Notes Beside the Bamboo Window — Third Collection, Part 1

Someone asked: "Of all the evils people commit, which is the greatest?" Those who answered said: "Robbery, rebellion against one's parents, inciting others to wrongdoing." I said: "These are indeed grave, but there is something still greater — nothing in this world is a greater evil than killing living beings." Someone objected: "Slaughtering animals for the table is an everyday matter of ordinary life — how can this be called evil, let alone the greatest evil?"

Ah! Listen to what I have to say. Robbery, evil though it is, aims only at obtaining wealth — if the victim were to hand it over willingly, the robber need not necessarily take his life at all; but killing living beings means slitting open the belly, gouging out the heart, boiling flesh and brains in a cauldron! Rebellion against one's parents may take the form of abandoning them without support, or treating them with contemptuous disrespect, but need not go so far as the deeds of Ajātaśatru or Yang Guang. And besides, what Ajātaśatru and Yang Guang harmed were only the parents of a single lifetime — but the sutras teach that living beings themselves are, in many cases, one's own parents from past lives; and one who kills living beings, from youth to old age, kills beyond any possible count — this harms one's own parents across countless lifetimes! As for inciting others to wrongdoing, once such evil accumulates and becomes known, it is usually investigated, and few escape the law's reach; but who ever investigates those who kill living beings? Comparing the two, then, the harm caused by robbery, rebellion, or incitement has its own limits, while the harm of killing living beings has no end at all. This is why the Yijing says: "The greatest virtue of heaven and earth is to give life." In other words, the greatest evil in heaven and earth is to kill living beings.

It has long been said that Master Yongming recited Amitābha's name a hundred thousand times, day and night. I once tried this myself: starting from this morning's sunrise and continuing until tomorrow's sunrise — a full twenty-four hours, a hundred graduated marks on the water-clock — I managed exactly a hundred thousand recitations, but only by reciting the four-character name; had I recited the six-character form, I could not have reached the full count. Eating, drinking, and relieving myself all had to proceed without the recitation ever pausing — the slightest interruption, and the count would fall short. Sleep and conversation had to be entirely cut off — the slightest indulgence, and the count would fall short. And the pace had to be hurried and urgent, like a traveler rushing along a road, with no time at all to recite carefully and with real sincerity — reciting carefully would likewise leave the count short.

From this I understand: "a hundred thousand times" is, in general, simply a vivid way of expressing the idea that one should never depart from the Buddha's name even for a moment — it does not necessarily fix the fully specific number of a hundred thousand as a strict requirement. I worry that some sincere practitioners of Buddha-recitation might cling to this number and make themselves ill over it, and so I report my own experiment here, exactly as it happened. Should someone say: "This was something the master accomplished within deep meditative absorption" — that, then, is beyond what I myself can know.

The ancients, once they had achieved great and thorough awakening and completed their own course of study, would still withdraw to some quiet spot by the water or beneath the trees, nurturing their own sacred embryo of realization, unconcerned even if mold grew upon their unused mouths — only once the dragon spirits and heavenly guardians themselves pushed them forward would they finally begin teaching others. This is why those who declined an invitation to teach vowed to remain, life after life, in the position of a student still under training, continuing to temper and refine themselves.

When I first left the household life, I devoutly upheld this very teaching, holding it close to my own heart. Later, when illness brought me into the mountains, I did not expect that, over time, a genuine monastic community would gradually form around me. And yet even now, I dare not regard my own dwelling as an abbot's quarters, and dare not speak recklessly, pronouncing grandly on the doctrines of the various schools — I am simply practicing together with the assembly, not leading them along the Way. Being somewhat senior in age is my only real qualification, and I offer nothing more than mutual encouragement between fellow practitioners. I hope every one of you will treat me as a companion on the path, and correct me freely — nothing would please me more!

The ancients said: "One who, before benefiting himself, first benefits others — this is the bodhisattva giving rise to the mind of awakening." This saying is truly like sweet dew — and yet, poorly understood, it can turn into poison instead. Try reflecting honestly on yourself: am I truly a bodhisattva? And besides, this only describes the bodhisattva's initial resolve, not something already actually accomplished. Have you never heard the saying: "One whose own awakening is already complete, who then goes on to awaken others — this is how the Tathāgata manifests in the world"?

Someone might say: "If one must wait until one's own awakening is complete before benefiting others, then the chance to benefit others would never come at all." But it is like a man unable to cure his own illness, and yet claiming he can cure others' illnesses — there is simply no such possibility. This is why one must give rise to the bodhisattva's own broad and expansive resolve, while also firmly upholding the Tathāgata's own genuine, earnest instruction. Otherwise, one blind man leading other blind men, wishing only to attach the name of "bodhisattva" to oneself, ends up losing both oneself and others at once — what, then, is the use of that?