Notes Beside the Bamboo Window — Second Collection, Part 9

Mazu taught "mind itself is Buddha," and Damei grasped this teaching directly, settling peacefully into mountain seclusion thereafter. Later, hearing that Mazu now taught instead "neither mind nor Buddha," Damei said: "Let him say neither mind nor Buddha — I hold only to mind itself is Buddha." Mazu, hearing this, confirmed him, saying: "The plum is ripe." The world has admired and praised Damei's subtle awakening ever since! And yet there are two possible meanings here, which must not go unexamined: to directly grasp the original source, believing once and believing always, never again swayed by elaborate names and shifting appearances — this is truly "the plum is ripe." But if instead one simply clings to whatever teaching one heard first, dying fixed beneath its words, like the fool who carried hemp on his shoulder and refused to exchange it for gold — then this "ripeness" is only the ripeness of rot, not the ripeness of genuine maturity. The five thousand who rose and left the assembly are exactly what the ancients called "scorched sprouts and rotten seeds."

People of the world greatly value cleverness, boast of broad learning, and compete over literary elegance — and yet none of this can truly be relied upon, because all of it can be lost. Some exhaust their study of every school of thought, their writing surpassing their whole generation, and yet in their next life cannot recognize even a single character. Worse still, consider a certain Chan master named Chun, famous for his brilliant literary talent — he stumbled once, and rising again, instantly became simple-minded, needing no next life at all to lose it. Worse yet, one might be reborn as an animal entirely, of whom the sutra says: "thinking only of water and grass, knowing nothing else at all" — where, then, would all that cleverness one once relied upon have gone?

Only genuine prajñā-wisdom, stored within the eighth consciousness, endures unbroken through past and present alike — even lost within delusion, the moment the right condition touches it, awakening returns. It is no wonder that ordinary worldly people fail to understand this — but that monks should set aside their own fundamental task and instead exhaust all their effort on external learning is truly something to lament!

Clever people are often drawn to the strange, and those drawn to the strange are often deceived by it. Once a reputation for loving the strange spreads, the eccentric charlatans of the world — like the wandering mystics of ancient Yan and Qi along the coast — compete to offer their own arts, claiming communion with immortals, delighting and astonishing all who hear them, until one sinks in deeply and believes it utterly. Only when white-haired and near death, having accomplished nothing, with not a single proof ever having come true, does one finally feel real regret — and by then it is far too late! And yet even this is still better than dying without ever once turning back at all. Today's regret is proof enough that one will not be deceived by such things again.

There is a proverb meant to warn the world: an old man died and appeared before King Yama, and blamed the king for not sending word of his death sooner. The king answered: "I sent you word many times! When your eyes grew steadily dimmer, that was one message. When your ears grew steadily deafer, that was a second message. When your teeth grew steadily looser, that was a third message. As every part of your body grew weaker day by day, who could count how many messages I sent you!" But this was addressed only to an old man.

Let me extend the story further: a young man, too, once blamed the king, saying: "My eyes are sharp, my hearing keen, my teeth strong, my whole body healthy — why did the king send no message to me?" The king answered: "I sent you messages too — you simply failed to notice them. Has your eastern neighbor not had someone die at forty or fifty? Has your western neighbor not had someone die at twenty or thirty? Has there not been someone who died before even reaching ten years old, or an infant who died still at the breast? Were these not messages as well?" A fine horse runs at the mere shadow of the whip; only an inferior nag waits until the goad actually pierces its flesh. How could one possibly wait for that before feeling any grief at all!

A teacher of old once said: "Chan investigation is not something that can be spoken of within the ordinary human world." Someone raised a doubt about this, saying: "Chancellor Pei Xiu held that among the six realms, only the human realm allows one to order one's own thoughts and advance toward bodhi. If the earlier saying is really true, then Chan would have nowhere at all left to be investigated!"

I would answer: "Chancellor Pei's own point is entirely correct. The earlier saying was directed instead at those who, having eaten their fill of meat and wine, then go seeking out monks to discuss Chan with — and at monks whose mouths speak of prajñā while their bodies dwell in a monastery, yet whose hearts still wander the marketplace of fame and profit. If one could simply dwell at ease amid the five desires and still realize the fruit of the One Vehicle while doing so, what a tremendous bargain that would be for this world — who would not want it? Is this not exactly what is meant by 'where in this world could there possibly be a crane to ride to Yangzhou'?"

I hope no one will use this saying as an excuse to avoid diligent practice. Chan investigation, and thereby seeing one's own nature, is most certainly something that can be spoken of, and accomplished, within this very human world — the only real danger is lacking the will for it. Where there is a will, the thing is eventually accomplished.