Nelson Foster Roshi on koans 

From his foreword to "Entangling Vines" translated and edited by Thomas Yuho Kirchner 

This book offers “entangling vines,” but who would want them and what for? The phrase suggests tough, jungly vegetation that will trip you up, snag you in its rope-like sinews, and hold you captive. As a title, it seems calculated to put off all but the boldest or most foolhardy readers, signaling that exploration of these pages will be a struggle—arduous, exhausting, possibly futile altogether. It invites risk-takers, curiosity seekers, and especially, perhaps, people driven to get to the bottom of life’s biggest questions. Shall we count you in?

As the subtitle makes clear, the vines threatening to tie us up here are koans, the famously enigmatic little stories of Zen tradition. The liveliness and strangeness of koans—the humor and inscrutability of their repartee, their unorthodox treatment of Buddhist doctrine, the indifference they exhibit to logic or social convention, their frequent eruption into hitting and hollering, their broad expressive range, from crudeness to banality to poetry of great subtlety and beauty—have made them intriguing to people of diverse cultures ever since they emerged as a feature of Zen’s Chinese precursor, Chan, some nine centuries ago.

Understanding has lagged far behind interest, unfortunately. In attempting to characterize koans, popular writers commonly resort to the words puzzles and riddles, which are so inaccurate as to be positively misleading. Academic specialists fare little better with such arid definitions as “pedagogical tools for religious training.” Zen masters, who seem supremely qualified to explain the nature and working of koans, typically deflect requests for such information, declaring words inadequate to do justice to the phenomenon. Try a koan and see for yourself, they say.

Which brings us back to the entanglement under consideration—yours. Entanglement in koans takes two basic forms, one of them praised in Chan and Zen tradition, the other deplored, even ridiculed. The latter is a fascination with koans that remains merely literary or intellectual. The tradition doesn’t reject such pursuits wholesale; indeed, it possesses an extraordinarily rich literature, and many of its great figures have demonstrated nimbleness and delight in the life of the mind. Zen has always insisted, however, that other interests be subordinated to practice and awakening, and it deploys a set of vivid metaphors to emphasize the absurdity and fruitlessness of a Zen student entering the thickets of analysis and interpretation before experiencing insight: heading east when you want to go west, scratching your shoe when your foot itches, beating the cart instead of the horse.

The approved form of entanglement with koans involves thorough, sustained absorption in one koan at a time, in the hope that it will eventually resolve in a deeply liberating realization. Before the process runs its course, however, engaging a koan in this fashion often feels tedious or even torturous—every bit as constricting and exasperating as the title metaphor implies—and the bonds grow still tighter if one thrashes around mentally in the effort to get loose. So whoever originally applied the phrase “entangling vines” to koans undoubtedly deserves a prize for Truth in Advertising (Medieval Chinese Division). It wasn’t a private effort, though; institutionally, for centuries Chan and Zen have stressed the hardship of working with koans, promoting images of the process even more painful to contemplate than getting snarled in a web of creepers. The most cringe-inducing of these liken koan study to nightmares at the dining table—gnawing on an iron bun, eating the putrid mash left after the fermentation of alcohol, lapping up the shit and piss of bygone sages, swallowing a red-hot iron ball that can’t be disgorged.

Despite such repulsive warnings, generations of Zen practitioners—male and female, lay and monastic, dauntless or terrified—have undertaken koan work and survived to verify its joys and lasting benefits as well as its intermittent miseries. Most descriptions of the process attribute the difficulty of koans to their deliberate thwarting of rationality. By this account, koans function as efficient traps for logical thought because the masters of old designed them expressly for that purpose. While it’s true that logic rarely produces significant insight into a koan, the notion that koans are explicitly intended to impede logic doesn’t hold up.

Centuries ago, the annals of Chan tell us, a monk questioned his distinguished master about the sayings of his predecessors, asking, “Did the buddhas and ancestral teachers have the intention of tricking people or not?” The master’s reply holds for Buddhist texts of all kinds but fits koans particularly well:

Tell me, do rivers and lakes have any intention of obstructing people? Although rivers and lakes have no intention of obstructing people, still people can’t cross them, so they become barriers from a human standpoint. Although ancestral teachers and buddhas had no intention of tricking people, right now people can’t go beyond them, so ancestral teachers and buddhas trick people after all.

Rather than presuming that koans were created to confound us, we would do well to take them at face value, as good-faith attempts to present the Dharma, the wisdom of the Buddha, in a straightforward, perhaps striking, manner. Many events in everyday life surprise and confuse us, after all, though no one intends them to; we simply don’t understand them or even know how to understand them. From this perspective, it seems utterly unremarkable that a koan—a few words cherished for illuminating reality in a profound way—would go over our heads on first encounter (and maybe for quite a while afterward). Koans often perplex the monastics and lay people who appear in them, and evidence abounds that they’ve perplexed innumerable monks, nuns, and lay people who’ve pondered them as well. You’re baffled by them? Big deal. Join the crowd. 

Spring comes with flowers, autumn with the moon,

summer with breeze, winter with snow.

When idle concerns don’t hang in your mind,

that is your best season. 

 -  Wu-men

Words from our Ancestors

     In late summer of 1659, Ungo was living in a hermitage on the summit of Mount Tsunagi in Sendai. At twilight he climbed the mountain’s eastern slope, rang the evening gong himself, and then sat in meditation until midnight, when he summoned his disciples and announced that he was about to depart the world. Begged for a final verse, Ungo laughed and replied, “The streams, the birds, the trees and woods, all these are my verse. Why are you asking for something more?” And so saying, he quietly passed away.

            As a lamp, a cataract, a star in space,

            an illusion, a dew drop, a bubble,

            a dream, a cloud, a flash of lightening;

            view all created things like this.

                       - Diamond Sutra

           This dewdrop world        

           Is a dewdrop world

           And yet, and yet

                      - Issa (1763-1828)

- From Hilo Zen Circle Newsletter, October 2019

Pai-chang
Having explained as far as that the present mirror awareness is your own Buddha, this is the elementary good ("good in the beginning"). Not to keep dwelling in the immediate mirror awareness is the intermediate good ("good in the middle"). Furthermore not to make an understanding of nondwelling is the final good.

      From: Sayings and Doings of Pai-Chang, P41. Translated by Thomas Cleary

Shôyôroku (Book of Equanimity) CASE 100
 -Rôya’s “Mountains and Rivers”
 Commentary by Yamada Kôun


Instruction:
“One word can make a nation rise, one word can make a nation fall;”
This medicine can kill people and can give people life.”
The benevolent person sees it and names it benevolence,
The wise person sees it and calls it wisdom.”
Tell me, where is the profit and where is the loss?

Case:
A monk asked Master Kaku of Rôya, “The essential state is pure and
clear; how are mountains, rivers and the great earth produced at once?”
Kaku said, “The essential state is pure and clear; how are mountains,
rivers and the great earth produced at once?”

Verse:
Seeing a being, he does not consider it to be a being;
He turns his hand over and turns it back.
The man on Mt. Rôya
Does not yield to Gautama.

On the Instruction:
Being able to examine this final case of the Book of Equanimity with you today must
be seen as the result of deep karma connections. The same holds, of course, for the first case,
but its also wonderful being able to examine this final case with you today. In that sense, the
persons present here today to hear this final teisho enjoy a deep karmic connection and good
fortune. As I always say, the Instruction is always written with the Main Case in mind. Let us
look now at that Instruction.

“One word can make a nation rise, one word can make a nation fall;”
These words have their origin in the Analects of Confucius. As they say, a single word
can cause a nation to flourish and a single word can cause the demise of the nation. From the
Zen standpoint, to say that one word can make a nation fall means that a single word can “kill”
a person. And to say that a single word can make the nation rise means to bring a person to
life. Killing and giving life in Zen do not mean physically killing or causing to live. To kill
means to cut off all our discriminating thinking and conceptualizing. With a single word, we
cut off all such ideas. “Killing” means to completely eliminate any such concepts, to cut them
off completely. And if you truly cut them off, in that instant the great life appears (daikatsu
genjô). A truly new world suddenly appears. This is what is known as satori. When all our
concepts disappear, in that instant new life wells up, and this is known as satori or
enlightenment. Thus, a single word can suffice to kill and give new life. For example, if you
ask what such a word is, I can point to the word Mu. If you practice Mu and become one with
Mu, not a single thought can arise, and in that instant you suddenly realize. What do you
realize? You realize your true self. But this is definitely not easy to do, even though it might
seem easy in theory. It’s a matter of continuing the practice of Mu (muji no nentei) tirelessly,
when breathing in and breathing out. You must continue on no matter how long it takes. In
the process you forget yourself. And when you completely forget yourself in the practice of Mu,
you become completely one with Mu. It’s a matter of melting into Mu. I speak about this
practice any number of times, but many people are unable to reach that point. I see people
who I haven’t seen in a while and ask them if they have brought a “souvenir,” so to speak, in
the sense of being able to show me their understanding of Mu. But in many cases they are
unable to do so. I would like you all to bring that souvenir as soon as possible. The joy upon
realizing Mu is beyond comparison. You will feel that you could die at any time having
realized this. You will feel that it was definitely worth being born into this world, that life was
worth living no matter whether you do anything outstanding after that or not. And to repeat,
to grasp Mu is to grasp your own true self. With that you have the key to solve all of life’s
problems. In Mumon’s Commentary to Case 1 of the Mumonkan (Gateless Gate), there is the
following passage: “It will be as if you have grasped the sword of General Kan.” You will be
able to cut down anything in your way, in the sense of cutting down all concepts and ideas.
This is found in the fervent practice of Mu. This is how we should understand these first
words of the Instruction.

This medicine can kill people and can give people life. What is the
“medicine”? It is your true self. You can also consider it to be Mu. A truly capable Zen master
can cut off all concepts and thoughts in a single word, as if it were a single stroke of a sword.
And then you clearly realize your own true self. The joy at that moment is beyond description.
Zen Master Gutei simply held up a finger whatever he was asked about Zen. This
single finger has the power to kill people and to give them life in the sense just explained. All
koans can be understood in that way.
      
The benevolent person sees it and names it benevolence,
The wise person sees it and calls it wisdom. As this is a reference to the way
of Mencius, it speaks in terms of “the benevolent person.” From our point of view, it can be
seen as meaning the Buddhas and patriarchs. Looking at the workings of Mu, they call it
“benevolence” (Chinese: ren, Japanese: jin). This comes from deep compassion and love, or one
could say grace. It is the compassion of wanting somehow to bring others to peace of mind, of
wanting to deliver them from their sufferings. This is known as compassion (jihi) in
Buddhism: the desire to save others in some way. “The wise person” means a person who has
truly grasped the essence of the human being, out of which arises a wisdom that can be used
freely. Such a person is considering how to guide others toward salvation. For example, the
Zen master, in his position of guiding others in practice, must have such wisdom. He needs
such wisdom to know where the student is in his or her practice. This must be clearly
apparent to the master. He then knows very readily how best to lead that person in practice.
Only compassion is insufficient. When it gets down to it, unless you have had an experience of
clearly grasping your own true self, you will not know where the student is in her or his
practice. This is a very important matter. For example, when a primary student comes to you,
you treat that child accordingly. When a layperson with a family comes to you, you consider
the level of that person and give him the guidance most appropriate to him.
Tell me, where is the profit and where is the loss? “Profit and loss” can be
understood here as meaning “making a nation rise or fall,” as was mentioned in the first line
of this Instruction. On one hand he can kill people and on the other hand he can cause them to
come to life. “Where is the root source of that activity?” the Instruction asks us. An example
will now be given and we are exhorted to look carefully at what transpires in the Main Case.

On the Case:
A monk asked Master Kaku of Rôya, “The essential state is pure and
clear; how are mountains, rivers and the great earth produced at once?”
Master Kaku of Rôya was Master Ekaku, with “E” meaning wisdom. Rôya was the name of the
mountain where he lived. He was eighth in succession in the line of Hyakujô Ekai Zenji.
Hyakujô was blessed with many outstanding successors. First we can mention Obaku, or we
could cite Isan, who together with Kyôzan was the founder of the Isan School of Zen. In that
same line we find master Shuzan Shônen. It was Bunyô Zenshô who inherited Shuzan’s
dharma. There were actually two streams: The Ôryu Stream and the Bunyô Stream. This was
a major bifurcation within the Rinzai School. Ekaku of Rôya was the successor to this Bunyô,
which means he is in the Rinzai tradition. When we look at this case, we can see that he had a
very clear dharma eye.
One day a monk came to this master and quoted this text: “The essential state is pure
and clear; how are mountains, rivers and the great earth produced at once?”
Our true self or the true fact is pure and clear. That is because it is completely empty,
there is not a single thing. This is known also as the essential world. It is the world of not a
single thing. That means it is beauty itself. And issuing from it are mountains, rivers, the
great earth, the moon and the sun and the stars. “How do they suddenly come into being?” the
monk wants to know. How do all those phenomena arise from the pure essence? He cannot
understand it. In other words, how do the myriad phenomena arise from essential nature or
from the essential world? If his interlocutor had been a scientist, he might have answered in
logical terms, saying it arises out of nothing. But the way of treating this question in the Zen
tradition is somewhat different.
The essential state is pure and clear; how are mountains, rivers and the great earth
produced at once? (shô-jô-hon-nen-un-ga-kosshô-sen-ga-daichi). There is essentially no
meaning to the words, it is just: shô-jô-hon-nen-un-ga-kosshô-sen-ga-daichi. If there were any
meaning to the words, it would only be a concept. (Roshi strikes the rostrum with his kotsu).
You have to listen to those words in the same way as this sound. That’s how I used to explain
it, and it’s not wrong. Nowadays, however, I have a slightly different view, which is proof that
my way of seeing the koans is evolving. Zen Master Kaku replies: The essential state is pure
and clear; how are mountains, rivers and the great earth produced at once? (shô-jô-hon-nenun-
ga-kosshô-sen-ga-daichi). He is producing for the monk where they come from. As I will be
mentioning later, all things in the phenomenal world—our body, hands, this rostrum, etc.
have two aspects. The first aspect is the phenomenal aspect. The other aspect is the essential
world. You might think these are two different things, but actually they are one and the same.
Usually we are only familiar with the back of the hand and remain unaware of the palm of the
hand, which symbolizes the essential world. Unless you realize this directly in an
enlightenment experience, you will not know that world. The world of phenomena is the world
of dualistic opposition. But most people are not even aware of the existence of this essential
world, the world of oneness. When you get right down to it, they are simply attempting to
understand it conceptually or philosophically, while remaining ignorant of the truth. After all
is said and done, you must come to a direct experience of it and appreciate for yourself.
Otherwise you will remain unable to see the world of emptiness. You might think there is
something like an essential world on which the phenomenal world is based, but actually they
are one. Like the back of my hand and the palm of my hand, they live the same single life.
When you look at the world, you might assume that the Soviets are the “bad guys” and the
Americans are the “good guys.” Actually, however, they are on equal footing in the same sumo
ring, you might say. I would somehow like to make the leaders in the U.S. and the Soviet
Union aware of the real world. The true world is the world of zero, where there is no dualistic
opposition. Unless we become aware of this world, humanity will not really come to peace no
matter how much time goes by. I would like the people practicing here from abroad to sit their
very best and come to true realization, and then return to their countries. I sometimes have
the feeling that they are more diligent in their practice than the Japanese. There is the saying
in the Bible about a single grain of wheat planted in the ground. When ten or twenty years
have passed, it might not become something outstanding. But in the course of one hundred or
two hundred years, it will gradually sprout and grow. Then true peace will come to the world.
Please do your very best. I would like you all to become such a grain of wheat. The essential
state is pure and clear; how are mountains, rivers and the great earth produced at once? (shôjô-
hon-nen-un-ga-kosshô-sen-ga-daichi). If you can hear this in the same way as the stick
banging the rostrum, it is the essential world itself, and not just an expression thereof. The
monk asks his question about where it all comes from, and Master Kaku produces that world
of emptiness for him. He has given a sample of it. These days, I have the feeling that this is
the better way to view this case.

On the Verse:
Seeing a being, he does not consider it to be a being;
He turns his hand over and turns it back. This is precisely what I was just
talking about. Although the phenomenal world might appear to have form, for those who have
opened their dharma eye, its content is empty. He has clearly realized that. Although there is
being, at the same time there is not a single thing. That is what is meant by the phrase:
“seeing a being, he does not consider it to be a being.” When he turns his hand over, that is the
phenomenal world. As I was saying just now, my hand has two sides. But actually they are the
same single hand. The back of my hand cannot move on its own, nor can the palm of my hand.
I would like to make the politicians in other nations somehow aware of this fact. For those
politicians know better than anyone that disputes cannot be the solution. They are gravely
aware of how allowing disputes to get out of hand could be calamitous. That is the reason for
my wishing to somehow make these people aware of this world of oneness, the true world.

The man on Mt. Rôya
Does not yield to Gautama. The “man on Mt. Rôya” is a reference to Master Kaku
of Rôya. “Gautama” means Shakyamuni Buddha. The poet is saying that we should not be
under the control of Buddha. Master of Kaku of Rôya is every bit a match for the Buddha and
has his own views of things. He has no need to be taught by the Buddha. When you realize
your own true nature, that is only natural. It’s not a matter of gobbling the dregs of the
Buddha. In his teisho on this koan, Yasutani Roshi writes: “Where are mountains, rivers, the
great earth? Isn’t there only pure and clear?” That is certainly true. But at the same time, we
could also say, “Isn’t there just mountains, rivers, the great earth?” Actually, the true fact is
that there is neither pure and clear nor mountains, rivers, the great earth. What is there,
then? Just this! (tada kore kore).

Beneath an empty autumn sky stretch endless wastes where no one goes.

Who is that horseman riding from the West?

 - Wang Changling, eighth century Chinese poet, quoted by Hakuin in Zen Words for the Heart.

(For Vicki)

ORDINARY MIND IS THE WAY

Gateless Gate, Case 19  

Chao-chou asked Nan-ch’uan, “What is the Tao?”

Nan-ch’uan said, “Ordinary mind is the Tao.”

Chao-chou said, “Should I direct myself toward it, or not?”

Nan-ch’uan said, “If you try to direct yourself, then you deviate.”

                                   

Chao-chou asked, “How can I know the Tao if I don’t direct myself?”

Nan-ch’uan said, “The Tao is not subject to knowing or not knowing.  Knowing is delusion; not knowing is blankness.  If you truly reach the genuine Tao, you will find it is as vast and boundless as outer space.  How can this be discussed at the level of affirmation and negation?”

With these words, Chao-chou had sudden realisation.

 WU-MEN’S COMMENT:

Questioned by Chao-chou, Nan-ch’uan lost no time in showing the smashed tile and the melted ice, where no explanation is possible.  Though Chao-chou had realisation, he could confirm it only after another thirty years of practice.

WU-MEN’S VERSE:

Spring comes with flowers, autumn with the moon,

summer with breeze, winter with snow.

When idle concerns don’t hang in your mind,

that is your best season.

-Honolulu Diamond Sangha