Notes Beside the Bamboo Window — Second Collection, Part 1

The Heart of Prajñā Sūtra says: "Prajñāpāramitā is the great spiritual mantra, the great bright mantra, the supreme mantra, the mantra unequaled by any other." This means that prajñā itself is the mantra — not merely the four closing lines, "gate gate pāragate..." People today know only that mantras belong to the esoteric division, and that the Heart Sūtra belongs to the exoteric division — and so overlook the fact that the exoteric, too, can be a mantra. This is exactly what practitioners of mantra recitation tend to miss.

Likewise, the four characters "Amitābha Buddha" are, in their entirety, transliterated Sanskrit — had earlier translators not added explanatory glosses, how would this differ at all from the esoteric mantras of Mahāvairocana or Cundī? People today know only that the Mahāvairocana and Cundī mantras are "mantras," while taking "Amitābha" to be simply the Buddha's own name — not realizing that the Buddha's name, too, is itself a mantra. This, again, is exactly what practitioners of mantra recitation tend to miss.

Tradition holds that Confucius is styled the Bodhisattva Rútóng. Someone objects: "Our Master is the ancestor of ten thousand generations of culture and learning, and yet you call him a 'child'! To call him a child is to call him young; to call him young is to call him small. If you make our teacher out to be small and young, how can you blame us Confucians for attacking Buddhism! And besides, monks style themselves bhikṣu — but Qiū is our Master's own personal name, forbidden to speak aloud out of respect, and bǐ means 'to stand alongside.' A monk is a disciple of the Buddha, and yet you set him alongside our Master! If you make our teacher out to be on the level of a mere disciple, how can you blame us Confucians for attacking Buddhism!"

This is simply mistaken. "Child" in this context is a term of praise for purity and freedom from artifice. Mañjuśrī, teacher of the seven buddhas, is called "the youth Mañjuśrī"; Sudhana, who attained supreme enlightenment within a single lifetime, is called "the youth Sudhana"; and among the forty-two ranks of worthies and sages there is a stage called "the abode of true childhood" — all of these are the highest possible praise for virtue, not references to youth or smallness at all. This is exactly why it is said: "A great person is one who has never lost the heart of a newborn child." As for bhikṣu, this too is simply a transliterated Sanskrit term, meaning "one who begs for spiritual sustenance," or "one who destroys evil," or "one who strikes fear into demons." Bǐ here does not mean "to stand alongside," and qiū does not mean "hill" — the character is chosen only for its sound, not its meaning. It is exactly like the Sanskrit namo, meaning "I take refuge" — the character nán is not the "south" of north-and-south, and wú is not the "without" of being-and-non-being.

Ah — had our Master been born in India, he surely would have proclaimed the Buddha-dharma to save sentient beings; had Śākyamuni appeared in the state of Lu, he surely would have expounded the Confucian Way to instruct ten thousand generations. Change the place, and the outcome would be the same either way — the actions of a truly great sage are simply beyond what ordinary understanding can grasp. If a Confucian must not slander the Buddha, how could a Buddhist alone be permitted to slander Confucius?

A worthy of old once said: "Had Linji not left the household life, he surely would have become a great leader of men — someone like Sun Quan or Cao Cao." Why compare Linji to Sun Quan and Cao Cao specifically? Because the comparison is one of raw intelligence, not of virtue. Cao Cao once remarked, "If one is to have a son, let him be like Sun Zhongmou" — and Zhuge Liang likewise said, "Cao Cao's use of troops resembles that of Sun Wu and Wu Qi" — their intelligence is plain enough to see! Had they applied that same intelligence not outwardly, toward worldly conquest, but inwardly, and directed every ounce of their lifelong strategic genius entirely toward prajñā instead, what could possibly have stood between them and the Way?

There is also an old saying: "Had Siddhārtha not left the household life, he surely would have become a Cakravartin, a Wheel-Turning Sage King." This latter comparison speaks of both intelligence and virtue together — greater in scope than the former, but making exactly the same underlying point.

Mount Tiantai and Mount Yandang are known as the two great mountains of Zhejiang, and Yandang's scenery is especially extraordinary — people will travel great distances, packing provisions for the journey, simply to see it.

I was once invited to lecture at Taiping Monastery, not far — perhaps forty li — from Yandang. When the lecture series concluded, the abbot told me he had arranged an excursion to Yandang for me. As I prepared to go, more than a hundred people cheerfully wished to come along. Considering that the mountain had had no monastery offering free lodging for a long while, and that wandering and sightseeing there would take at least half a month, consuming a great deal of grain that the impoverished monastery could hardly afford to spare for so large a party, I firmly insisted on canceling the trip. Everyone was visibly disappointed, so I comforted them, saying: "However fine Yandang's scenery may be, there are places even within China that surpass it; and even the most magnificent scenery in all of China cannot compare to the splendor of the heavenly palaces; and even the heavenly palaces, compared level upon level to the very finest among them, still cannot compare to the Western Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss. You gentlemen show no longing at all for the Land of Ultimate Bliss, yet cling so single-mindedly to Yandang — why is that?" And in the end, no one went at all.

The Tang chancellor Du Huangshang, on his deathbed, deeply regretted never having had the chance to become a monk, and ordered that his head be shaved and his body dressed in monastic robes for burial. A certain famous chief minister of the Song dynasty left an identical last instruction. Had these two men not, in some past life, firmly cultivated the right causes, how could they possibly have remained so lucidly awake to this even while holding the highest offices of state?

At the moment the four elements dissolve at death, to hold to such an extraordinary resolve — there are two possible explanations for it: either a single moment of delusion finally clears at the very point of death, returning the mind to its root; or it is a deliberate act of manifestation, meant to awaken others still caught in the same stream of birth and death. Which of the two it truly was, in either man's case, cannot really be known.

Master Miaoxi said of himself: "In earlier days I was carelessly certified by an 'eyeless' elder; only later, upon meeting the venerable Yuanwu, did I attain great and thorough awakening. From that time I vowed to myself: I will never turn the Buddha-dharma into a mere social favor." Miaoxi may truly be called a figure of great compassion — a genuine "eye of humans and gods" for ten thousand generations to come. It is only my own misfortune to have been born too late to have personally received his instruction in person — a source of real regret.

And yet Miaoxi was speaking only of that "eyeless" elder stamping students with a worthless "winter-melon seal" — a fake, meaningless certification. Students today, for the most part, use that same worthless "winter-melon seal" to stamp themselves instead. Were Miaoxi alive to see it, what, I wonder, would he say?

A worthy of old once addressed the assembly: "The robe and bowl of Fifth Patriarch Huangmei were not fit to be received even by the one who wrote 'constantly, diligently wipe it clean' — and even the one who answered, 'where, then, could dust ever settle?' was still not fit to receive them either. Tell me, then — what, in the end, would actually qualify someone to receive the robe and bowl?" One monk offered ninety-nine different replies, one after another, none of them striking home. At last he said: "What use could I possibly have for his robe and bowl at all?" — and only then did the master nod with genuine approval.

Ah — the master here may truly be said to have "killed until blood was drawn" [pressed the matter all the way through], and the disciple may truly be said to have investigated the question all the way to its very bottom!

In the Śūraṅgama Sūtra's selection of the perfect-penetration method, Avalokiteśvara's ear-faculty alone is singled out as best suited to this world. And yet the World-Honored One, as the very teacher who guided this entire age, awakened upon seeing the morning star; and Mahākāśyapa, patriarch of the lamp-transmission for ten thousand generations to come, awakened upon seeing the Buddha hold up a flower — both of these belong to the eye-faculty. Why the difference?

There are two reasons for this. First, the principle of adapting to sentient beings' own capacity: "the true substance of the teaching in this world lies in purity through hearing" — since beings of this world have the sharpest ear-faculty among their six senses. Second, the principle of dispelling attachment: sentient beings cling everywhere to fixed positions, and upon hearing that the ear-faculty alone is singled out as supreme among the perfect-penetration methods, would otherwise conclude that no other faculty could possibly lead to the Way at all. This is why a person of truly outstanding capacity finds every single faculty equally capable of perfect penetration — exactly as a person of great merit can pick up any stone at all and have it turn to treasure in his hands. Let anyone who reads the Śūraṅgama well examine this point carefully.

Someone raised a doubt: "The Avataṃsaka Sūtra says the Land of Ultimate Bliss only barely surpasses our own Sahā world, while the Larger Sūtra of Immeasurable Life says it surpasses all the ten directions — how can both be true?" One explanation holds: "To 'surpass the ten directions' refers only to the ten directions in the immediate vicinity of our own Sahā world, not the ten directions measured from the Flower-Treasury World itself." This explanation is not wrong, but it does not go far enough.

The truth is that the Avataṃsaka's "barely surpasses" is a comparison measured strictly by the length of a day and night: a single kalpa in Sahā equals one day and night in the Land of Ultimate Bliss; a single kalpa in the Land of Ultimate Bliss equals one day and night in the Kāṣāya-Banner World; and so on, through world after world as numerous as the sands of the Ganges, all the way up to the Supreme Lotus World. This comparison singles out only the single measure of relative duration — it is not a comparison of overall superiority at all. Otherwise, a thousand or ten thousand years in the human realm equal a single day and night in hell — would that mean hell surpasses the human realm? Or take another example: if superiority were judged simply by bodily height, then Vairocana Buddha, whose manifested body stands only a thousand zhang tall, would be inferior to the asuras, who stand eighty-four thousand yojanas tall — would that mean the asuras surpass Vairocana?

This is why saying the Land of Ultimate Bliss surpasses all the ten directions — taken in the broadest, most far-reaching sense — creates no contradiction at all.

A worthy of old once instructed his students: "I will not concern myself now with your meditative concentration, your wisdom, your supernormal powers, or your eloquence — I only ask that you offer a single turning word, precisely on the mark." Hearing this, students set about studying "turning words" day and night — and this was a mistake.

If a single turning word is truly so precious, so extraordinary a thing, then it must be certain that it cannot possibly be seized upon through mere discursive guesswork, or through understanding gained by external, borrowed means. It can only flow naturally out of genuine, thorough great awakening. If instead a student, working from the sutras or from the recorded exchanges of the ancients, imitates and forces an interpretation through his own small cleverness, producing something merely to satisfy the demand of the moment — however novel and striking the resulting words may sound, it remains nothing more than scratching an itch through one's boot. Even if he could produce turning-words as numerous as the sands of the Ganges in a single instant, what connection would any of it have to his own true nature?

Set aside, then, whether your own turning-words are precisely on the mark or not, and cast that concern beyond even the world of the unspeakable and unspeakable-again. Simply hold fast to your own fundamental point of investigation, apply your mind quietly and continuously, never once letting go — and once genuine, thorough awakening finally comes, why would you ever need to worry about having no words to offer? I myself am of dull capacity, but I dare not fail to strive at this all the same.

For the Lotus Sūtra, Master Tiantai's own commentaries — the Profound Meaning and the Textual Explanations — are vast and detailed; Master Wenling's Essential Commentary, by contrast, is refined and concise. Tiantai's work is certainly to be revered, but Wenling's should not be dismissed lightly either.

Someone might say: "Read the Essential Commentary first, and only then go on to the Profound Meaning and the Textual Explanations, and the gulf in quality between them becomes immediately obvious — so why do you say Wenling should not be dismissed lightly?" Wenling lived well after Tiantai, and had certainly read through the Profound Meaning, the Textual Explanations, and Tiantai's other major works in full — their meticulous, exhaustive analysis was hardly unknown to him. But his own commentary is explicitly named "essential" precisely because it aims at directness and concision; had he gone on to add elaborate, roundabout explanations, plumbing every possible depth, it would have become broad rather than essential. And besides, most of his textual divisions follow Tiantai's own original scheme, and where he departs from it, he surely had his own reasons for doing so. As for the interpretive substance of his commentary, it has its share of both gains and losses here and there — a serious student ought to read it with an open, calm mind, and study it carefully, and will surely gain something real from doing so.

I said above that the Essential Commentary has both gains and losses — let me first point out an instance of loss. The sutra speaks of "the arising and ceasing of the five multitudes," and the Essential Commentary glosses this as "the five destinies." But "the five multitudes" is simply another name for the five aggregates, as the Treatise on the Great Perfection of Wisdom explains repeatedly — Wenling's gloss here is simply a lapse in verification.

Now let me point out an instance of real insight. Where the sutra describes the Medicine King Bodhisattva burning his own body in offering, the Essential Commentary explains: "Only once wondrous enlightenment illuminates all things perfectly, freeing one from the view that clings to the body as real, and one has attained the emptiness of the aggregates, can such an act truly be performed; if one has not yet realized this practice-in-accordance-with-the-Dharma, and merely imitates the outward gesture out of empty admiration, one only adds to one's own karmic suffering for nothing." This draws out a point Tiantai himself never made explicit, and offers real, deep benefit to later students.

Zhu Maozheng of Jiahe once told me about his own great-grandfather, the Instructor. After retiring from office and returning to his home village, the Instructor used his accumulated salary to build a small house on the outskirts of town, where he lived reading, keeping his door shut to visitors — even his own sons, nephews, and in-laws, let alone the local magistrate, rarely got to see his face. Only one old friend came by each afternoon; the two of them would play a few rounds of chess together, share a few rounds of drink, sing a few songs at the top of their voices, and by the time evening fell, the Instructor would simply go to bed. This was his constant routine, cut off from the world as if he lived deep in some remote mountain valley.

At eighty-nine, one moonlit night, he lost his footing crossing a bridge and suffered a minor injury; his two sons brought him home. As he lay dying, he took up his brush and earnestly wrote out instructions on moral principle for his descendants, never once touching on trivial household matters. When he had finished writing, he closed his eyes and passed — but then, a moment later, opened them again and said: "There is still something I must say to Jiading." (Jiading was his grandson, who had just passed the imperial examination and taken office as magistrate of Jiading.) And so he took up the brush once more, instructing his grandson to remain honest and upright from beginning to end, never to let the compromises of official life corrupt his integrity in his later years. With that, he set down the brush, and departed for good.

Ah — the Instructor had never once heard the Buddha-dharma, and yet met his end with such open, unclouded serenity that even those who have practiced for decades could not match it. Why? Because his mind carried no entanglements at all — and in that alone, he had already grasped more than half of what the Buddha-dharma teaches. Those who mutter sutras and expound the Dharma all day long, their minds never truly purified, so often meet their own end in panic and confusion — worse, in the end, than this unlettered layman. Is it any wonder? I find myself deeply moved by this.

Had the Instructor only had the chance to hear the Buddha-dharma, with that same power of solitary, hidden discipline turned wholeheartedly toward prajñā, why should he ever have worried about failing to see clearly into the great matter? On this point, too, I find myself deeply moved all over again.

A monk once asked an old worthy: "What is the original body, Vairocana?" The master answered: "Hand me the whisk." A moment later he said: "Put it back where it was." The monk repeated his original question, and the master said: "The ancient buddha has long since passed away." Then he added: "Listen, you who have not yet understood — right now, this very moment, who is it that speaks?"

Later people, reading exchanges like this, take it to mean that raising a hand, moving a foot, opening the mouth to make a sound — this alone is already the true Buddha. This is true in a sense, and yet not true at all — it is exactly what is meant by "mistaking the thief for one's own son." On this basis, cases like "the cypress tree in the courtyard," "three catties of flax," "green bamboo and yellow flowers," "the monkey carrying its young home, the bird dropping a flower before the cliff" — all get taken the same mistaken way. How could this not be a grave error?

When Juzhi was questioned, he simply raised a single finger; when Luzu saw a monk approach, he turned and faced the wall. A person of old once said: "If I ever saw someone imitate this, I would break his finger off." I would say the same: "Let him only turn to face the wall, and I will knock him flat with a kick to the chest."

Master Huian attacked Buddhism, and Master Konggu forcefully rebutted him for it. And yet there is a point at which Huian actually assisted the propagation of the Buddha-dharma, which ought not go unnoticed. In his commentary on Mencius, he explains: "Only those over fifty need silk clothing to stay warm — those not yet fifty should not wear it. Only those over seventy need meat to be properly nourished — those not yet seventy should not eat it."

Now, using the fur of animals or the cocoons of silkworms harms living creatures and damages one's own compassion, which is why the Buddha's own precepts forbid it. If everyone truly waited until fifty to wear silk, then far fewer people would wear silk clothing at all! And eating meat cuts off the very seed of great compassion within oneself, which is likewise why the Buddha's precepts forbid it. If everyone truly waited until seventy to eat meat, then far fewer people would eat meat at all!

And yet nowadays even small children are already wrapped in heavy fur coats and pure silk floss to protect their bodies, and fed rich, freshly slaughtered delicacies to satisfy their palates, long before they even reach adulthood — let alone old age! If Master Huian's own teaching were actually followed, would it not offer real assistance to the Buddha-dharma after all? Those who condemn Huian have simply failed to notice this point, and so I felt it worth clarifying here.

People commonly regard "attachment" as a fault, and yet this cannot be said as a blanket rule. All learning, in this world and beyond it, comes to fruition through genuine enthusiasm — and enthusiasm carried to its furthest extreme is exactly what we call attachment.

In ancient times, Yi devoted himself wholly to archery, and so became the hero who shot down the suns; Yiliao devoted himself wholly to juggling balls, and his skill alone averted a war between Chu and Song; Cheng Lian devoted himself wholly to the qin, and became a renowned master of the instrument. There have been those so devoted to go that they see the pattern of black and white stones even in a curtain, a wall, a window screen; those so devoted to calligraphy that every tree and rock in the mountains appears to them as some form of written character; those learning to paint horses who see a horse's form even lying on their own bed. It was precisely this single-minded devotion that let each of them become renowned throughout the realm, remembered by later generations. Every worldly skill requires this kind of single-minded devotion to master — why, then, should attachment alone be considered impossible in studying the Way?

This is exactly why a practitioner deep in the investigation of a Chan phrase will drink tea without tasting it, eat a meal without tasting it, walk without knowing he is walking, sit without knowing he is sitting, open a chest and forget to lock it again, leave the latrine and forget to put his clothes back on. This is why a practitioner devoted to Buddha-recitation comes to see the Buddha before him with eyes open or closed alike, and finds the Buddha's name unbroken whether the mind is gathered or scattered. Reciting without needing to consciously begin, doubting without needing to consciously provoke it — all of this is exactly "attachment." It is precisely through this deep, single-minded devotion, applied with real strength over real time, that one enters samādhi without even realizing it — just as friction applied without pause finally produces fire, and iron worked without pause finally becomes steel.

What is genuinely objectionable about "attachment" is only this: not knowing that the ten thousand dharmas are all illusory, and so being impatient for results; or not knowing that all things are made by consciousness alone, and so clinging deeply to outward appearances — it is this kind of attachment, born of mistaken view, that becomes an obstacle to the Way. But to worry so much about attachment that one drifts along aimlessly instead, like a stone soaking in water for endless ages without ever being changed by it — what good could that possibly do? This is why the attachment of rigid clinging must not be present, while the attachment of sustained, focused devotion must never be absent.

A group of antique-collectors, gathered together, each brought out their own treasures to compete against one another. One brought out an object from the Yuan dynasty, or the Song, or the Five Dynasties, and the others glanced at each other and smirked. Then came objects from the Tang, the Jin, the Han, the Qin, and even the Three Dynasties — they wished they could produce the cauldron of Gaoxin, the fire-drill of the Fire-Maker, the qin of Shennong, the se of Taihao, even a fragment of the five-colored stone Nüwa herself had smelted to mend the heavens.

One man among them said: "What you gentlemen have collected is indeed ancient — but not yet the truly primeval, and certainly not the primeval-before-the-primeval." The others asked: "Then do you mean the sun and moon themselves?" "Not yet ancient enough — heaven and earth existed before the sun and moon." "Then heaven and earth?" "Not yet ancient enough — empty space existed before heaven and earth." "Then empty space?" "Not yet ancient enough. What I possess belongs to the age before the sun and moon existed, before heaven and earth were established — a thing from the kalpa of emptiness itself. You gentlemen spare no expense, a thousand pieces of gold, to obtain a single ancient censer, vase, book, or painting, and yet fail to treasure the most ancient thing of all — how deeply mistaken you are!" The others exchanged glances, and had nothing to say.

After a moment, someone asked: "This 'antique' of yours is something everyone shares equally, not something you alone possess — how, then, can it be so precious?" He answered: "Everyone possesses it equally, yes, but everyone is equally deluded about it — and to be deluded about it is no different from not having it at all. So to say I alone possess it is really no exaggeration." Another asked: "Our own antiques stand plainly before us, visible in every detail — where is yours to be seen?" The man simply spread open his two empty hands to show them, and once again the others exchanged glances, with nothing to say.

Long ago, when Liu Xin first established the Old Text versions of the Spring and Autumn Annals with Zuo's Commentary, the Mao Odes, and the rest as official canon, the scholars of his own day, consumed with jealousy, raised a swarm of objections against him; when Master Huian wrote his own commentary on Zhou Dunyi's Diagram of the Supreme Ultimate, the moment the book appeared, criticism poured in from every direction; and even Nanyue's founding of a distinctive teaching on prajñā, or the First Patriarch's opening of the direct-pointing Chan, met with disapproval — even active hostility — from scholars devoted to doctrinal study. If even patriarchs met with this, how much more so people today! The Book of the Later Han says: "Debates over ritual propriety are known as endless disputes" — and truly, it is even worse than that! How difficult it truly is to establish a new position — one cannot be too careful about it.

Someone says: "One ought not perform Buddhist rites at a parent's funeral — this is what Master Huian's own Family Rituals teaches." Alas, what a lamentable claim!

There are people in this world who rejoice at having a son, at his rising to high office, at his amassing great wealth — and yet never receive from him so much as a single bow before the Buddha on their own behalf, a single four-line verse recited, a single monk fed. Instead, within the forty-nine days after a parent's death, they slaughter animals and distribute the sacrificial meat among relatives and friends, believing this to be the very embodiment of proper, orthodox ritual, correcting deviant practice. What they fail to realize is that this only adds to the departed parent's own karmic burden, dragging them further into suffering — if the dead retain any awareness at all, they must be weeping and beating their own breast in the underworld over it! This is worse, in the end, than the children of a poor family, who, though unable to afford an elaborate funeral, can still repay their parents through worship, recitation, or feeding a single monk. Is this not doubly lamentable?

Yan Zhitui's Family Instructions is a work admired across the ages, and in it, this exact same subject is addressed with the explicit instruction: "Buddhist rites must be performed." Both Yan and Zhu were genuine worthies — let readers consider the two of them together, and judge for themselves.

The Daoist text Zhen Gao records: "Bao Mian knew nothing of the Way, but from morning to night never once ceased clacking his teeth together, and for this reason the emissaries of the underworld could not take him. This was because clacking the teeth gathers together the spirit within the body, and as long as that spirit does not scatter, no demon can approach it. Had Bao Mian instead applied that same effort to true spiritual cultivation, what attainment could he not have reached?"

I would say: why stop at spiritual cultivation? If one applied that same effort — the effort of clacking one's teeth together — to turning one's own mind, thought after thought, back upon itself in genuine investigation, what buddhahood could not be attained?

The spirit within the body is, after all, no more than a single thread of consciousness — and even this alone has the power to subdue demons. How much more so, then, when a sutra says: "Whoever receives and upholds even a single buddha's name has a hundred thousand mighty heavenly spirits standing guard over them," and again: "The Buddha himself dwells upon the crown of the head of one who recites the Buddha's name." And yet there are people today who diligently pursue this trivial technique of tooth-clacking, while willingly abandoning the great and unsurpassed path of Buddha-recitation. What a pity!

What the ancients called a "steep and lofty gate" is exemplified by Vimalakīrti feigning illness: every arhat sent to inquire after him said, "I am not fit to undertake such a visit," and even Mañjuśrī himself said, "That exalted one is difficult to answer." This is precisely what is meant.

Following in this tradition, the great venerable masters of the Chan school — striking with a staff, shouting, raising a single finger, drawing a bow, or delivering a single terse phrase — offer something like a broth made of wood chips, impossible to savor, or like the sword Tai'e, impossible to touch, or like the moon reflected in water, impossible to grasp. No one but a seasoned, senior practitioner would dare approach such a gate at all — this, and only this, is what is truly meant by a "steep and lofty gate." How could it possibly mean putting on airs, showing off one's authority, raising one's voice, or striking a fearsome pose?

Demons fall roughly into two kinds: heavenly demons and mind-demons. Heavenly demons are easy enough to recognize, and need not detain us here. Mind-demons, by contrast, do not require someone to go mad or rave, or to profane the sacred and disrespect one's elders without restraint, or to go about disheveled and unclothed without shame, before we can properly call it demonic possession. The moment a person becomes attached to anything at all — wealth, sensual pleasure, poetry, wine, calligraphy, painting — this too is demonic possession.

Is this the whole of it? Even the idle wish to have one's achievements outshine an entire age, one's name remembered for a hundred generations — this too is demonic possession.

Is this the whole of it? Even cultivating every conceivable good practice, if driven by the deluded hope of becoming a buddha through it — this too is demonic possession.

Is this the whole of it? Even someone entirely free of every demon described above, who then thinks to himself, "Today I alone am free of demonic influence" — even this very thought is itself demonic possession.

How subtle, indeed, this all is! How difficult demonic activity truly is to detect!

For a monk living in the age of the True Dharma, the only real worry, in seeking out teachers, is giving rise to deluded discrimination at all. For a monk living in this degenerate age, the opposite worry applies: the real danger is failing to discriminate at all. Why the difference? Because in a degenerate age, when the world has grown thin and corrupt, fragrant herbs and foul weeds grow tangled together indiscriminately — and if one's own judgment of character is careless, one's choices will inevitably go astray: taking the wrong for the right, mistaking the deviant for the true, drawing close to what ought to be kept at a distance, and holding at a distance what ought to be drawn close. Steeped in unworthy influence, one gradually becomes indistinguishable from it, and across lifetime after lifetime, remains forever bound to demonic company. How, then, could one possibly go seeking teachers without a truly discerning eye?

"Once a human body is lost, it may not be regained for ten thousand kalpas" — who does not already know this saying! And yet to know it and pay it no real heed is exactly the same as not knowing it at all.

Long ago, when the elder Sudatta was building a monastery for the Buddha, the Buddha looked down at an ant on the ground and said to him: "This very ant has already lived, unchanged, through the era of seven successive buddhas, beginning with Vipaśyin Buddha." For even a single buddha to appear in the world takes an immense span of time — how much more so seven! And after Śākyamuni's own passing, more than five million years must still elapse before Maitreya descends to be born as the eighth buddha — who can say whether this very ant will even have shed its ant-body by then? And even if it has, who can say on what day it will finally attain a human body at all?

People today see nothing but the crowds of humanity around them, shoulder to shoulder, and have no idea how difficult it truly was to obtain even this — and having obtained it, pass through their whole lives utterly heedless, letting it slip by empty and wasted. This is truly a matter for the deepest sorrow and regret! Reflecting on my own laziness and wasted time, I cannot help feeling this same deep regret myself — and I offer it here as well to my fellow companions on the path.

Master Gaofeng, describing the cause of his own awakening, said: "I no longer believe there is anything so extraordinary about this at all — nothing can resist a person who is truly determined." These words are his own direct realization, genuinely true, and students of the Way should believe them deeply.

But what, exactly, does "determined" mean? Consider any worldly skill or craft: at the outset, learning it seems overwhelmingly difficult, as if it could never possibly be mastered — and if one simply gives up at that point, nothing will ever come of it. And so, first and most precious of all is an unwavering, undoubting resolve. Even with that resolve, if one then proceeds leisurely and half-heartedly, nothing will come of it either — and so, next in importance is a fiercely diligent, courageous mind. And even with that diligence, if one is satisfied with the smallest gain, or grows weary over time, or is led astray by favorable circumstances, or collapses under adverse ones, nothing will come of it still — and so, beyond even that, what is needed is a constant, unshakeable resolve that vows never to turn back.

Gaofeng's own vow — "I will spend my whole life as a foolish, dull-witted man if I must, but I am absolutely determined to see this one matter through to complete clarity" — this is what it truly means to be a person of genuine resolve. An ancient worthy likewise said: "Though my sinews snap and my bones wither, I will never rest until I have attained samādhi." Another said: "If my own attainment of the Way does not surpass Xuedou's, I will never return home." Yet another said: "I vow never to rest until I have broken through this knot of doubt." With this kind of resolve, what could possibly remain unaccomplished? I feel deep shame before such examples, and dare not fail to strive.

In ancient times, once a person had truly grasped the essential point, he would retreat into some deep mountain valley, cooking his meals in a broken-legged pot, quietly concealing his own attainment while continuing to nurture it — and only once the dragon and heavenly guardians themselves pressed him forward would he, reluctantly, finally emerge to teach. Later generations have gradually fallen short of this standard; and yet I myself have still seen lecturers on the sutras and treatises, and specialists in the yogic feeding rites, who, though their learning was already complete, still held back patiently on account of their youth, waiting calmly for the proper time. These days, though, young people ascend the teacher's seat one after another in great numbers — is it any wonder the Buddha-dharma has fallen into such decline?

There is a common saying: "Only someone with the fortune of three successive generations as emperor, the talent of seven successive generations as top examination graduate, could possibly achieve great and thorough awakening, carry forward the patriarchal lamp, and continue the Buddha's own wisdom-life." This saying may sound exaggerated, but in principle it is entirely true.

The venerable Zhongfeng once said: "Birth and death across countless kalpas — to overturn the whole of it entirely, in a single day, is no easy thing at all." This is why the ten good deeds are needed merely to be reborn among the heavenly beings; why realizing the emptiness of self is needed merely to attain the fruit of the lesser vehicle; and why even a bodhisattva who has long accumulated the myriad practices may still fail to leap the final barrier, like a fish stranded gasping below the Dragon Gate. Against this backdrop, "three generations, seven generations" is really quite a modest way of putting it, and "ruling the whole realm, topping every examination" a fairly small analogy. Carried to its ultimate meaning, this can only be the accomplishment of inconceivable merit and wisdom.

And yet — how could this difficulty possibly be used as an excuse to give up, resigning oneself to despair? One need only resolve firmly, apply oneself diligently, never retreat before demonic obstruction, grow only more resolute when facing hardship, investigate the ultimate principle exhaustively, and take awakening itself as the standard — and there is no need to worry that the moment of true accord will never come. Why? Because the depth of one's own good roots from past lives can never truly be measured.

When Zhuge Liang won his victory by burning the rattan-armored troops, reducing every one of those southern tribesmen to ash, he himself said: "Though I have done a service to the state today, I have surely shortened my own lifespan for it." Everyone in this world knows perfectly well that killing a human being is a grave offense — and yet, day after day, they calmly slaughter cattle, sheep, dogs, and pigs for the table, without the slightest sense that anything is wrong. Do they imagine these creatures' lives count for so little that it makes no difference? How could this possibly be free of offense?

The Book of Rites says: "A ruler does not kill an ox without good cause; a minister does not kill a sheep without good cause; a scholar-official does not kill a dog or pig without good cause." Everyone knows that killing large animals without proper cause is an offense — and yet when it comes to shrimp, clams, snails, and mussels, people think nothing of consuming hundreds or even thousands of lives with a single pair of chopsticks, entirely unmoved. Do they imagine these small creatures' lives count for so little that it makes no difference? How could this, too, possibly be free of offense?

Ah! Since every sentient being possesses buddha-nature alike, an ant and a human being are, in that respect, exactly the same — how could their worth be weighed so unevenly? If the powerful may prey on the weak simply because they are weaker, then by the same logic, one human being might as well kill and eat another — how, then, could their worth be weighed so unevenly either? The Brahma Net Sūtra says: "No living creature whatsoever may be deliberately killed." How profound a teaching this truly is!

Once the ancients had attained great awakening, whatever they said — whether expounded broadly or narrowly, stated directly or by way of its opposite, spoken openly or esoterically — accorded exactly with the Buddha's own mind-seal in every case; every word was genuinely, literally true, nothing like the mere allegorical fables of a thinker like Zhuangzi.

People today, however, without having genuinely awakened at all, but naturally gifted with sharp minds and quick, ready speech, secretly glance through the exchanges recorded in various masters' sayings and Chan cases, and set about blindly imitating them. They value only what sounds startling and contrary to ordinary sense, using phrases like "high noon at midnight," "the sun rising at the dead of night," "waves cresting on a mountaintop," "dust rising from the ocean floor" — phrases carrying no real meaning at all, spoken carelessly, off the top of the head. Those without any real discernment cannot tell truth from falsehood, and praise it in unison, mistaking it for the words of a great teacher.

Lost on this path with no way back, such a person, over time, actually comes to believe he has seen the truth himself — and may even go so far as to say things like "strike the Buddha dead with a single blow and feed him to the dogs," or "is there a patriarch here? Bring him to wash my feet" — uttering such reckless words without the slightest hesitation, imitating the ancients blindly and only making a fool of himself in the process.

Alas! For anyone to speak so recklessly of prajñā, the offense is unforgivable — how truly frightening this is!