Archived Quotes
Returning to home-base
Buddha means awakening, and this awakening is no luxury. It is absolutely essential for living our lives in a way that is truly satisfactory, not only for our selves but also for others. We can only fulfill our destiny if we have learned to really see what there is to do. But dualistic observation clouds our orientation. Fortunately everybody has the potential to awaken, which means that we can find all the information we need within us. It is part of the programme we’re born with as humans. Yet however innate it is, finding this treasure is not easy.
In order to do so we have to delve deep into ourselves and my great worry is that we often just don't go deep enough. We're so attached to the so-called outside world that it is difficult to turn inward. We almost have to be torn away from the objects of our observation, including thoughts, ideas and feelings which fall according to Buddhism into the same category. Most of us need very strong measures to turn around, look in and find the one that observes.
According to Man-an, a seventeenth century Soto master, returning to our home base is a project that requires total dedication. We have to learn how to look in with our whole system, not just our heads, because finding out who we really are and learning to live from that perspective, is not something that can be figured out by reasoning. Understanding has its limitations. How much worth is your understanding when you're hungry? You just try and find something to eat: a total call and a total response. It is the same in meditation. We need all our faculties available.
Now, once we’ve seen how strongly attached we are to the objects of our observation, we could decide to just let go. Ideally speaking that is Shikantaza. Just stop all interference, all likes and dislikes. But it is very difficult. At first it is almost impossible to cut ourselves loose. We are so identified with whatever the mind produces. Man-an suggests intense questioning throughout the day: “Investigate continuously 24 hours a day, in principle and in fact. What is it that is walking? What is it that is sitting?” Interestingly enough, if you do this for a long time, it becomes most natural.
Turning its own light inward is actually what the mind wants to do. The mind is not just dead material, it is energy. And it can reverse directions. We have been away for ages and now we want to go home. So after becoming weary of the ups and downs of attachments and aversions, it swings the other way and we return to our original base. The process is just as natural as breathing in and breathing out. We need both for breathing to be effective. For our lives to be meaningful and effective, we need to re-assess our original position regularly. Otherwise we get confused.
Awareness is essential here. Of course we can turn away from the objects of our observation by falling asleep, going unconscious, entering some dead state. Some people even mistake that for samadhi. If you stay awake and don't get distracted or fall asleep, you will notice that your mind wants to turn inward. It wants to recognize itself. It wants to go home. It's a very deep wish. It's just like an addict who in his hearts of hearts wants to get rid of his addiction. That's why it can be so tremendously empowering if you manage even a little bit.
Coming from our home-base we observe people and things very differently. From that perspective, which is not a fixed perspective but an open flexible one, one that recognizes the interdependence between everything and everyone, we see another world. Things fall into place and start to speak to us in a way we had forgotten. In my own experience it is the most beautiful thing in the world.
August 2009
Fusatsu
Fusatsu has always had a strong effect on me. We used to do this ceremony outdoors in the desert of Southern Utah. Most often there was a real bright full moon right above us. This morning too, an incredible moon was shining right into our back garden. I am very happy we can do Fusatsu again here at Zen River. It has been transmitted to us as a wonderful way to fully own up to our life, to really acknowledge what this life is, and also to open up to new ways for navigating this life.
The ceremony starts with a very clear pronouncement of karma, goes on to call on all the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas and concludes with expressing a clear vision for the future. Fusatsu addresses karma in a very physical manner with lots of bowing and chanting, so that we can allow our whole body to take part in it. Many teachers of old have said that karma equals our life, and that our life equals karma. So if you really understand karma, you understand life. No wonder karma is very complex. In fact, in the Zen tradition we do not believe we can know all the intricacies of karma’s dynamic network. And yet there is one thing that we know for sure: whatever happens now is the result of many causes, and how we respond is going to be the cause of many results.
What is actually happening right now? Do we really know? It would help if we did, because our responses will inevitably have consequences. So I’d better be as clear as possible about what is going on right now, isn’t it? But even if I stay close to myself and observe what is happening at this moment in this body, or in this mind, it quickly gets quite complicated. There is so much going on without my being aware of it. And that’s only me, myself. What is happening to others, or what is going on in the world? Am I aware of that? How far does my awareness reach? What do I include in what is happening “right here, right now”? Obviously it’s endless, and we can become endlessly more aware of what is going on, with a better sense of priorities. One thing seems to be clear though: what I usually see is only very little. I can safely assume that most of what is happening right now escapes me. Or things turn out to be very different to what I had assumed. So it would be wise to stay open-minded.
Perhaps it’s all a lot worse than what we believe, or much better. One time a Westerner went to visit a Japanese Zen master and said, ‘Gosh, what’s happening in this world is just terrible, it’s absolutely hopeless!’ The Zen master looked at him and said “No, no, no, it’s much worse !” How bad can it be? Yet there also may be many good things happening that I am not aware of. Obviously when you see through the eyes of the Buddha, you may see a world that is very different from the one we are used to. Maezumi Roshi often mentioned that in Zen practice we can learn to shift from our limited perspective to a broad and flexible perspective; to not just see things with our two human eyes but to see through the ten thousand eyes of Kanzeon Bodhisattva. The more space we allow within ourselves, the more room there is for people and situations to make themselves known to us without all our projections getting in the way.
In my own experience, whatever goes on in this very moment seems to be getting simultaneously better as well as worse. And a lot of zazen is needed to keep that paradox in balance. The deeper I look into myself during sitting, the more I get acquainted with all the Buddhas and ancestors. In the vista of the Avatamsaka Sutra there are buddha-lands beyond buddha-lands, and adornments beyond description. An incredible, beautiful scenery of continuous enlightenment. An expression of love and compassion that goes way beyond all imagination. With it, I start to see my own individual calling, my own potential, and find the strength to do something, to help out and make a real contribution. What could be more wonderful than to assist the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas in their work of saving sentient beings? The only thing I wish for is to rise to the occasion and happily join them.
At the same time though, things seem to be getting increasingly worse. If I look around with all these eyes and see the pain of the world, there just seems to be endless suffering. There is so much sorrow on this planet that I hardly ever manage to allow it to enter my heart. It is only through the practice of zazen that I find an opportunity to do so because I feel strong enough to bear it. Facing this massive suffering I also become painfully aware of my limitations. What is my potential, really? I am a speck of dust. And with all my obvious shortcomings, what kind of contribution could I possibly make? All the flaws of the world are my own. In a way, realizing the spotless beauty of the buddha-lands makes matters worse since the contrast only becomes more obvious.
Maezumi Roshi used to talk about the gap between our understanding and the manifestation of that understanding. Through practice this gap is supposed to become smaller and smaller, so that our actions really reflect our insight. We could also say that the gap becomes bigger and bigger. The more you see the potential of the situation or the potential of yourself, the more painful it becomes to see what we make of it! So the drive to practice only becomes bigger. And we become more and more creative. We are ready to try out possibilities that other people do not see and we find unexpected solutions. Life becomes an adventure that calls for our enthusiasm and courage. If we really own up to our karma, we don’t take on some kind of static load but enter a very alive situation. We start to see not only how life presents itself in this very moment, but also what kind of possibilities it holds.
Fusatsu is an invitation to follow that track, to own up not only to what is, but also to what could be. Looking at situations, looking at ourselves, I think it is just incredible. Even what one person can do is beyond measure, not only what one person can do wrong but also what one person can do right. Working together as a sangha, putting our whole heart into practice, obviously has a tremendous effect. Some of that effect we may witness during our lifetime, but most of it is beyond sight. It goes on endlessly.
April 2009
What's Old, What's New?
We often tend to think in terms of old and new, traditional and modern. But as far as Zen practice goes these are deceptive notions that can distort our vision. For example, Japanese Zen can easily be seen as traditional, something that Western Zen needs to counter with a more modern approach. Perhaps we think that it is up to us to go beyond all traditions and invent a totally new order. Yet even the Buddha said that he was not the first one that came into this world to awaken people. And great reformers like Dogen Zenji and Hakuin Zenji over and again pay tribute to the old masters. In fact they don't seem to want to bring something new at all, but basically seem to wish to restore certain imbalances they observed in the practice of their days. Zen can be seen as a recipe for cooking our life; it can be adapted to the tastes of time and culture, but is based on certain elements that would be hard to miss out on. Although there are many ways to prepare rice, without any one of the essential ingredients like rice, water, fire, air and a good pan, it just won't make a tasty meal. The problem is that the interactive balance between these ingredients often get mixed up. And the result is indigestion. During Dogen Zenji's time, there was too little emphasis on zazen and face-to-face transmission from a teacher, so that is what he promoted. During Hakuin Zenji's time the emphasis was too much on sitting, so he told his monks to clarify their minds, get up and do something. It is as if people were trying to cook rice with too much or too little water, and these masters desperately tried to address this. In that sense contemporary Japanese Zen is not necessarily traditional, nor is Western Zen necessarily modern. The emphasis on ritual of the first may prompt a reaction of an emphasis on zazen of the latter, but there always seems to be a danger that certain elements of training are being promoted at the expense of other elements and presented as the true panacea. At Zen River we go by four elements of training: zazen, ritual, study and social interaction. Most people need to learn to cook in the temple, but after some training often manage to produce a real nice meal at home.
2008
Imagine you're a child and you hear someone play music, and it really enters your heart. We all may remember such an experience. One time when I was young it happened at a circus that visited our town. A clown with a white face and a yellow silk suit played the trumpet, all alone. It transported me to another realm, I will never forget. It enlarged my life beyond my usual awareness. That music had so much power, I cried. Of course some people may follow through on such an occurrence and grant music an important, perhaps even the most important place in their life. But what would that imply; how would you be able to repeat and deepen that experience or be able to produce something that allows others to undergo the same kind of experience? Only remembering it or talking about it would not be enough. You would have to find an instrument, find a teacher and practice. You would actually have to decide to submit yourself to training, which may always feel somewhat limiting. You have to choose a particular instrument, a particular style of music, and a particular teacher. Even among top musicians very few can play two instruments really well, or two very different music genres. They had to limit themselves and go as deep as possible within their self-chosen parameters. Then they got to the core of music and allowed it to expand from there. Zen practice is similar. Whatever our insights may be, without commitment to a particular teaching and teacher and place to practice, we may never get to the bottom of the self and allow it to drop away.
On Listening While Talking
Triple Practice
Kai, samadhi and prajna insight are three aspects of practice that complement each other . Kai is mostly translated as 'precepts', but that is a rather limited interpretation. It can also be rendered as 'natural self', the natural functioning of our innermost being; in other words, the way we would conduct our life if we really lived it as the life of the Buddha. In Zen they are the base for all our dealings with other people. Strangely enough it takes practice. Being natural doesn't come naturally. Kai as precepts or codes of conduct are just as important as sheet music for a musician. In order to learn a piece of Mozart one has to practice the notes, but for these notes to become alive something else is needed. For our life to turn 'natural' we also need samadhi and prajna insight. Otherwise the Kai become a sterile set of rules.
Prajna insight is available to anyone at any time. This is confirmed by the Buddha and all the great masters. It is just as simple as waking up. Even young children can have moments of real clarity, and I think most people who turn to Zen must have had some insight to even consider starting practice in the first place. True insight can come in various degrees but always has a liberating effect. It frees us from our self-centered orientation. And we suddenly recognize our natural self. Although prajna insight occurs unexpectedly, it can be stimulated particularly by working closely with a teacher and by certain meditation methods like koan. But for it to have a real effect on the way we lead our life, insight needs to be digested by the whole body. Otherwise it just stays in our head and becomes a thought, a memory, a concept; it becomes rigid, ineffective for living situations, for living Kai.
That is where samadhi comes in; samadhi not only invites insight, it also enables it to enter our whole system. Samadhi is a meditative state of mind in which subject and object are not separated. It is something that can be learned and build up over time, in contrast to insight that comes suddenly and unexpectedly. In Zen, samadhi is practiced primarily during sitting meditation, but can at some point be applied to all everyday activities. We learn to find our center of gravity and respond to situations wholeheartedly, without continuously being shaken up by fears and doubts and neurotic defense mechanisms. Samadhi has something physical and gives such a sense of well-being that it can become addictive. For that reason actively serving others is a necessary counterpart of meditation, which brings us back to the Kai. Triple practice functions like a spiral, bringing us ever closer to what we really are.
Restoring Our Rapport
Zazen is often equated with doing nothing. Just sit there, stay alert but stop all activity. It sounds easy but it turns out to be quite difficult. Strangely enough, doing absolutely nothing takes a lot of effort. It's like trying to kick an addiction, smoking for example. One could think that it would make life simpler - you don't need to buy cigarettes anymore, you don't need to clean the ashtrays, and you save time for other things. But of course, it's difficult. It's hard not to respond to an inner urge of grasping.
The biggest addiction of all is the self. During zazen it comes up in all shapes and forms. Over time you start to see this self blocks our vision. In order to see more clearly, we have to let go. The borders of "me" begin to dissolve. Then awareness naturally spreads to what is around you. It grows bigger and bigger until there are no borders. Zazen restores the proper rapport with ourselves and the world. In fact, the self turns out to be everything and everyone.
Imagine that whatever I see becomes myself, my body, how would I respond? I already know how to take care of my basic needs. If I have an itch, I scratch. If I'm hungry, I eat. This is very natural functioning. When the environment with all its ingredients becomes my body, I can also see more clearly what it needs. In the zendo, I might notice that there need to be more sitting mats or that the flowers need replacing.
We begin with seeing the things around us, but that is only a start. How well do we really see others? How much can we see each other's pain? When this "me" expands fully, it becomes endless. The whole universe becomes your body. Not only do you see the suffering around you, you also see how you might be of help.
(edited excerpt from a dharma talk by Tenkei Roshi on Honghzhi )
Our intrinsic Buddha Nature is right here now, in this very place, and there are endless ways to awaken to this fact. The Zen tradition is full of stories about the different ways teachers have provoked a realisation with their students, In the Fukanzazengi Dogen Zenji talks about how teachers used "a whisk, a fist, a stick or a shout". There are accounts of people awakening by hearing the sound of a pebble or by seeing the morning star. You can just as well realise profound enlightenment by stubbing your big toe! Anything can work because the Truth is the essence of everything and permeates everywhere. Our senses can lead us to believe otherwise. We look at other people and may not see their true nature. We look at ourselves and may only see our incompleteness. We easily perceive all sorts of forms and colors, we experience all kinds of emotions and thoughts but we don't see the essence that connects all phenomena. Maybe that's why we don't appreciate this life- we only look at the surface of things and end up missing the heart. The surface will never bring lasting satisfaction. Remember, the word shin points to the way things really are: it can be translated as heart-mind and as essence. Reality, or the essence of everything, including ourselves, is heart-mind, Buddha Nature.
Excerpt from a recent teisho given by Tenkei Roshi on Fukanzazengi, 2005
There is nothing wrong with self improvement
As long as it is not to prove yourself!
Tenkei Coppens, May 2005
Wake up, wake up. The point in zazen is to wake up. To what? To myself, to everyone else, the whole wide world. The stillness of sitting can accomodate precious insights into our life, it can give us clues about our own potential and the potential of situations as they arise. And as a result we can learn to match those two more appropriately, so that our actions respond to an actual need rather than to ideas and concepts. We may end up living a life that matters. Wouldn't that be wonderful?
Tenkei Coppens, April 2005
If we can't live with ourselves, maybe it's not so easy for others to live with us either. You see? So the first thing that we have to learn then, is to live with ourselves. To be able to really bear ourselves, with all our ups and downs, all our neuroses, all our craziness, all our hopes, love and hate - everything! How could we ever hope for anybody else to live with us if we can't live with ourselves?
This sesshin with all the people, all the floors, all the leaves, all the windows, all the gutters, all the carrots, all the carpets, all the smells, all the sounds, all the feelings, all the movements, thats it. We just have to pay attention.
Tenkei Coppens, August 2004
Whatever you've realized, if it doesn't show, if it is not put into action, what's the point? Who does it serve? Now of course we can say, "Well, hey, wait a minute. I have no realization whatsoever! How can you expect me to show anything?" I just sat with that and I thought, gosh, that would be the best! That would be the peak! If you had no realization, and you knew that, and you would show that in your life, wouldn't that be beautiful?
Tenkei Coppens, June 2004
The more we see our own innate perfection, the more we can start working on our imperfections. At least, that is the plan. If we don't see this perfection, we may try hard and hope to be perfect some day. This can be very frustrating and we probably end up wanting to hide some of our vices and quirks.
Once we realize that we are completely perfect to begin with, the trying becomes redundant. That can give us the courage to look at ourselves in a more realistic way and discover that we are completely imperfect. So although there is nothing to do, there is plenty of work. We can start anywhere and refine our life endlessly.
Tenkei Coppens, February 2004
The deeper we look in and enter our true home, the less we can distinguish between self and others. Everything merges into one. It is sometimes referred to as darkness, because the usual contours and definitions fade.
Then, when we turn around and observe the world within or without, whatever we see is lit up and vividly present. This enables us to live with alive situations rather than with abstractions, and we can learn to respond accordingly.
Tenkei Coppens, July 20, 2003
