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.