Notes Beside the Bamboo Window — Second Collection, Part 16

The ancients said: "Great Yu, a sage, treasured even a single inch of shadow on the sundial; ordinary people ought at least to treasure a tenth of that." And the Buddha said that human life exists only within the space of a single breath. Within even a tenth of an inch of shadow, many breaths pass — so we ought not merely treasure a tenth of an inch, but even a single instant, a single snap of the fingers, must not go untreasured.

Long ago, Chan Master Yi'an Quan would weep every evening, saying: "Today has again passed by empty and wasted — I do not know what tomorrow's effort will bring." Such was the intensity of his own self-discipline. Whenever I see the morning sun rise, I remember Yi'an's words, and say to myself: "Now another day has begun! Yesterday has already passed by empty — I do not know what today's effort will bring." And yet I only sigh, and have never once wept — from this I know that my own resolve for the Way falls far, far short of the ancients'. How can I not feel ashamed! How can I not strive all the harder!

Wannian Monastery lies deep among the ten thousand peaks of Mount Tiantai; before its main hall stand more than ten ancient trees, arranged in a single line, their ranks orderly and their branches and leaves luxuriant, forming a magnificent, imposing sight at the monastery gate. A stone inscription there records: "These were planted by an immortal from above — whoever cuts one down will die on the spot."

Someone said: "Whoever wrote this inscription must have been a fool! In some future day, could it possibly guarantee that some powerful man would not simply ignore it and cut them down anyway? What, then, was the point of writing it at all?" I would say this criticism is mistaken. That whatever flourishes must eventually decline is something the ancients certainly knew perfectly well — but the law had to be established regardless. Whether later generations, believing this inscription, restrain their own destructive impulses, or disbelieve it and commit the offense anyway, this belongs entirely to each individual's own conduct — the one who established the law has no further control over it, and simply leaves each person to his own fate. That one who destroys the harmony of the sangha falls into the Avīci hell is the Buddha's own teaching — and yet even before the Buddha himself entered nirvana, Devadatta lured away a number of monks from the Jetavana community, and the Buddha could not prevent Devadatta's own disregard for this teaching. Does this mean the Buddha himself was a fool?

Even a monk of genuinely lofty conduct, who in ordinary times believes his own mind untouched by wealth and rank, may well hold to this in the present life without necessarily being able to hold to it in some future life. A friend of mine, whose literary talent had made him the foremost writer in the land, holding a senior post at the Historiography Institute with a towering reputation, once happened to visit Mount Tianmu, and said to me: "There is a stone chamber in this mountain where a monk passed away seated in meditation, and his body remains preserved there still — I wished to pay my respects, but felt suddenly afraid, and dared not go." I asked him why. He answered: "I heard that once, someone went to pay homage to the monk in that stone chamber, and the very moment he bowed down, he collapsed and died on the spot — and at that same instant, the monk within the chamber stirred, yawned, and rose from his meditative absorption. I feared this might happen to me too, and so I dared not go." And with that, we looked at each other and burst out laughing together.

This gentleman, of broad talent and profound virtue, of keen and penetrating discernment, and moreover a man who had always taken a genuine interest in the Buddha-dharma, still clung to his own present wealth and rank, guarding this dream-like body of his, fearing nothing so much as waking from that dream — what, then, is there left to say of anyone else? An old farmer with his own five-acre plot, a lowly clerk guarding a gate and striking the night watch, a poor monk with only twenty or thirty devoted households supporting him — all of these already cling so fondly to what little they have that they carry the attachment with them into the very storehouse-consciousness at death; how much more so, then, for those who have achieved the highest examination honors, occupy positions of real power, and possess every worldly glory the world has to offer — is it any wonder they cling so fondly to it all? Wealth and rank hold people fast — even the worthy and wise cannot always escape it. Alas! How truly fearsome this is!

The old villagers in the mountains call the goose "the Goose Practitioner of the Way." I asked them why, and they explained: "When ducks enter a rice paddy, every leech, rice-borer, root-worm, and earthworm within it is devoured entirely, leaving nothing behind — so wherever a flock of ducks passes, it is called 'the great army passing through.' When chickens walk the ground, no venomous centipede or leaping cricket can escape their beaks. But the goose eats only fresh grass and grain husks — its diet contains no meat at all, and so it is called a 'practitioner of the Way.'"

Hearing this, I wept freely, overcome with sorrow! Chickens and ducks kill small creatures, and people in turn kill chickens and ducks — this retribution seems, in its own way, evenly balanced. But why, then, do people also slaughter and eat the flesh of the goose? The goose has earned the title of "practitioner of the Way," and yet people behave like ravenous tigers toward every living creature regardless — alas, how truly heartbreaking! And yet, that the goose eats no meat, resembling the legendary zouyu beast that harms nothing living, is not something taught to it by any master or friend — it is simply its own nature. And nature itself is shaped by long habit accumulated over time. This is exactly why a student of the Way must be careful indeed about what habits he cultivates.

When ordinary people celebrate their own birthday, they hold banquets, play music, commission paintings, and compete in composing verse, taking all this as a form of celebration. Emperor Wenzong of Tang alone refused to do so — a truly extraordinary departure from common custom.

Someone asked: "On this day, instead of celebrating with pleasure, would it not be better to recite sutras, perform repentance, and cultivate various forms of merit?" I answered: "This is certainly good! To repay one's parents' toil in giving one birth, and to dissolve the karma one has accumulated over one's own lifetime — these are things one ought to devote real effort to on this day. And yet this remains only a secondary matter, not the root of the thing itself. A teacher of old once asked: 'Before your parents ever gave birth to you, who, then, was your own original face?' On one's birthday, is there anyone who can set aside celebration entirely, and instead turn right mindfulness toward contemplating that original face from before birth? If one could achieve total, penetrating clarity on this very point, one would not merely repay the debt owed to one's parents in this single life, but repay the debt owed to one's parents across countless past lives as well; one would not merely dissolve the karma of this present life, but dissolve the accumulated hindrances of many lifetimes besides. To set aside the false pleasures of this world, and attain instead the true bliss of nirvana — such a person is a truly filial child indeed! Such a person is truly a great figure in this world!"

There are those who, having received the Buddhist precepts and given up meat entirely, suddenly fall ill, and are then strongly urged by relatives and friends to eat meat again — and further encouraged by some ordinary physician besides — until even those who have kept a vegetarian diet for many years abandon it all in a single day. Have they never considered that meat's only real effect is to fatten the body, not to extend one's life — something a genuinely wise person would never do regardless? And consider further: even among the children of the wealthiest, most indulgent households, some remain gaunt and undernourished as though starving; while among farmers who eat nothing but the plainest food, some grow as plump and healthy as any rich merchant. If meat cannot even reliably fatten the body, how could it possibly preserve one's life?

If a vegetarian falls ill, should he then be told to eat meat — and if a meat-eater falls ill, what, then, should he be told to eat instead? This matter rests entirely on the patient's own firm adherence to principle. But if one occupies a lowly or junior position, with elders and superiors above who insist and whose authority cannot be defied, then eating the "three kinds of pure meat" may be permitted — but killing an animal specifically in order to eat it is never permitted.