Zen

ISAN: NO FOOTPRINTS IN THE BLUE SKY

Chapter 7: Blue sky

 

 

Energy Enhancement                Enlightened Texts                Zen                 Isan: No Footprints in the Blue Sky

 

 

OUR BELOVED MASTER,

ON ONE OCCASION, TWO ZEN MONKS CAME FROM A RIVAL COMMUNITY AND, ARRIVING AT ISAN'S MONASTERY, COMMENTED: "THERE IS NOT A MAN HERE WHO CAN UNDERSTAND ZEN."

LATER, WHEN ALL THE MONKS WERE OUT GATHERING FIREWOOD, KYOZAN SAW THEM BOTH RESTING. HE PICKED UP A PIECE OF FIREWOOD AND SAID TO THE TWO: "CAN YOU TALK ABOUT IT?"

BOTH WERE SPEECHLESS, AT WHICH KYOZAN COMMENTED: "DO NOT SAY THAT THERE IS NO ONE HERE WHO CAN UNDERSTAND ZEN."

WHEN KYOZAN GOT BACK TO THE MONASTERY, HE SAID TO ISAN, "TODAY, I EXPOSED TWO ZEN MONKS."

"HOW?" ISAN ASKED, AND KYOZAN TOLD HIM OF THE EXCHANGE.

ISAN COMMENTED: "I HAVE NOW EXPOSED YOU AS WELL."

Maneesha, the Zen encounter is not that of words. The zencounter is a communion in silence. When two Zen masters meet, whoever speaks first has fallen from his status. Days may pass by; they may eat together, they may look around at the beauty in the sunset and in the morning and in the starry night, but nobody is going to say a single word. Not saying a single word and remaining just a mirror...

The mirror never says anything about the reflection, neither does the lake. The moon may be beautiful, the moon is reflected; the lake should dance with joy.

Similar is the case with consciousness. At its ultimate peak words are left far below, as if you have risen above the clouds. The moment you bring any word in, you have spoiled the whole communication.

Zen is the only teaching in the world which discards absolutely words, language, scripture. This small anecdote will show it to you. It does not seem to have much meaning on the surface, but in the depths it has all the meaning that truth can have, that beauty can have, that God can have.

The anecdote is simple. Zen does not believe in complexity, in unnecessary linguistic jargon. It points to the fact directly, without even taking the help of words, because words can never help you. In fact the word is the barrier. Remove the word, allow the no-word, no-mind state, and everything is as crystal clear, clean as it has been since eternity. Just your eyes were clouded with words... your minds have gathered so much rubbish, which you call religious. In fact, all rubbish is religious, and vice versa.

The function of Zen is just to cut all this rubbish like a sword, in a single blow, without hesitation, and the whole sky is yours, and the whole expanse of the universe is yours.

ON ONE OCCASION, TWO ZEN MONKS CAME FROM A RIVAL COMMUNITY AND, ARRIVING AT ISAN'S MONASTERY, COMMENTED: "THERE IS NOT A MAN HERE WHO CAN UNDERSTAND ZEN."

There were rival monasteries of Zen. It started the day Buddha died: thirty-two schools immediately arose, and all those thirty-two schools were saying something essentially true -- but it was incomplete truth. Perhaps it is not possible in language to say the whole truth. It has so many facets -- you can cover only one facet -- it is so engrossing, so enveloping that you forget that this is not the whole truth; you have just touched a corner.

After Gautam Buddha's death the first thing the monks were concerned about was to collect all the incidents, sayings, parables, for the future centuries -- but they could not agree with each other. Amongst them were one hundred enlightened monks and even they were not ready to agree with each other. The ultimate outcome was thirty-two schools, and then branches and sub-branches... and Buddhism became a vast tree of much foliage.

So don't think that rival monasteries are enemies to each other. The word `rival' will give you a wrong impression. Rival monasteries are simply saying that "This is the way we have found the truth." They are not denying that your way is right or wrong; they are not saying anything about your way. And it was a great educational method: masters even used to send their disciples to the rival masters, simply for the sake that "You should know that truth has other aspects too; I have no monopoly over it."

This is a very different and very compassionate effort. Ordinarily in the world the Christian will not send his disciples to learn from a Mohammedan Sufi, or a Buddhist monk. It is already accepted that "We have got the truth. If anybody else proclaims he has got the truth, he is wrong." Christianity and Hinduism, Mohammedanism and Judaism, have fallen very low. You can proclaim your truth but you cannot claim monopoly over truth, and everybody is claiming the monopoly.

The Christian can accept that Buddha may have realized truth, "but our way is far better, far shorter." He is simply conceding because he wants a coexistence in the world. Coexistence accepts the rival but does not allow the rival the same superiority as he goes on carrying in his own heart: others are also good, but not so good.

Zen has taken from the very beginning a very different approach, more human, more existential, more truthful. Zen does not want the truth to adjust with itself; it wants itself to be adjusted to truth. The man of Zen is ready to give everything -- all his conditionings, all his scriptures, all his statues he is ready to throw. And he is aware that truth is such a big phenomenon that nobody can claim its totality.

We are accustomed to Aristotelian logic -- which is a very poor logic, because it allows only yes or no. It is simple, clear. If somebody asks you, "What do you think about God?" either you say, "Yes, God is," or you say, "No, God is not." Alas, reality is not so simple.

Gautam Buddha's logic has four divisions, not two. If you ask Buddha about God, his logic is fourfold. He will say, "Yes, God is"; "No, God is not"; "Yes and no both," and the fourth, anirvachaniya, avyakhya -- that which cannot be said.

Now this will look very confusing; you will not be able to get any right direction where to go. Yes or no or both, or that which cannot be said...

Mahavira went even further. His logic is the ultimost -- sevenfold logic. Yes, no, both, that which cannot be said -- these four are accepted by Buddha. Mahavira goes a little deeper: yes and that which cannot be said; no and that which cannot be said, and the seventh, just the unsayable.

These differences are very indicative. They show that these people are not concerned about philosophy, they are more concerned to bring as much truth to you from as many sides as possible. That's why the last point is always anirvachaniya -- that which cannot be said. You have to go to the place within you where no word can ever reach, and from that point you cannot bring any explanation. You can bring an experience. You will be transformed, you will be reborn, but you cannot bring a philosophy from there. You will be a new being, a new joy, a new laughter. New flowers will blossom in you, but all that you can do is sing, dance, play on your flute. Words are the lowest as far as expression is concerned.

ON ONE OCCASION, TWO ZEN MONKS CAME FROM A RIVAL COMMUNITY AND, ARRIVING AT ISAN'S MONASTERY, COMMENTED: "THERE IS NOT A MAN HERE WHO CAN UNDERSTAND ZEN."

Obviously, the ordinary mind always thinks, "I am superior, I am more intelligent. I have more of truth."

LATER, WHEN ALL THE MONKS WERE OUT GATHERING FIREWOOD, KYOZAN SAW THEM BOTH RESTING. HE PICKED UP A PIECE OF FIREWOOD AND SAID TO THE TWO: "CAN YOU TALK ABOUT IT?"

BOTH WERE SPEECHLESS, AT WHICH KYOZAN COMMENTED: "DO NOT SAY THAT THERE IS NO ONE HERE WHO CAN UNDERSTAND ZEN."

You cannot even explain wood on fire; what can you say about firewood?

One of the most important philosophers of this century, G.E. Moore, has written a book, WHAT IS GOOD? He was concerned his whole life with the meaning of good. His final conclusion is -- after two hundred and fifty pages of long discussions about good -- the conclusion at the end is that good is indefinable.

That's what Buddha is saying: anirvachaniya. That means indefinable. That is what Mahavira is saying: avyakhya -- indefinable.

But after two hundred and fifty pages of very complex argumentation, at the very end he says that you cannot define anything. For example if somebody asks you, "What is yellow?" what are you going to say? You will say, "Yellow is yellow," but that is not much of an answer.

You will be left speechless as you come closer to reality. Even words like `yellow' become indefinable. Firewood? -- what can you say about it? What can you say that has not been said before?

The two monks remained SPEECHLESS, AT WHICH KYOZAN COMMENTED: "DO NOT SAY THAT THERE IS NO ONE HERE WHO CAN UNDERSTAND ZEN. Take your words back."

WHEN KYOZAN GOT BACK TO THE MONASTERY, HE SAID TO ISAN, the master, "TODAY, I EXPOSED TWO ZEN MONKS."

"HOW?" ISAN ASKED, AND KYOZAN TOLD HIM OF THE EXCHANGE.

ISAN COMMENTED: "I HAVE NOW EXPOSED YOU AS WELL."

This is the point to be understood -- because Kyozan himself is on the way, he has not reached. What does he know about enlightenment? What does he know about exposing a person's ignorance? And if you start exposing people, and come with pride that you have done a great service...

He had come to master Isan to be praised. But Isan could not be deceived so easily. Isan said to him, "I HAVE NOW EXPOSED YOU AS WELL. You are as stupid as those two monks. Neither they know what silence is, nor do you know what silence is."

And truth is an absolutely silent state of being, so silent that you almost disappear, so silent that you become simply an awareness, no body, no mind -- all are left behind; there is just a small flame of awareness in the beautiful silence surrounding you. Nothing can be said about it.

Just a few days before you must have heard firecrackers all around. People don't understand, they have forgotten why we have these fireworks, firecrackers. On this night Mahavira had become enlightened. And Mahavira is an exception, because all the buddhas had become enlightened on the full moon night; Mahavira became enlightened on the no-moon night. Nothing can be said except thousands of candles in praise of Mahavira. All over the country millions of candles -- it is the Festival of Lights.

If somebody asks you, "What is truth?", show him your silence. Show him your fragrance, show him your love. Share with him your presence.

It is said about Lao Tzu... He used to go every morning for a walk in the mountains. A neighbor asked him, "Can I come with you?"

Lao Tzu said, "The road does not belong to me. But if you want to come with me, then there is a condition: you cannot speak a single word."

And the neighbor managed. He gained enough insight just by following into the deep forest in silence. Just the presence of Lao Tzu slowly slowly became more and more intimate. Soon he understood why Lao Tzu had put the condition "no talk," because talk would have disturbed this great benediction, this great blissfulness that was arising from both the hearts -- these small flames, this radiation of light.

But one day the neighbor asked Lao Tzu, "A friend has come to stay with me for a few days. Can I bring him also with me?"

Lao Tzu said, "With the same condition."

But the friend was not aware that it was not to be taken casually. He kept silent as far as he could, but there were many moments when he was just going to say something and prevented himself. But when the sun started rising, it was so beautiful -- and the songs of the birds -- that he could not contain it. He forgot the condition, and he said, "What a beautiful morning!"

It was not much... but Lao Tzu looked at his neighbor. And back home Lao Tzu said, "Your friend cannot come with me. He talks too much."

The neighbor said, "He has only spoken one single sentence in two hours: `What a beautiful morning!'"

Lao Tzu said, "You only hear what he has said, you don't hear what he is talking inside and controlling. Because of him my whole morning has been contaminated. And if he feels the morning is beautiful... are we blind? We can also see the morning is beautiful; what is the point of saying it? To whom is he talking?"

There are moments when you suddenly feel an expansion of consciousness. It may be listening to great music, to great poetry, or seeing a great painting, or just meditating, sitting silently, doing nothing.

Nobody can surpass Basho -- no poet in the whole world, in any language -- when he says, "Sitting silently, doing nothing, the spring comes and the grass grows by itself."

Just learn to be silent, not a single ripple in your consciousness, and you are a buddha. This small barrier of language is the only barrier. Otherwise, everybody is a buddha. Hence I say: it is very simple to be a buddha.

One day, seeing that the barrier is only language, I dropped it. And if spring comes for Basho, it comes for me too. If the grass grows by itself, then why bother? I simply settled in my buddhahood.

There is no need to make any effort; all efforts are to destroy efforts, to tire you, to bring you to a moment when you completely drop dead, tired -- "Enough of it!" That is the moment when a new life source, a new starry night, new roses start blossoming around you.

Soseki wrote:

ALL WORRIES AND TROUBLES

HAVE GONE FROM MY BREAST,

AND I PLAY JOYFULLY

FAR FROM THE WORLD.

FOR A PERSON OF ZEN,

NO LIMITS EXIST.

THE BLUE SKY MUST FEEL

ASHAMED TO BE SO SMALL.

Only a man of Zen, only a man of enlightenment can say that.

THE BLUE SKY MUST FEEL ASHAMED TO BE SO SMALL.

Your consciousness becomes so vast, and in that vastness, in that oceanicness, who cares about trivia, whether your tie is tied rightly or wrongly? Who cares about small things? And all our worries are about small things. You have never worried about anything great. Just look back and you will not find a single thing about which you can say, "It was great that I worried about it" -- just very small things.

Mulla Nasruddin used to purchase shoes which were too tight for him, one size too small. He was continually complaining and grumbling to everybody, "I will die with these shoes!"

People said, "Why don't you change them?"

When he came the next time to the shoe store to change them, he again asked for the same size. The shoemaker said, "Are you mad or something? That shoe is always going to give you problems."

Mulla Nasruddin said, "There is a great philosophy in it. I have so many problems; this shoe keeps me busy, and all other worries become small. I have to manage to walk in these shoes. The only way I know to avoid those other worries is to create a bigger worry. This is so simple. And in the night when I come home, and I take the shoes off... boy, what a relief! This shoe is my only hope to find some relief in life."

 

Next: Chapter 7: Blue sky, Question 1

 

Energy Enhancement                Enlightened Texts                Zen                 Isan: No Footprints in the Blue Sky

 

 

 
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