transmission outside the scriptures [sutras];
Not dependent upon [or, not setting up] words and letters;
Direct pointing at the human mind;
Seeing one's [true] nature, becoming Buddha.

Though most often considered in a general and conceptual manner, these lines actually reveal
something more: Zen's methodology. "Direct pointing," in other words, is not merely a broad description of Zen's approach to Buddhist practice, but in fact refers also to actual methods by which Zen students are led to that gate of initial awakening (kensho) upon which all subsequent practice is based.

Today I was finally able to complete the detailed outline for a Zen "Direct Pointing" text which takes this subject - and these methods used in Rinzai practice - as its focus. Perhaps even more than the introductory Rinzai practice text completed last year, it has been a long-time hope of mine to complete something related to this topic. In fact, I could say it is only after a many-year process of organizing my thoughts around this subject that this initial structure could be completed. The actual writing, now, will go quickly.

Just as a tease (and leaving out all the details) here is a bare-bones chapter list as it currently stands. I'm certain this will evolve. But at this point I can say it has at least become clear what direction the text will take:

1. Clarity, Samadhi and Awakening
[Distinguishing these, and understanding their meaning in relation to the so-called stages of Zen practice, is crucial...]

2. Direct Pointing in Zen
[The purpose and uses of Zen direct pointing methods]

3. Direct Pointing as Skillful Means
[Detailing the 3 general categories of direct pointing methods used by teachers]

4. Direct Pointing in Self-Training
[Dealing with the use of such methods by oneself, within one's own practice]

The final three chapters, then, will describe approximately 30 such methods of direct pointing, emphasizing those which practitioners may use by themselves...

5. Methods Using the Body

6. Methods Using Voice and Sound

7. Methods Using Mind

Stay tuned...

March 6, 2017

Zen, Ken, Sho

Our particular branch of the Rinzai lineage expresses an approach to Zen practice called Zen, Ken, Sho. Literally this translates as "Zen, Sword, Brush." More broadly, it means that the unity of Zen practice, physical culture, and artistic endeavor is a truly well-rounded training for human beings.

Culturally, there are antecedents for this in Confucian notions regarding the ideal education, and later in the samurai ideal of the literary warrior, expressed through the saying Bun bu ryodo (the cultural and the martial are one Way). Naturally similar notions existed in ancient European civilizations, carried forward in the ideals of chivalry and right down to the ideal of the "gentleman" that we still carry.

Of course, whenever bodily or artistic disciplines are chosen to supplement the usual Zen training, they must fit the individual's needs, abilities, physical condition, and so on. This is especially so with physical culture, and certainly no one unable to engage in rigorous physical activity is excluded from Zen practice. There is no one "style" of Zen practice, in other words; to set up such a thing would be ludicrous.

That being said, one traditional expression of physical culture that can still be useful for some folks is bujutsu (martial arts). When used in this context of Zen, Ken, Sho, martial arts become a study not of how to harm others, but rather to realize and and bodily manifest the truth of muteki ("no-enemy"): that is, the non-differentiation of self and other. Martial arts also are tremendously useful for the cultivation of posture, breath and energetic vitality (kiai), as well as for a direct facing not only with conflict, but with the truth of mortality.

For these reasons (and because of my personal background) I am spending a great deal of time recently working on the bujutsu curriculum for Korinji, which may in the future be taken up by some students for whom such training is suited.

Today, laying out some of the tools used in practice, I was struck by the fact that not a single one was purchased: they were all hand-made, and in fact all the steel implements were hand-forged at Korinji. In this way, training in one aspect of Zen-Ken-Sho is being used in service of the others. This is how it should be...

February 25, 2017

Shoken, jukai, ordination, and inka shomei in Rinzai Zen: Part 4


Note: this is the fourth in a series of four lectures on these subjects.

We’ve finally come to the last talk in this series. Here, I want to discuss Zen teachers, including so-called “Zen masters.” In particular, we should be clear regarding the different teaching titles that people may carry. Most importantly, we should understand what the responsibilities of teachers are…and what they are not.

The first thing I always wish to affirm when discussing teachers is that all Zen practitioners are ultimately responsible for their own spiritual well-being and progress on the Zen path. Naturally, because guidance and practice instructions from those more experienced than us are crucial for navigating the path, and because our own habitual delusion is deeply entrenched, we should seek teachers who can point the way. In Zen, also, there is the fact of kensho – seeing one’s nature, or initial awakening – as both entrance to the path and the basis of subsequent practice; we can say that the Zen teacher’s initial job is to cause us to recognize our nature, to have this awakening. So teachers are important, and in fact the lifeblood of the Zen way lies in the relationship between teacher and student. Nevertheless, we should remember that this need for guidance from someone who has walked where we wish to go, and seen what we wish to see, does not mean that responsibility for discerning that our direction remains genuine—day after day and year after year—falls in the end to anyone other than ourselves.

For this reason and others, we may certainly take our time when choosing a teacher. It is necessary to do so, really, in order to gain confidence that we will indeed be able to work with whomever we choose. We should not rush to commit to a teacher, but rather should examine several, attend retreats with them, listen to or read their teachings and so on, in order to ensure that there is some affinity. Teachers, in fact, should also take their time in accepting students. Both should never lose the mind that all of us—beginner or advanced, student or teacher—ultimately carry the burdens of our own paths. Zen teachers exist to point out the correct direction, to teach us the methods of practice which help us to progress, and to help us return to the path when we drift off course. But we ourselves may choose those teachers

Following a Zen teacher is thus not a mindless act without agency, or one of submission. It requires a continued discernment and engagement. It is a relationship of mutual exploration, and mutual care taking. In fact, the core practice of the student-teacher relationship in Rinzai Zen—sanzen, or face-to-face dharma encounter—is really not even an encounter between teacher and student at all: it is simply an intimate meeting of two human beings, both deluded and both completely Buddhas, who must there reveal themselves openly in a manner beyond rank, hierarchy or titles. If this mood and function of sanzen is ever lost, then it is certain the relationship will become something twisted.

I believe I have stressed these points sufficiently. It may sometimes be necessary to do so, especially since many of us in the West come to Zen with expectations—perhaps conditioned by the orientalist myth still surrounding Buddhism and Eastern spirituality—of finding all-knowing, perfect masters who will simply tell us how we should live. My first exposure to Buddhism, heavily colored by such myth, led me to want to travel to the Himalayas, where I had no doubt a great master in some hermitage or cave would reveal to me the deepest secrets of existence. Such are the kinds of things we may have to see through in order to actually work effectively with a living teacher. 

As an aside, I did go to the Himalayas and did meet great masters. I was not actually disappointed. What they showed me was not a great secret, though…it was simply to point out that which I already did not lack. This was not at all different from what my later Zen teachers also caused me to recognize. So, perhaps such myths and expectations are not wholly useless, if they lead eventually to the crucial recognition that there is neither West nor East in our own nature, no place where the true master is absent, and ultimately no need to seek for anything. 

Returning to the subject of teachers, there is one more thing I would like to mention. There has been a recent tendency in the West to conflate Zen practice with psychotherapy. There are Zen teachers—some, indeed, who simultaneously work as therapists—who have asserted that there are broad similarities between Zen training and psychotherapeutic treatment, and that the Zen student-teacher bond and the client-counselor relationship (including the ethics governing same) are essentially identical.

There are many reasons these kinds of assertions have become popular, but personally I think they are misguided and do a great disservice to both Zen and psychotherapy. I do not say that, broadly speaking, there are no useful connections between Zen and psychotherapy. There certainly are. However, their ultimate intentions are not in all cases identical at all, and the genuine Zen student-teacher relationship is often in fact nothing at all like that between client and therapist. 

I do not wish to get too deeply into this subject here. I will simply say that to assume Zen teachers are, or should be, trained as therapists is a gross error. A student who would benefit from therapy should, in fact, seek it out from someone so trained, and I think ideally should do so before beginning to work with a Zen teacher. Zen teachers, for their part, should clearly know that they are not defacto trained as therapists, and that the intent of Zen practice may, in some cases, actually undermine a course of therapy. They should recognize that factors such as lack of healthy ego development or boundaries—and certainly, acutely dangerous mental illness—may sometimes preclude Zen practice entirely until such conditions are addressed. 

It is similar, in fact, with unrealistic expectations that Zen teachers are, or should be, trained in “pastoral care” or “spiritual direction” in the manner of Christian ministers in the West. This is also not necessarily the case, and so can be a misleading assumption which does disservice to both vocations. Almost without exception the ordained Zen persons I know, including myself, have no such training at all. Our training has almost solely focused on Zen practice methods with the intent of liberation. To use Western religious terminology: we have trained as contemplatives, not pastors, ministers or priests.

So in short, I think we should all be clear what the intent of Zen training actually is, as the Zen tradition itself defines such. We should be clear what role the Zen teacher plays in that. Should students require something outside the pale of Zen training—like psychotherapy, or spiritual direction—they should be encouraged to seek those things out from persons so trained. This is not to say that Zen has limitations, or that a Zen teacher could not theoretically adapt those disciplines to Zen practice in some cases. My personal feeling, however, is that each is most potent when kept separate. The Zen teachers I respect most who happen to also be therapists do not, in fact, permit their clients to be their Zen students, or their Zen students to be their clients.

Let’s move on now, and talk about the categories of Zen teachers. 

In Rinzai Zen practice, after many years a moment may arrive at which the student—having completed formal training including the entirety of the shitsunai, or course of koan practice, carried in that lineage—is judged to be sufficiently advanced to thenceforth self-guide. Such a person may then be able to receive inka shomei: the "seal of proof" which certifies one as a lineage holder. We sometimes call this “mind-seal” or “mind-stamp;” it means that the student’s depth of Zen experiential understanding at least matches the teacher’s.

Who, then, decides all of this? Who verifies the recipient of inka shomei? Solely the teacher. It is not an organizational matter, but one that occurs within the personal relationship between teacher and student; no one else has any say over it whatsoever.

Now, it is important to understand that inka shomei does not mean the student is done practicing. On the contrary, mind-seal only marks the beginning of a most crucial and difficult phase of advanced practice, and one which there is no guarantee the student will be able to complete. But the main point here is that things are now up to that student. The teacher has done everything that can be done, and responsibility for accomplishing the final leap and attainment of Zen’s fruition—to be accomplished over subsequent years and decades of practice to embody and integrate intrinsic wisdom—now lies fully with the student. He or she has been kicked out of the nest, so to speak.

Such persons may sometimes be addressed as Roshi, “venerable teacher,” or Rokoji, “venerable layperson” if they are not ordained. In English, for some reason they are often referred to as “Zen masters.” But I hope I have made it clear that they, in fact, are not done practicing at all. If they are masters, at this point it really just means mastery of certain practice methods, not status as perfected masters far above other students. Actually, I should mention here also that inka shomei itself is not automatically permission to teach or take students at all. There are many persons who might receive inka shomei, but because of their characters, wishes, or other factors might never be suited to the activity of teaching others. Traditionally, in fact, a person receiving inka shomei is advised to avoid teaching for a period of time—even ten or twenty years—in order to first mature; this is the phase of practice called “nurturing the holy embryo.”

These days things do not always happen that way, perhaps especially in the West since oftentimes persons receiving inka shomei are older, or else there may be a need for them to begin teaching quickly because Zen teachers are few. I myself am one of those who began teaching well before the ideal time, and there continue to be many moments in which I am painfully aware of this. 

One difference between ordained persons and laypersons receiving inka shomei, traditionally, is that laypersons generally do not carry the expectation of training a successor or successors to whom the lineage can, in turn, be transmitted. This makes sense, since finding and training successors is a heavy burden, and laypersons generally have other responsibilities precluding them from devoting the necessary time to training such successors. You may recall that in my earlier talk about ordination I defined its essential point to be that Zen-related activity is one’s primary vocation. Of course this is not to say that laypersons cannot teach. There are no fixed rules, and again it all depends on the characters of the people involved as well as the permissions actually granted by one’s teacher.

A final thing I should probably mention regarding inka shomei is this: another term by which it has sometimes been known in English is “dharma transmission.” I do not use this term, however, and not only because it is an inaccurate translation of inka shomei. In fact, this term has caused considerable confusion in the West. The reason is that in Soto Zen “dharma transmission”—shiho in Japanese—in fact refers to something different: a common rank that most ordained persons attain in the course of their training, and which does not in that tradition grant teaching permission. The Rinzai inka shomei, on the other hand, is quite rare, and as noted signifies the completion of formal study and potential qualification to take disciples of one’s own. As a result of this mistaken conflation of shiho and inka shomei, some Soto ordained persons, since they have “dharma transmission,” are incorrectly considered to be fully qualified teachers of Soto Zen. For this reason, I think it best for Rinzai practitioners to not use the term “dharma transmission” for inka shomei, and to just say “mind-stamp” or “mind-seal” instead.

Leaving aside inka shomei now: there is one more certification to mention, which I would like to give to some students in the future. It signifies that they, while not yet Zen teachers or lineage holders, are qualified to teach basic practices such as susokukan (that is, seated meditation using the breath-counting method), fundamental breath practices, chanting, and so on. In other words, these are persons who could be qualified to run practice groups and give basic instruction to beginners. 

Currently I am calling this certification simply “Meditation Instructor.” Since practice group leaders are indeed on the front lines, so to speak, it often falls upon them to give the first instruction to a new Zen student. I therefore do think this certification can be useful. All ordained persons should of course be able to teach fundamentals in this way...certainly at least by the time they receive osho, or senior ordained, status. Laypersons taking Nyudo ordination should also strive to gain these abilities quickly if they do not already have them.

It is my hope to eventually give Meditation Instructor recognition to any such students who are qualified, and for whom it will be useful. Some students who have organized practice groups are already working very hard to introduce Zen training to others. I appreciate this deeply, and wish to support their efforts in this way.

At this point, I hope that these categories of Zen teachers in our tradition are clear: Roshi and Rokoji who have completed formal practice under their teachers, and what I am calling Meditation Instructors who have not yet completed formal practice but may still be able to assist beginners. More importantly, I hope I have sufficiently emphasized that the Zen teacher’s role, even for those we may call “masters,” is not at all to sit in a position above the student, to be aloof and beyond, or to demand complete self-negation. Zen practice itself negates the self, in the most positive manner…there is no need for a person to do it.

Rather, I hope students will view teachers in the manner I have expressed: as experienced guides, as “spiritual friends,” and above all as fellow practitioners. They are human beings who, even if they have climbed a little sooner or higher than us, are now called upon to simultaneously reach down and help others up. Sometimes, actually, they will need our help: "teacher" and "student" are not fixed roles, and we all in the end must be teachers to one another.

When we enter the sanzen room to meet our teachers, it is true that we should view that person sitting before us as a representative of the lineage, carrying its energy and intentions; I for one have no hesitation bowing to such a person. But it is also true that each of us, as students, are the next links in that chain, and the next vessels into which the blessings of our lineages are being poured. This is not something lower; if anything, it is a higher place than that of the teacher. As someone who has now come to teach others in some small capacity, I have to say that in my heart I constantly have the feeling to bow in return—even more deeply than I did to my teachers—to each of these students. Without them there is no lineage, no continuation, and no transmission at all.

I will thus be very pleased—and certainly relieved!—if someday one or a few of them will be able to continue this process onward, and take the teacher’s seat completely away.

With that, I’d like to conclude this series of talks. It was my intention to clarify, for all of us including myself, many of these practices and terms which we use so commonly. Again, I hope it was useful, and I’m grateful to all of you for the opportunity.

February 22, 2017

Publication updates

A few Korinji publication updates (or, what I am spending my time doing these days):

The introductory Rinzai practice text I completed last year is in Shambhala's hands with an anticipated publication date of early 2018. It looks like that may be right around the same time we hope to open Korinji for residential practice (more news on that soon). If the timing ends up such that both projects are completed close to simultaneously, it will indeed be fortuitous.

There are two more books I hope to complete shortly: one is on the subject of "direct pointing," i.e. Rinzai practice methods for the purpose of causing the student to have the recognition we call kensho, or to return to/remember that recognition along the path of post-kensho practice. For someone who has not entered the gate of kensho (or has doubts regarding their recognition) such methods can at least allow them to return to an essential clarity, and provide the basis for the deepening of samadhi (meditative absorption). Some of these practices are connected to teaching activity, but many others are self-pointing practices using one's own body, voice/sound, and mind.

The second text i hope to finish is on the subject of internal cultivation: the energetic and healing practices transmitted in Rinzai Zen.

All of these things are related, of course, and splitting them up into two works is purely for convenience. Regarding them, there are a number of points not always taught or discussed openly...not because they are particularly secret, but rather because they are customarily taught face to face rather than through texts. For a number of reasons, however, I think limiting them in this way is no longer useful.

If I can finish these three works then there will at least be clear, supplemental texts for future use in our Korinji community, containing practice details that are hard to reconstruct if their oral transmission is lost. Zen is not dependent on such texts, as we know...but they sure can help.

I appreciate all the support which so many of you continue to give to Korinji. It is what allows us to continue building our monastery, to practice together, and to work on completing projects like these.

February 17, 2017

Shoken, jukai, ordination, and inka shomei in Rinzai Zen: Part 3

Note: this is the third in a series of four lectures on these subjects.

The subject of this third talk is ordination. It is another subject about which a great deal of confusion exists.

There are several reasons for this confusion. One is that ordination in Japanese Buddhism, for various historical reasons, takes a different form than in most other Buddhist traditions. Another is that in the West we carry preconceptions about so-called “monks” or “clergy,” which are not always useful in this case. Finally, because Zen is relatively new in the West, it is true that the usual ways of doing things in Japan might not work—or do not yet exist here—and so things are still evolving. With these points in mind, I'd like to discuss the types of ordination, their essential points, and their requirements.

To start, we recognize two types of ordination in our tradition: a partial, lay ordination, and full ordination. Both take the same precepts, but the responsibilities are quite different.

Those who take a partial lay ordination are called Nyudo, that is, those who have “entered the Way.” Nyudo are laypersons who express a very deep commitment to practice, so deep that it may be said that Zen training is the primary focus of their lives. However, because of obligations and responsibilities which they cannot abandon, they are unable to enter into the extended periods of retreat or residential practice which are usual for ordained persons, or to make Zen-related activity their main daily work. Nyudo ordination, then, is a way for them to express their commitment, and if appropriate to take a more visible position of leadership in the community, without causing tremendous upheaval in their lives or the lives of their family members.

Nyudo take the same precepts as fully ordained persons: along with refuge in the Three Treasures, these are the Three Pure Precepts and Ten Grave Precepts. Nyudo do not have the ceremonial and other responsibilities of ordained persons, so in that sense they are quite free. They have historically cut their hair and been permitted to wear at least some portion of the ordained dress, and they do take Dharma names. But they have not usually been monastic practitioners, and so are not required to leave behind their usual vocations or families. When we read, for example, of famous lords or generals in Japan's warring states period who were ordained, these are often Nyudo; they did not abandon their positions (and possessions) to enter a monastery, or go into the mountains to do solitary practice. They continued to run their domains, and may even sometimes be seen in old paintings wearing rakusu over their armor...an interesting sight! Uesugi Kenshin and Takeda Shingen are among the most famous of these lords who were Nyudo. Indeed, "Kenshin" and "Shingen" are their Dharma names.

For various reasons, I believe this kind of ordination is actually the most suitable for many people today, and so it is my plan to offer it in the future. If there is a lay student who, having taken the five lay precepts and done perhaps a decade or more of practice, wishes to take on more responsibility for helping to lead the community, but is unable to live at Korinji or elsewhere in order to do the usual residential training for ordination, I would say it's no problem to take precepts instead to become Nyudo. It may also be that there are some persons who, because of age or other conditions, simply cannot fulfill the training requirements of ordination, and yet the depth of their practice does recommend them. Nyudo ordination might indeed be appropriate in such situations.

Now, let's move on and discuss full ordination. Originally, as in most Buddhist traditions, this signified a lifelong commitment to monastic or mendicant life including celibacy, minimal possessions, and the leaving of one's family. In Japanese Buddhism since the middle ages, however, the many rules of Buddhist monastic ordination have been replaced by the condensed set of Bodhisattva precepts mentioned above. The extensive systems of vinaya, or regulations for monks and nuns, which these condensed precepts replaced just never really took root in Japan. Furthermore, for several centuries in Japan ordained Buddhist practitioners have often been given the option to be released from lifetime celibacy, including permission to marry and raise families if desired. In Zen this might happen after an initial period of monastic training has been completed.

There are rather complicated historical, political and cultural reasons for all of this. But for our purposes here, it is enough to recognize that in Japanese Buddhism the situations and expectations of ordained persons have tended to be more fluid, and to display greater variation, than in some other Buddhist cultures. When it comes to Zen in particular, as I mentioned in the last talk, there is also a way of viewing and using the precepts which establishes a basis for flexibility; they have outer and inner meanings. This is true for the ordained precepts as well as the five lay precepts, so much of what I said in that last talk regarding the essential point of precepts applies here as well.

For these reasons, however, we do not today use the English word “monk” to refer to all Zen ordained persons. It is fine to call an ordained Zen person who is celibate, and living in a monastic or eremetic manner, a monk. But if that person then exits from monastic life and, as is not uncommon, enters into family life, certainly “monk” is no longer appropriate. For such persons the word “priest” has come to be commonly used. However, this can also be misleading since it carries other meanings which do not apply here. Our custom around here, therefore, is just to use the word “ordained,” as you may have noticed I am doing. This allows us to then define exactly what sort of ordination, and what expectations, each person carries. 

Given the variation and flexibility I have mentioned, what then is the essential point of Zen ordination? In my view, it is an acknowledgment that the Zen path is the practitioner's foremost priority and central vocation above all other life concerns. To ordain in Zen is naturally to commit to doing Zen study and shugyo for one's entire life. Of course that commitment can be expressed in many ways, or in different ways at different times of life; there is great flexibility. However they choose to express their commitment, though, ordained Zen practitioners are expected to make Zen-related activity their primary work and life focus, integrating all other activities into that.

In other words, fully ordained Zen persons might in some cases have to leave their normal work. They might have to leave, or forgo having, a family. They might have to set aside other career paths and obligations. They might not be able to use their time simply as they wish: there are retreats to attend, ceremonies to conduct for the people, and so on. I should stress that all of this is a vocation one chooses, not a title one is given. Although ordination is often incorrectly viewed in some communities as a rank or position one receives, it actually confers no status above others whatsoever. In fact, it really just signifies that one is a servant of all others. In other words: ordination is a job, not a title.

For these reasons, clearly, persons who already bear consuming family and career obligations might not be suited to ordination (and will likely be unable to engage in the required period of intensive residential practice which ordination at Korinji requires). If this is so, they are encouraged instead to practice as laypersons according to their abilities, and to express their commitment if desired through jukai or Nyudo ordination. In fact, there is nothing at all lacking in the lay path.

Now, for persons in Japan who wish to ordain in Zen, there is a usual manner. Persons so inclined would likely ordain fairly early in life, attend a related university (for example, in the Rinzai school there is Hanazono), and then enter into one of the sodo or training monasteries for a time. In other words, they will already be ordained when they enter into the monastery. After living there at least a year, such a person could perhaps be qualified to run a local temple and provide services to a surrounding lay community. For someone wishing to become a Zen teacher, of course, many more years of training would be required.

Here in the West, however, things must be different. For one, we have few sodo (part of the rationale behind Korinji, in fact, is to help remedy this lack). Most differently, however, very few people here have cultural or family connections to Zen, and so they do not often ordain young. It is more common, in fact, for a Zen practitioner here to begin training as a layperson later in life, and then only after many years to arrive at a place in which ordination seems appropriate; persons applying to live in a monastery in the West are thus not usually ordained, but may expect to do so during their tenure there.

Finally, even after ordination and upon leaving a monastery, such persons in the West may find it necessary to financially support themselves somehow through other means. They do not have local temples to run, or communities requiring their services and donating to support them, unless they build such on their own. Therefore, when I say that ordination means that Zen-related activity should be not only one's life priority, but one's primary vocation, you may understand what a burden this can in fact be here. Ordained Zen persons in the West are not stepping into defined roles...they are, largely, creating them as they go. Taking this positively, we can say that it is actually an exciting time.

There are many interesting questions to explore regarding the evolution of Zen in the West. But let's focus now on what will be required for ordination at Korinji. Again, these are not universal requirements, since different Zen teachers may certainly set different training requirements for their own students. What I will say here just explains how I plan to run the place that we are building.

First, from the standpoint of the fruition of Zen practice, we should always affirm that what is required for ordained persons to effectively serve others is a clear experience of recognizing one's true nature (kensho), and the ability to express the meaning of that awakening to others in some useful way. All of the following should be considered without losing sight of that crucial point.

I would request, then, that laypersons in our community who wish to take up the vocation of ordained life should make a personal resolution beforehand that, once ordained, they will remain so for a minimum of ten years. They should be free of debts or other obligations that would prevent them from living at Korinji. Note that regardless of outside family commitments, trainees residing at Korinji monastery are required to be celibate while there, and can expect periods of weeks or months during which they have only periodic contact with the outside world. It will thus be no problem to call them monks during their time there!

Once interested persons have arranged their lives to be sufficiently free, they can then apply to live at Korinji. If accepted, they should reside there for a minimum of one year. During this minimum period of residential practice, candidates judged to be suitable may take ordination as Shami (novices), and so begin life as Unsui (ordained monastic trainees). Aside from Zen practice, additional training may also be prescribed during this time according to each person's abilities and deficits, for example Buddhist or other religious/historical studies, training in fine arts or physical culture (in the manner of our lineage), ministerial or diversity training, and so on. Because many people wishing to ordain do not have a background in Buddhism aside from practice, and will not have attended any kind of Buddhist university, there may well be a great deal of such study to fill in gaps. 

My hope is that after at least one year of residential practice and study, an ordained person would at least be able to teach basic meditation to others, and perhaps be qualified to lead a practice group somewhere. Later, senior ordained (Osho) status may be given to ordained persons after a suitable period of time and maturation has passed. The recipient must have extensive experience of Zen practice (in or out of the monastery) including retreat periods over many years, and must be sufficiently trained to run a Zen center or temple, to perform various ceremonial functions, and to instruct others in a variety of Zen practices. 

Finally, I should say that there may be some persons for whom ordination is appropriate despite their not being able to reside at Korini, particularly if their backgrounds or unique abilities have given them an understanding of the embodied aspects of our practice. Of course things must always be addressed on a case-by-case basis, and in general there are no fixed limitations. I want also to affirm that not everyone who comes to do residential practice at Korinji needs to ordain. Laypersons can live and train there, and remain laypersons. It's no problem at all.

Now, none of this is the same as becoming a Zen teacher, which is a completely different thing. Doing residential practice or taking ordination do not themselves make one a teacher at all. However, certainly my hope is that future teachers will arise from among those who do intensive practice, including those who ordain. This is one reason a place of such practice like Korinji is useful.

The main thing, again, is to give life to the Zen teachings by awakening. To be honest, I hope that both lay and ordained practitioners of deep attainment will come out from our community, and that they will in the future manifest Zen insight in the world in endlessly creative ways that I cannot even imagine.

I hope this brief explanation regarding ordination has been helpful. In the next and final talk of this series, I will discuss the various types of Zen teachers, lay and ordained, which we affirm in our tradition.

February 13, 2017

Shoken, jukai, ordination, and inka shomei in Rinzai Zen: Part 2

Note: this is the second in a series of four lectures on these subjects.

Now in this second talk we come to the ceremony called jukai, which means “to receive the precepts.”

Jukai is the ceremony by which laypersons take refuge in the “Three Treasures” or “Three Jewels”—Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha—and receives the five lay precepts: to refrain from killing, stealing, misuse of sexuality, false speech, and intoxicants. The formal name for this ceremony is zaike tokudo: “staying at home [that is, remaining a layperson rather than ordaining], attaining the Way.”

These five lay precepts come from early Buddhism, and are used in nearly all Buddhist schools. The Soto school of Zen is an interesting exception, actually; jukai in that tradition uses a larger set of precepts, as found in the ceremony for full Zen ordination. The Rinzai school holds to the original five precepts for laypersons. Nevertheless, there is a type of partial lay ordination in the Rinzai tradition called Nyudo, “entering the Way,” which also uses the full ordination precepts without requiring monastic practice or the commitments of ordained persons. Thus, the Rinzai and Soto traditions are actually not so far apart. Certainly, the essential point of jukai is the same in both.

Let's first discuss taking refuge. Like shoken, the entrance into relationship with a teacher, we can say that taking refuge is self-negating in a way. It seems gutsy, and not an easy thing, to “take refuge” in anything.

I commonly hear students say that Buddhist practice does not require belief or faith of any kind. I understand what they mean by that: they are saying that our path is indeed one of practice, of experiential realization, rather than blind acceptance of dogma or reliance on saving grace bestowed by a deity. In Zen, one must experience for oneself what is meant by awakening, and so know within one's own body what the word “Buddha” signifies. However, since in the beginning we may not yet have had that experience, such ideas don't help us much. Therefore, there is a kind of minimal faith we must develop in order to truly take refuge in the Three Treasures.

We must at least believe, for example, that awakening and realization are possible, and that these things have been attained by others. The Buddha – along with all the great patriarchs and masters – stand as examples to us. Reading about their lives, experiences, and teachings, we must come to have faith that the path exists, and that they have actually walked it.

Furthermore, seeing that our own delusion is great and that in many ways we might not have the same natural ability, clarity, or power as those great practitioners of the past, we must come to have faith that we too can nevertheless walk such a path. Of course we often hear things like, “All beings possess the potential of Buddhahood, and intrinsically do not lack the awakened nature,” but just repeating such wonderful-sounding teachings doesn't really give us much faith in ourselves, does it. Again, in the beginning these are just ideas. So when we first come to Zen, even though we may know such conceptual teachings well, we still must take a leap of faith and choose to try practicing with our own bodies, and so to see for ourselves if we can actualize the teachings within our lives.

Of course we do not take this leap alone, since we have our teachers and community to support us. But again, these are minimal kinds of faith that we must develop at the beginning of the path. If at least these kinds of faith arise, then jukai can be appropriate.

Now, even better than what I have described above is this situation: based on actual experience arising within the crucial relationship with a teacher, a student begins to be naturally free of doubt regarding the path. If faith has arisen in this way through direct recognition of our nature, then we will know without question that the Buddha we take refuge in during jukai is precisely this one that sees, hears, thinks, and carries around this body. At that point,we can easily acknowledge the awakened beings of the three times (past, present, and future) and ten directions (that is, the entire universe), and say that we firmly commit to take refuge in them and their myriad Dharma teachings. We will know without any doubt whatsoever that this path others have walked is true and genuine, and that they did not deceive us. We can readily choose to follow their footsteps which, though formerly faint to us, are now becoming increasingly clear. We may even realize that, long before we knew it was so, we have been following them. We are already joined to this Sangha that transcends time and space. If a student arrives at this kind of place, then jukai is really just a formality. It merely seals something which has already happened.

In fact, for such a person, it may be that declaring refuge in the Buddha will seem sort of ridiculous, as much so as declaring that one has decided to stand upon the earth and below the sky. It may be that taking refuge in the Dharma, the teachings, will seem akin to saying that one's eyes are horizontal and nose is vertical. It may be that taking refuge in the Sangha, the community of realized noble ones, will seem superfluous since we already entangle eyebrows not only with the Buddhas and patriarchs, but with all creatures, the mountains and rivers, all things and phenomena, without exception. All of this being as it is, jukai in such cases is not a big deal at all.

So I hope it is clear that in Zen, taking refuge in the Three Treasures is ideally a bit more than just saying, “I revere the person Shakyamuni who lived in the 5th century BCE; I have learned about and accept the Buddhist teachings; I go for guidance to the community of practitioners.” At the very least, jukai should mark the arising of a kind of faith in the path, and faith that despite great delusion we will be able to walk the path. But it is even better if such faith blossoms from an actual recognition that one's own nature is not different from what we call “Buddha.” For that reason, shoken is more important in Zen than jukai, and in many cases may come before it. As I said in the first talk of this series, jukai is not required to practice Zen. What is required is that, through the “direct pointing” and instruction of our teachers, we enter the gate of Zen awakening which is the recognition called kensho. Having done this, we can begin the true Zen practice which takes that recognition as its basis. Naturally at such a time we will understand finally what “Buddha”, “Dharma” and “Sangha” mean, and what “taking refuge” truly signifies.

Now, let's discuss the five lay precepts received in jukai. Regarding precepts, I should begin by pointing out the obvious: as the precepts are a human creation, not commandments received from a god or supreme being, they can and will shift according to culture, era, and individual context. It is important, I think, to stress this especially in the West, where the religious traditions within which many of us were raised (or at least, the cultural backgrounds colored by these traditions) are enmeshed with absolute, dualistic views of good vs. evil, of pure spirit/soul vs. impure matter/body, of discomfort with sex and with the feminine, and so on. Furthermore, those are traditions that hold out a threat of eternal condemnation and suffering as the consequence for breaking absolute, divinely ordained rules.

But our approach is different. As human rules, precepts are things we are meant to use as human beings, that is, as normal, deluded, flawed people. Precepts are tools, and like all tools will be useful in some situations but not others. In general we can say that if there is no problem, a precept might not be needed. If I do not have a problem with stealing or getting drunk, for example, what possible use is taking precepts addressing those concerns? There is no need to do so. How do the precepts support our practice? How do they help create conditions conducive to the experience of clarity, the non-harming of self and others, the dissolving of habitual delusion, and the eventual recognition of wisdom? These are the questions which should frame our practice of the precepts, rather than concerns of breaking or keeping rules.

And, they are a practice. Each of the precepts is a teaching device to which we must give life through repeated examination. Each precept has a common meaning, as well as a hidden or inner one. The function of this inner meaning is, in fact, to directly point out to us our own nature. It is that intrinsic wisdom which is the essential point of Zen, and so it is that which we must call the source of true morality. If we can approach the precepts from this standpoint, then truly we may be able to use them properly, rather than be used by them This is the most important function of precepts in Zen.

Finally, there is one more thing we must say about precepts in general. It is that, ultimately, they are mostly impossible to keep. There is always some standpoint from which it may be said that we are all breaking all of them, all the time.

The precept against killing, for example, is completely impossible. Why do I say this? It is simply because by living at all, we unavoidably kill. As living beings we consume life, and there is no way around this. It is of course easy to see this in the act of eating meat; even if one has not actually killed the animal whose flesh is consumed, it is clear that meat or fish we purchase for ourselves was in fact killed for us, and so we cannot deny that by doing so we support and encourage the actual acts of slaughter. Is being a hunter worse than this, when it may be said that hunters at least most often try to kill their prey quickly and mercifully, rather than within the mechanized horrors of factory farming or industrial fishing?

I am not here saying it is wrong to eat meat; the Buddha and early Sangha were not strictly vegetarian, though the Buddha did forbid monks from killing animals for food, and from eating meat specifically killed for them. Some of the purposes for such rules are perhaps obvious and not so mysterious, given that the monastic order he created depended on alms from the surrounding community. What I am saying, though, is that eating meat or fish is participation in killing, and that unless one is truly a mendicant in the manner of the early Sangha—whose members begged for food, eating whatever they were given without discrimination and without preference for or the purchasing of meat— then one is indeed a party to killing. So, in that case the one choosing to eat meat must look at the truth with clarity, and decide what is best for oneself. Whatever the decision, one must try to see how it can fit with practice, and how to integrate it within practice. At the very least, for example, someone choosing to eat meat could say the mealtime mantra for the dead animal or fish, and in so doing generate an intention to encompass those creatures within one's path, just as they are joined to one's body when eaten.

Now, my vegetarian and vegan friends will here perhaps think they have chosen a superior path, but of course farming of any kind kills infinitely more living creatures than all the slaughterhouses and nets in the world. “But, these are just insects and other such things, unintentionally plowed and crushed in the act of tilling and harvesting...they are not higher animals,” is the usual reply. I find this line of reasoning odd, however, when I hear it from persons who simultaneously criticize “speciesism.” The fact is that in the Buddhist view these are all sentient beings. It is true that in the Buddhist teachings, human beings have been considered higher in a way than animals, and the killing of a human life viewed as a crime in a manner that killing other creatures is not. But again, it would be disingenuous for someone avoiding meat for ethical reasons to use such arguments. And finally, what of the lives of plants—living things that research increasingly suggests possess a kind of sentience? Can one avoid killing these and still eat?

So, perhaps I have made my point. In one way or another, we are all killing something and are parties to killing, all the time, every day, if we eat...no matter what our diet may be. In fact, we kill constantly simply by walking around on the earth with two feet. How many small creatures have I inadvertently crushed in this way? How many creatures died in the production of the goods I buy, or the extraction of resources upon which my modern life depends? What kind of burden upon other living things have we all been our entire lives?

Allow me to be the first to confess, then: I certainly killed today. I am truly sorry that my existence causes other creatures to suffer and perish, and so I try my best to minimize it. That way to minimize it may be different at different times, in different contexts, and according to different conditions. But I try my best. And above all, I try not to avoid looking at it, or to forget this fact that my life is fueled by other lives, and that those consumed lives make it possible for me to practice. Knowing this, I resolve to not waste those sacrifices, and not to waste my life which they have made possible.

But, it does not stop there. As I mentioned, there is an inner meaning to each precept. I therefore must confess that there were many times today—again and again—when I, unable to actualize the seamless upwelling of liberative wisdom which is the Zen path, fell back into my old dualistic, deluded ways of seeing. At those moments, in fact, it is true that in a way I killed the people I saw, I killed the trees and plants, I killed every object I encountered, I killed the entire universe, and I killed myself. Is this not also a truly grave offense? In fact, it is just this offense which has thrown me again and again back into the ocean of samsara, from beginning-less time until now. Today, like all of my days, I committed it constantly.

And so it is with all the precepts. If I am working with the precepts, it is my practice to look at myself carefully in this way, to recognize that I am constantly failing, and to resolve to do my best even when it seems impossible.

I may ask myself: did I steal something today? Did I benefit from the theft of anything, anywhere, from anyone? And further, did I fall into the delusional concept of ownership, of there being “things” I could possess, or of being one who possesses?

Did I misuse sexuality? This does not just mean “Don't sleep with someone who is bound to or under the guardianship of another,” the common meaning of this lay precept.  Did I fall into dualistic fixation upon or attachment to anything at all—my phone, my creature comforts, a person I love, my habitual dislikes, my comforting routines, my closed-mindedness or prejudices, the stifling yet oddly soothing contraction of view that seems to be taking root as I get older? Where am I attached, and to what have I become addicted?

Did I tell the truth today? If I hold up this teacup and say to you, “This is a teacup!”, is that the truth? Or is it the most outrageous lie, and one which utterly kills the cup?

Did I get drunk today? Am I not constantly drunk on the intoxicant of ignorance? Am I not high on my few, feeble glimpses of wisdom, using them to bolster rather than dissolve habitual views? Is it not true that I am, in fact, wandering in a sort of ultimate, endless bad trip of the delusion called “self vs. other”?

In Rinzai practice, at some point in our training we have the chance to look at precepts in a profound manner like this, by taking each up as a koan. But there is no need to wait for those koan, or even for jukai. You can practice with the precepts now by asking yourself such questions.

I hope each of you will consider deeply what it means for you to take refuge in Buddha, Dharma and Sangha, and what it means to take up the practice of the precepts by examining not only one's actions of body and speech, but crucially also of mind and intention. Taking refuge and the precepts are tools that must support the ultimate aim of our practice: to embody awakening.

You may have grasped by now, actually, that to call precepts “rules” is really not correct; they are more like lenses, revealing to us our fixations that give rise to unskillful—perhaps even mindlessly harmful—patterns of thought, speech and behavior. It can be said that someone who has utterly embodied awakening, and brought all the activities of body, speech, and mind into accord with it, is never apart from the essence of the precepts. It can also be said that the precepts, if they are misused or become themselves objects of fixation, should be completely smashed. There are even cases in which I might advise a student to break a precept intentionally, if indeed adherence to it revealed a brittle fixation. Breaking or keeping a precept is not the point; the point is what such breaking or keeping reveals, and how we could direct our practice in response to that.

As for myself, since I am just a normal, deluded practitioner, I can just say that taking up practice of the precepts, like most practices, involves a process of failing constantly, and of just trying again and again to do my best.

We should remember that Hakuin said that it would be better for some practitioners to go to a gambling house—where at least they will engage in activity with their whole beings and with great energy—than to practice quietly in a dull, torpid state no matter how admirable that may appear. In this vein, I would say that from the standpoint of practice it is much better to be actively engaged in many arenas of life, and to be willing to fail again and again while tumbling headlong like a boulder down the path. To strictly and precisely observe precepts, but to do so timidly, without energy or freedom, is to miss their function as liberating tools. I have heard that Tanouye Roshi once said that it was easier to train a student who was “an asshole” than it was someone who possessed a mild, nice personality; the former at least had a kind of native energy, and would eventually learn refinement. The latter, however, would find it challenging to ever develop the intense energy that successful practice requires. This is also interesting.

In any case, whatever our characters and predilections, I think it clear that a useful sixth precept might perhaps be to abstain from taking oneself and one's practice too seriously.

Unlike some other Buddhist paths, Zen is not a path of renunciation, but rather of encountering all things with enjoyment and inner freedom. To succeed in such a practice, and in fact to manifest any practice worthy of being called “Zen” at all, we must give free rein to our energy, burning brightly like roaring bonfires. If we think that it is wisdom to become like cold, lifeless ashes, then no matter how holy we might appear it cannot be called authentic Zen.

If we can use something like jukai—taking refuge in the Three Treasures and taking the five lay precepts—to guide the direction of our fiery energy, to stoke the fire of our training, and to reveal our sticking points, then these tools will be useful. Using them, we can make our bodies and lives like kilns, which do not dampen the fire contained within but in fact concentrate it. If, on the other hand, we set up precepts as rigid rules reflecting our own fixations—perhaps because we so crave for someone to tell us how we should live and what we should do, rather than to ourselves be courageously responsible for navigating the confusion and constantly changing contexts of real life—then it may be better not to receive them at all. In such cases it is likely we will misuse them to dampen the fire of our practice, and the Buddha in which we purport to take refuge will remain something far, far away.