Notes Beside the Bamboo Window — Third Collection, Part 3

The practice of solitary retreat did not exist in ancient times — it arose only in later generations, and its purpose is to nurture the Way, not to forge it in the first place. Consider: even one who has already given rise to the great bodhi-mind, like Sudhana, still crossed oceans and scaled mountains, braving wind and frost across a hundred prefectures; and one who has not yet grasped even a single word like "let it go with him" must still shoulder his pack and don his rain hat, traversing a thousand mountains as a wandering monk. Zhaozhou, at eighty years old, still traveled on foot, growing only more diligent with age; Xuefeng climbed Dongshan nine times and Touzi three times, never wearying of the hardship. Who, then, do you think you are, sitting at ease within a single room, expecting others to come seek instruction from you, while you yourself seek instruction from no one?

Long ago, Gaofeng sat through his own "death barrier" retreat in the Zhang Gong Cave, building his hut against the cliff face, suspended in open space like a bird in its nest, seen by scarcely anyone at all — but this happened only after his own great awakening! If retreat is undertaken merely to seek comfort and seal oneself away for private convenience, this is absolutely not permissible.

An old verse says: "Zhaozhou, at eighty, still traveled on foot, simply because his own mind had not yet found true stillness; only once he had returned home with nothing left to do did he finally realize how much he had wasted on straw sandals." People today never consider the verse's first two lines, but cling instead to its final line, claiming that the Way lies right before their own eyes, that traveling to seek instruction is entirely wasted effort — and cite Xuansha's never crossing the mountain ridge, or Baofu's never leaving his own gate, as their proof.

Ah! I hope such people will turn and examine themselves honestly: have you truly returned home already? Do you truly have nothing left to do? If you remain still stuck somewhere along the road, your mind restless and full of unfinished business, then it will not matter whether you live to eighty, or a hundred, or a thousand, or even ten thousand years — you would do far better to buy more straw sandals and travel to the very ends of the earth, without allowing yourself to rest even for a moment.

The decline of the Chan school has been brought about by those who lecture on it. Someone asked: "Lecturing is meant to clarify the school's own essential teaching — how can you say this has brought about its decline?" I answered: "The sutras, vinaya, and treatises all follow a logical progression that can be explained — without lecturing, they remain unclear. But Chan itself follows no such logical progression at all — to lecture on it only makes it more obscure still, since a student must reach genuine realization entirely through his own investigation." This is why it is said: "Even should the vast ocean itself transform into mulberry fields, I will still never explain this for your sake." It is also said: "Should I explain this plainly for you now, you would only curse me for it later." Today's lecturers, by contrast, have turned everything into stock, formulaic phrases — and this is exactly why the Patriarch's own meaning from the West remains unclear, and why the school itself has declined.

The faults of Chan students are caused by those who teach Chan investigation. Someone asked: "Teaching people Chan investigation is meant to revive the direct-pointing path at this late hour, when its lamp is nearly extinguished — how can you call this a fault?" I answered: "Though the Way is something everyone already possesses in full, it is also something everyone finds genuinely difficult to realize; unless one has truly sharp faculties and superior wisdom, one will never come close to the far shore at all — how, then, can this be taught indiscriminately to everyone alike? It is like recruiting soldiers: if the recruits are timid and feeble, they can only be given a flag to hold or a drum to beat; but hand them Zhu Hai's iron mallet, Lord Guan's great blade, or Dian Wei's long halberd, and scarcely any of them would fail to tremble and collapse under the weight — how, then, could one possibly hope for them to slay enemy generals, capture chieftains, and storm fortified cities? Or consider someone who has only just learned to write the simplest primer characters, and yet already presumes to teach others how to compose examination essays — this too is a grave error!"

Someone asked: "What, then, do you yourself do?" I answered: "This old monk is still working on mastering that very same simple primer, and has not yet even managed to learn it thoroughly."