The very 0rdinary life of Zen Master Chou-chou

Chao-chou, Joshu in Japanese, was born in China in 778. He lived for 120 years and was one of the greatest and most famous Zen masters in ancient China. He taught in a simple manner with just a few words, he did not use the stick or shout as some other Zen teachers did. He was without pride in his achievements.

His koan Mu is usually the foundation koan for students in the Diamond Sangha who wish to do koan work.

He began his Zen training at 18 with the eminent master Nan-ch’uan (Nansen, in Japanese), remaining with him until Nan-ch'uan died 40 years later. After 2 years of mourning, he set out on pilgrimage - for 20 years - visiting eminent teachers, inviting them to probe his mind, and checking them as well. At the age of 80 he settled down in a small temple, Kuan Yin temple, and for the next 40 years guided disciples from his wonderfully seasoned understanding.

His teaching style could be called a style of no style. It passed to him through his teacher Nansen.

He asked his teacher, “What is the Way?”

Nansen said, “Ordinary mind is the Way.”

Joshu said, “Should I direct myself toward it, or not?”

Nansen said, “If you try to direct yourself, then you deviate.”                      

Joshu asked, “How can I know the Way if I don’t direct myself?”

Nansen said, “The Way is not subject to knowing or not knowing.  Knowing is delusion; not knowing is blankness.

Nansen’s response resonated deeply with Joshu.

A later story about Joshu’s Zen is that of the oak tree:

A monk asked him, “What is the meaning of Zen?” The question was actually, "Why did Bodhidharma come from the West?" But, in essence, the monk was asking, "What is Zen truth?"

Joshu replied, “Oak tree in the front garden.” - A very 'ordinary' answer.

 After Joshu’s passing, someone asked his successor: “Your late Master had a saying - The oak tree in the garden. Is that correct?”  The successor said, “He had no such koan, don’t defile him!”

Just the tree, stripped clean, before it’s called a koan, or a teaching device. When we practice with the breath there is only the breath, only the doing. Just getting up. Just sitting down. Nothing clinging to it. A fish moving through clear water.

Another teacher commented that Joshu’s Oak tree had the activity of a thief. That is, it clears the mind, takes everything else away. Revealing the splendour of the oak tree. I dare say that Beethoven had the same experience with the first 8 notes of his 5th symphony.

Master Mumon commenting on Joshu’s Oak Tree said, “If you can see intimately into the essence of Joshu’s response - Oak tree in the front garden - there is no Shakyamuni Buddha in the past and no Maitreya Buddha in the future.“ That is the Non-Attained Buddha. No extra heads on your own head... crystal clear… precisely the same clarity that permeates everything. The Taoists have the image of empty vessels each filled with the same essence. 

Joshu left a poem titled SONG OF THE TWELVE HOURS OF THE DAY. An English version of it is in James Green’s 1998 book THE RECORDED SAYINGS OF ZEN MASTER JOSHU.

The Chinese hour was equivalent to two western hours. So the poem covers 24 hours, not 12. Joshu’s humour comes through in his poem. On the surface things seem quite grim there in his little temple; but it’s a song… a tribute:

 

Song of the Twelve Hours of the Day 

The rooster crows. Three in the morning. Aware of sadness, feeling down and out, yet getting up. There are no warm under-cloths to wear, just some tattered pance and something that looks a little like a robe. Originally I intended to practice to help save others; who would have suspected that instead I would become a fool!

 First light, five in the morning. A broken-down temple in a deserted village — there’s nothing worth saying about it. In the watery morning gruel there is not a grain of rice. Idly I face the open window. Only the chattering sparrows as friends. Sitting alone, now and then I hear dry fallen leaves blow by. Who says that to leave home and become a monastic is to cut off likes and dislikes? If I think about it, before long, tears start to fall.

Sun-rise. Seven in the morning. Doing anything with a goal in mind is to get buried in the dirt, yet the boundless domain has not yet been completely swept. Often the brows are furrowed, seldom is the heart content, it’s hard to put up with the decrepit old men of the village. Donations have never been brought here, and an untethered donkey eats the weeds in front of the hall.

Mid-morning, nine o’clock. Working to kindle a fire and gazing aimlessly at it. Cakes and cookies ran out last year, thinking of them today I swallow my saliva in vein. Seldom are things in order, incessant sighing. Those who come here just ask to have a cup of tea and not getting any they go off muttering in anger.

Late morning, eleven o’clock. Shaving my head, who would have guessed it would be like this? Nothing in particular made me ask to be a country monk. Outcast, hungry, lonely, given no respect. When visitors arrive at the gate, they only ask to borrow tea and paper and then they go.

Sun high in the sky, noon. For carrying the bowl to collect rice and tea there are no special arrangements. House after house and given only excuses. Some bitter salt, some soured barley, and millet paste mixed with old chard. The way seeking mind of a practitioner must be solid. This is called “not being negligent of the offering”.

Sinking sun, three in the afternoon. Turning things around, not walking in the realm of unity or separation. Once I heard a saying, “At the time of eating ones fill a hundred days of starvation are forgotten.” Today my body is just this. Not studying Zen, not discussing the teaching, I spread out some torn reeds and sleep in the sun. I can imagine a pure land that would not be as good as this sun toasting my back.

Late afternoon. Five o’clock. Someone is actually here burning incense and making bows. Of these five old women, three have goitre, and the other two have faces lost in wrinkles

Sun down. Seven in the evening. Except for the deserted wilderness here, what is there to protect? The way of a monk is to flow on without any special obligations. Wandering here and there for eternity. Words that go beyond fixed patterns do not come through the mouth. Aimlessly continuing where the disciples of the Buddha left off. A staff of rough bramble wood; it’s not just for mountain walking but also to chase off dogs.

Golden darkness. Nine in the evening. Sitting alone in the darkness of this empty one room. For ever unlit by the flickering candlelight, the space in front of me is pitch black. Hearing no temple bell only the sound of scurrying old rats. What more has to be done? Every moment is going beyond.

Bedtime. Eleven at night. The clear moon in front of the gate, to whom is it not given freely? Going back inside my only regret is that it is time to go to sleep. Besides the clothes on my back, what covers are needed? It’s no matter if this old bag is empty who could understand such a thing.

Midnight. This indescribable feeling, how could it ever cease. Thinking of all the people who have left home and become monastics it seems like I’ve been a temple priest for a long time now. Dirt floor for a bed, with a torn reed mat, an old block of wood for a pillow. To the Holy figure on the alter no expensive incense to offer. In the ashes of the incense burner hearing only the falling turd of an ox.

Po Chiu-i (772-846)

SITTING ALONE IN THE PLACE OF PRACTICE

I straighten and adjust robe and headcloth, wipe clean the platorm:

one pitcher of autumn water, one burner of incense.

Needless to say, cares and delusions must first be gotten rid of;

then when it comes to enlightenment, you try to forget that too.

Morning visits to court long suspended, I’ve put away sword and pendants;

feasts and outings gradually abandoned, jars and wine cups are neglected.

In these last years, when I’m no more use to the world,

best just to be free and easy, sitting here in the place of practice.

From, The Roaring stream; page 83

 

Zen Master Joshu

Song of the Twelve Hours of the Day1

 

The cock crows. The first hour of the day2. Aware of sadness, feeling down and out yet getting up.

There are neither underskirts nor undershirts, just something that looks a little like a robe. Underwear with the waist out, work pants in tatters, a head covered with thirty-five pounds of black grit. In such a way, wishing to practise and help people, who knows that, on the contrary, it is being a nitwit.

Sun level with the ground. The second hour of the day3. A broken-down temple in a deserted village — there’s nothing worth saying about it.

In the morning gruel there’s not a grain of rice, idly facing the open window and its dirty cracks. Only the sparrows chattering, no one to be friends with, sitting alone, now and then hearing fallen leaves hurry by. Who said that to leave home is to cut off likes and dislikes? If I think about it, before I know it there are tears moistening my hanky.

Sun up. The third hour of the day4. Purity is turning into compulsive passions.

The merit of doing something5 is to get buried in the dirt, the boundless domain has not yet been swept. Often the brows are knit, seldom is the heart content, it’s hard to put up with the wizened old men of the east village. Donations have never been brought here, an untethered donkey eats the weeds in front of my hall.

Meal time. The fourth hour of the day6.  Aimlessly working to kindle a fire and gazing at it from all sides.

Cakes and cookies ran out last year, thinking of them today and vacantly swallowing my saliva. Seldom having things together, incessantly sighing, among the many people there are no good men. Those who come here just ask to have a cup of tea10, not getting any they go off spluttering in anger.

Mid-morning. The fifth hour of the day7. Shaving my head, who would have guessed it would happen. Like this?

Nothing in particular made me ask to be a country priest, Outcast, hungry, and lonely, feeling like I could die. Mr Chang and Mr Lee8, never have they borne the slightest bit of respect for me. A while ago you happened to arrive at my gate, but only asked to borrow some tea and some paper.

The sun in the south. The sixth hour of the day9. For making the rounds to get rice and tea10 there are no special arrangements. Having gone to the houses in the south, going to the houses in the north, sure enough, all the way to the northern houses I’m given only excuses. Bitter salt, soured barley, A millet-rice paste mixed with chard. This is only to be called “not being negligent of the offering”, The Tao-mind11 of a priest has to be solidified.

Declining sun. The seventh hour of the day12. Turning things around, not walking in the domain of light and shade13.

Once I heard, “One time eating to repletion and a hundred days of starvation are forgotten,” Today my body is just this. Not studying Ch’an (Zen), not discussing principles, Spreading out these torn reeds and sleeping in the sun. You can imagine beyond Tsushita Heaven,14 but it’s not as good as this sun toasting my back.

Late afternoon. The eighth hour of the day15. And there is someone burning incense and making bows.

Of these five old ladies, three have goitre, the other two have faces black with wrinkles. Linseed tea, it’s so very rare, the two Diamond Kings15 needn’t bother flexing their muscles. I pray that next year, when the silk and barley are ripe, Rahula-ji17 will give me a word.

Sun down. The ninth hour of the day18. Except for the deserted wilderness what is there to protect?

The greatness of a monk is to flow on without any special obligations, a monk going from temple to temple has eternity. Words that go beyond the pattern do not come through the mouth, 1 iz aimlessly continuing where the sons of Shakyamuni left off. A staff of rough bramble wood; it’s not just for mountain climbing but also to chase off dogs.

Golden darkness. The tenth hour of the day19. Sitting alone in the darkness of a single empty room.

For ever unbroken by flickering candlelight, the purity in front of me is pitch black20. Not even hearing a bell21 vacantly passing the day, I hear only the noisy scurrying of old rats. What more has to be done to have feelings?22. Whatever I think is a thought of Paramita23.

Bedtime. The eleventh hour of the day24. The clear moon in front of the gate, to whom is it begrudged?

Going back inside, my only regret is that it’s time to go to sleep, besides the clothes on my back, what covers are needed? Head monk Liu, ascetic Chang, Talking of goodness with their lips, how wonderful! No matter if my empty bag25 is emptied out, if you ask about it, you’d never understand all the reasons for it.

Midnight. Twelfth hour of the day26. This feeling27, how can it cease even for a moment?

Thinking of the people in the world who have left home, it seems like I’ve been a temple priest for a long time now. A dirt bed, a torn reed mat, an old elm-block pillow without any padding. To the Holy Image28 not offering any Arabian incense29. In ashes hearing only the shitting of the ox.

1. The Chinese hour is equivalent to two western hours.

2. 1am to 3am.

3. 3am to 5am.

4. 5am to 7 am.

5. Motivated action having a goal or purpose.

6. 7am to 9am.

7. 9am to 11am.

8. These names are used like “Mr Smith” and “Mr Jones” to refer to everyone.

9. 11am to 1pm.

10. Begging.

11. Literally “mind of the Way”, refers to the mind of enlightenment.

12. 1pm to 3pm.

13. “Light and shade” also means “time”.

14. Tsushita Heaven is the abode of the Buddha of the future, Maitreya.

15. 3pm to Spm.

16. The “Diamond Kings” refer to the two demi-god kings who are the guardians of the Buddha-Dharma.

17. Rahula was one of the ten disciples of the Buddha Shakyamuni. He was especially adept in the esoteric teaching and in healing. The appellation “ji” after his name shows endearment.

18. Spm to 7pm.

19. 7pm to 9pm.

20. Literally “like the lacquer of Chin-chou (Kinshu)”.

21. Bells were rung to denote times of the day in towns and in temples.

22. The natural feelings that are inherent in being a human being.

23. Paramita here means to have crossed over to the dimension of enlightenment. Every thought is an “enlightened thought”.

24. 9pm to 11pm.

25. Refers to both a money bag and also, metaphorically, to the body.

26. The “empty bag being emptied out” refers to death.

27. 11pm to lam.

28. The state of mind of enlightenment.

29. The statue of Buddha.

30. Arabian incense was the most expensive type.

End of the Recorded Sayings of Ch’an Master Chao-chou

 

From The Recorded Sayings of Zen Master Joshu.

Translated by James Green

 

Tao Te Ching, Verse 15

by Lao Tzu

The ancient Masters were profound and subtle. Their wisdom was unfathomable. There is no way to describe it; all we can describe is their appearance.

They were careful as someone crossing an iced-over stream. Alert as a warrior in enemy territory. Courteous as a guest. Fluid as melting ice. Shapable as a block of wood. Receptive as a valley. Clear as a glass of water.

Do you have the patience to wait till your mud settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving till the right action arises by itself?

The Master doesn't seek fulfillment. Not seeking, not expecting, she is present, and can welcome all things.

~ Translated by Stephen Mitchell (https://terebess.hu/english/tao/mitchell.html)

Henry David Thoreau

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself.  “We need the tonic of wildness...At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable. We can never have enough of nature.”  Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.