Faith in Mind: Part II, Retreat Two (Dec. 25, 1984 - Jan. 1, 1985)
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Contents |
Giving Up Expectations
Do not abide in dualistic views; Take care not to seek after them. As soon as there is right and wrong The mind is scattered and lost.
Dualistic views refer to the discriminating mind. They include any doubts about the correctness of your method, or whether your decision to attend this retreat was a right or a wrong one. If you lack faith, you will doubt the method you are using. On the other hand, if your confidence is too strong, then you will be expecting something out of the practice. Neither extreme is beneficial.
To come to a retreat merely out of curiosity shows a lack of faith in yourself and in the practice; it would be impossible for you to get good results. From the very beginning you are denying yourself the possibility of doing well on retreat. At the same time, you may harbor certain resentments: you may get annoyed at the people around you, or even at your own body when your legs cause you pain. You may be critical of the food, or the style of the retreat.
Having too much faith in yourself is likewise a problem. Someone who was extremely confident came to one retreat. He was highly intelligent, and a top student. He thought: "If a person like me cannot get enlightened, then who can?" After one day of practice, his back ached, his legs hurt, and he began to question if this was the way to get enlightened. One evening in the Ch'an hall, he heard me say, "If you can do it, sit through the night." He concluded that in order to get enlightened, he should forgo sleep. By midnight his eyes were heavy, but he forced himself to continue sitting. After three days of this, he was totally exhausted and he said to me, "Now I have some idea of this enlightenment you are talking about. Basically you just have to go without sleep."
Practice is like cooking rice. If you use a gentle flame the rice will be perfect and easy to digest, whereas with a high flame, it will burn before it is done. One should practice with a very relaxed attitude. If you do not abide in duality, neither having too much nor too little confidence, then what should you do? You have not come here to get enlightened, but to practice. It is not important whether you have a good grasp of the matter and can enter the practice deeply or not. Just do not have any doubts about the method or whether you have the "right stuff" to practice. Do not underestimate yourself. If others can practice, then at least you can try.
Once a student who did well on her first retreat came a second time. At first everything went fine, but then a problem arose. While sitting it occurred to her that counting the breath was really boring. If she spent her time reciting the name of the Buddha, she thought, then at least she would be accumulating merit. But what was the use of counting from one to ten? Towards evening she said to me, "Shih-fu, I don't want to stay on this retreat.
One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten. Even a kid in kindergarten can do that. Why should I waste my time here?" When your mind strays from the method, problems will appear. In fact, the method is inherently meaningless. It is irrelevant to discuss whether it brings merit or not. The purpose of a method is to train your mind. You can raise the same objection about prostrating to the Buddha, or morning and evening chanting. Why should practice take these forms?
People often wonder: If Ch'an is a method of sudden enlightenment which does not depend on meditation, then why do we practice meditation and go on seven-day retreats? If someone objects that these things are unrelated to Ch'an, I say that if you want to study Ch'an I will instruct you in exactly these methods. In order to practice, you must believe in your teacher and in his methods. If you search for methods on your own, you may not find anything and eventually give up practicing. Or you may find something weird and end up in a demonic state, with mental and physical problems.
Someone once said to me, "I only believe in ancient Ch'an." I asked, "What do you mean by `ancient Ch'an'?" He replied, "Whereas the so-called Ch'an masters of today teach people to meditate, ancient Ch'an does not require any practice. My enlightenment experience came from the ancient, direct method, without any practice. I have been to many masters looking for one who would confirm my experience. Unfortunately, I have been unsuccessful so far." He was not actually interested in studying with a master, but in obtaining the credentials to spread the Dharma on his own. After a brief conversation, I realized that this person was not quite straight in his mind, and said to him, "I am not enlightened myself, so how can I tell whether you are enlightened or not?" He said, "Strange. If you say you are not enlightened, then how can you teach Ch'an?" I said, "I may not be enlightened myself, but I can teach others to get enlightened. For example, it is not necessary for a cardiologist to have heart problems to treat others successfully." He said, "In that case, am I capable of teaching Ch'an to others?" I replied, "Since I don't know anything about you I can't answer that question."
Meditation should just be a part of life. If you have other motivations, it will lead to problems. When you approach the practice with any expectations, you will not be able to sit well. Not only should you not have any expectations of getting enlightened or becoming a Ch'an master, but you should not even expect to be free from your pain. Do not hope that your legs or back will stop hurting. Do not try to overcome the pain as if you had to burst through a barrier. Simply accept the pain. You may not feel very happy about it, but at least do not resent it. If you cannot accept it, then ignore it and turn your mind to the method. When the pain becomes too great to ignore, place your attention on the pain itself. Disassociate yourself from the part of your body that is painful. Let it ache away. If you can take this attitude, eventually it will go away. When you really get into the practice, all bodily sensation will disappear.
The important thing is not to have any resentment against your suffering, or any expectations of happiness. As soon as ideas such as suffering versus happiness arise, your mind will already be straying from the method, caught up in duality.
You are all aware that this Center is not an ideal environment for practice. The neighbors hammer against the walls. Outside there is a continual stream of traffic and airplanes passing overhead. Yet even in the midst of this noisy and crowded world we are given a small area to practice. So we should not let our minds be distracted by what is going on outside or by what comes in contact with our senses.
On retreat you are living with many people which may create an uncomfortable environment. You don't feel free or find it as convenient as at home. On the other hand, the presence of others will encourage, almost force you to practice. Even if you are not practicing energetically, at least you will make an effort to appear to be practicing. When people sit together, they can be of great benefit to each other. Whether you practice well or not, treasure this rare opportunity and do your best.
Beyond One Mind
Two comes from one, Yet do not even keep the one. When one mind does not arise, Myriad dharmas are without defect.
In yesterday's talk I cautioned against abiding in duality. Although we should not abide in duality, we still must hold on to the method. Method is that which helps us to unify our minds, to replace the constant stream of scattered thoughts. After the mind is concentrated by the method, we eventually reach a point where the method itself disappears and the mind is one. Today someone said during the interview, "I have been practicing for quite a few years but I have never had the experience of forgetting my body, or my method disappearing." I said, "You should not be too anxious about it. Just proceed naturally." The state of one mind has to come about naturally. Naturally, the method will leave you behind; it is not for you to think of leaving the method behind. The state of one mind is not easy to attain. But today I will go one step further and say that even the one mind has to be transcended and left behind.
In the Avatamsaka Sutra there are the following two lines: "With no exception everything comes from the Dharma Realm. With no exception everything will return to the Dharma Realm." Everything is generated by the one and will eventually return to the one. This concept can be found in both oriental and western philosophy. But in Buddha Dharma even that state is not good enough.
A disciple of Chao-Chou once asked his master, "If the myriad dharmas [1] return to one, to what does the one return?" Chao-Chou answered, "In Ch'ing-chou I had a robe made, weighing seven pounds."
To be attached to the one can either take the form of pure materialism or monotheism. But in the course of practice it is necessary to first get to the one. It is only then that you realize that even this one is not ultimate. It is still on a worldly level. Only when you can transcend this unified state will you reach genuine Buddha Dharma.
You begin by concentrating the scattered mind. To say that the mind is concentrated does not mean that it is in a unified state, because there is still a distinction between subject and object, between you and the method. But when the method drops away, your mind will be very clear, without any thoughts, and you are left only with a sense of your own existence. This is the state of one mind, also called samadhi. However, this is only an elementary level of samadhi, and if you continue on the same course you can get into ever-deepening samadhi states. However, Ch'an practitioners do not dwell in samadhi, but attempt to drop even that state of one mind.
Today a student mentioned that when he sits he very often enters a very comfortable, enjoyable state. This type of sensation is really an expression of desire. As long as a person is attached to a desire for bodily or mental pleasure of any kind, there is no hope of entering into one mind. This is because your mind is divided into two, or even three: a sense of your self, of your body, and of the pleasure. If a pleasurable sensation arises while sitting, you should remain aloof from it. Yet this experience is not completely useless, because it at least motivates you to continue practicing and to attend retreats.
Indeed, an enjoyable meditation experience can exceed the pleasure that derives from food or sex. But as soon as you reach this stage, leave it behind.
Another term for one mind is "great self," because although the mind is enormously expanded, there is still a sense of self-centeredness, or "I." So long as you are attached to "I," there can be no liberation. If you feel that you are abiding in a state of "perfection," or think of yourself as a perfect master, this is at best the great self.
Thus there are two meanings of "one" referred to in this line: "Yet do not even keep the one." The first is samadhi and the second is the great self. These are the highest states that can be attained from the practice of worldly dharma. From the point of view of Ch'an, even though a person may reach samadhi or the great self, he will still be in samsara, the cycle of birth and death. The liberation that he feels is only transitory; it is not ultimate liberation. But "When one mind does not arise, myriad dharmas are without defect." That is to say, a person in the state of one mind is still subject to problems, but when he loses even that one mind nothing can cause him any trouble.
One thing should be clarified here. In the state of one mind, there are no vexations. Trouble can only develop in a state of discrimination. As long as you stay in a state of one mind, nothing can bother, tempt, or excite you. The problem with one mind is that it cannot last forever; inevitably, a thought will arise, and it will evolve into two, three, and many. The state of one can only be considered in relation to two. A true totality would not even be considered "one"; it can only be called "nothing." It is only when a distinction is made that the one can exist at all, and in that case it will lead to two. You can only feel lonely when you are aware of the possible existence of another person. In complete totality, there is no sense of loneliness.
Without defect, without dharmas, No arising, no mind.
No mind, or Ch'an, is a state of non-arising and non-perishing. Not a single thought will arise, and even that unmoving mind fundamentally does not exist. There is nothing that can give you trouble, and nothing that you can give trouble to.
Both our body and mind need food to survive. There are two types of food for the body: nutrition and contact. "Contact food" includes the sensation of touching another person, and the feeling of changing into clean clothes after a shower. There is another kind of food for the mind, called "consciousness food," which satisfies the ordinary minds' hunger for experience and phenomena. If you can leave the first two kinds of food, you will be outside of the desire realm. But beyond the desire realm, there are the form realm and the formless realm. To go beyond them, you have to free yourself from the food of consciousness. In the state of one mind, where only consciousness exists, you may have transcended the desire realm but are still in samsara. Only when you are free from all three types of food will you enter no mind, and be outside samsaric realms.
Note
[1] dharma: a "thing" or "object," a physical or mental phenomenon.
Capitalized, Dharma refers to the Buddhist "Law" or "teaching."
Illusions
The subject is extinguished with the object. The object sinks away with the subject.
The mind dharma cannot arise by itself or function alone. It always co-exists with the form dharma. The Zen expression "one hand clapping" illustrates the impossibility of such a thing. The mind can only be found in the realm of mental objects.
Once Master Nan-Ch'uan went to the farm of the monastery where he was abbot. The previous night, a local earth deity informed the farmers of Nan-Ch'uan's impending visit, so they had prepared a welcome feast. He asked them, "How did you know I was coming?" They answered, "Last night the earth deity told us you were coming today." Upon hearing this, the master said, "I am really very ashamed. My practice must be quite poor that even deities manage to peep into my mind." He meant that when he thought of going to the farm, the mind dharma had arisen in conjunction with the form dharma, or the concrete idea of the farm. When his mind moved, the deity was able to see it.
The same master was meditating in a hut next to a river. One night he heard two ghosts conversing. One of them was rejoicing that his term was coming to an end because the next day someone would be replacing him. The second ghost asked, "Who will be replacing you?" He replied, "A man wearing an iron hat." The master wondered to himself who this person could be. The next day there was heavy rain and the river rose to a higher level. The master looked out of his hut and saw a man about to cross the river. He had covered his head with a wok for protection against the rain. Immediately, the master knew that this was the man of the iron hat, so he cautioned him saying, "Don't cross the river today. It's too dangerous." The man asked, "Why?" "Because the water is very deep and running rapidly." The man listened to the old monk's advice and returned home.
You must understand that in Chinese lore, water ghosts are prisoners until another person drowns and takes their place. That night as he was meditating, the master heard the two ghosts again. This time the first ghost was complaining, "I have been stuck here for so many years, and I thought my chance for freedom had finally come. But now the old monk interfered and messed everything up. I'll show him what I can do." With that, the ghost broke a hole in the bank of the river, so that the water would run down and cover the hut. The master realized that the ghost was trying to drown him. Suddenly he disappeared from sight. The ghost looked around, but the hut was empty.
Actually, the master was still there and heard the ghost very clearly. He was invisible for the simple reason that his mind was not moving. It was not influenced by the environment, no longer tied to mental objects, which are shadows of the mind.
All of our thoughts are illusory; they depend on certain objects or symbols. If there are no objects, forms or symbols in your mind, there would be no illusory thoughts. It is possible, however, to have an illusory thought that is considered "right thought" if you maintain this one thought continually without interference. For instance, counting the breath is in itself an illusory thought, but if you maintain it without a break it would be the right thought, the method of your practice.
On the other hand, if your thoughts are constantly changing, they would be considered "wandering thoughts" rather than "right thought." But both of these situations are not the pure mind because your mind is still attached to mental realms. It is not the state of no mind; it is not even the state of one mind. With these mental objects in your mind it would be difficult to control your next birth at the time of death. Instead, where you go will be directed by the thrust of your karma. Karma leads you in the direction of your strongest desire or attachment. Thus your mind follows the mental realm that you are most attracted to. If your mind is free from the environment, not bounded by mental realms, then your next birth will not be dictated by karma but rather by your own decision. Being free to go wherever you wish, you are outside of the cycle of birth and death.
So long as your mind is filled with greed, hatred, or ignorance, you will be immersed in vexation and suffering. You will not even be reborn in the heavens, not to mention be liberated from birth and death. Heavenly states can only be attained by performing meritorious deeds with a minimum of desire. And you could not reach one mind, or samadhi, because of your strong attachment to certain objects.
Thus when you are practicing, all thoughts other than the method should be considered as demons, even if it feels like you have entered a "heavenly" state. Some people, as they are sitting, may suddenly enter a completely new world which is very beautiful and comfortable. Afterwards, they want to return to it in each meditation. They may be able to get into that state again, but nonetheless it is an attachment. There are also other states that are terrifying. Such visions, good and bad, are generally manifestations of our own mental realms.
Now we can understand why the methods of kung-an and hua-t'ou are different than counting the breath, reciting the Buddha's name, or repeating a mantra. Though the latter are necessary in the beginning, they include relative objects (i.e. the breath, the Buddha's name, or the mantra). In these cases, the objects make up your mental realm. And where there is an object there must be a subject, namely, the self. But kung-an and hua-t'ou are objectless methods of practice. Other than the method, there is nothing in front of you. For example, the question "What is wu?" [1] does not have an answer you can grasp. There is nothing behind the question. You are just using it as a method to practice. If there is no object, then what about a subject? When you enter deeply into this method, even though you may not be enlightened, you will not have any sense of self. Your entire self will be enclosed in a great mass of doubt. No ghosts or deities would be able to find you.
Note
[1] "What is wu?": (wu=Chinese, "nothing" or "there is not"; in Japanese, mu). Hua-t'ou based on the kung-an in which Master Chao-Chou was asked by a monk, "Does a dog have buddha nature?", to which Chao-Chou replied, "Wu." Alteratively practiced by just looking into the word wu/mu.
Awareness of Vexations
Object is object because of the subject; Subject is subject because of the object. Know that the two Are originally one emptiness. In one emptiness the two are the same, Containing all phenomena.
These lines describe a non-discriminating mind in which, nevertheless, there is perfectly clear discrimination.
In the course of practice, the more negative things you discover about yourself, the clearer you will be as to the road you should walk. After leaving mainland China, I was conscripted into the Nationalist army in Taiwan. At that time, everything was in a state of confusion and the troops were crowded together in a warehouse. In this warehouse there were no windows or lights, and at night people couldn't see their way to the toilet so many just relieved themselves where they were. Others who decided to feel their way outside ended up stepping on the mess in the dark. However, at daybreak one could see the shit very clearly and avoid it. It was a mistake to imagine that just because you couldn't see it, there was no shit on the floor.
Those who have never taken up the practice are like the people in that dark room. No matter where they walk, they step into shit. Coming to retreat is like putting a light into the room. Maybe the light will only stay on for a minute, but at least you can see some of the problem areas. Gradually, you will be able to tell exactly where the shit is and where it isn't. The more you know, the less likely you will step in it. But to get angry when you discover problems would just be adding trouble to trouble. It would be as if, after realizing you stepped on some shit, you did it again just to punish yourself. Retreats are like road repair. When there is a problem underneath the road, the workers break up the pavement in order to fix the cables, pipes, or whatever is faulty. After they finish the work, they pave over it again and everything is just as it was before. Likewise, in order to make our own repairs, we have to break up the road and mess things up temporarily. Thus discovering one's problems in the course of practice is very useful, but do these problems actually exist?
Yes, the miseries of the retreat are quite real. You are truly tired and uncomfortable. You are definitely in this place and not some other. Yet you must look at non-existence from the point of view of existence. When you can't concentrate on the method, when you haven't gotten enough sleep, and when your legs are painful, it is all really happening. But originally your legs were not painful. It was only after you started sitting that they became painful. If you stretch out your legs they will no longer be painful. Thus when you experience pain you should keep in mind that it doesn't have a true existence. If it did, it would be there even when you were not meditating.
Though some of you have trouble concentrating, it cannot be that during the entire retreat there has not been at least once when you could concentrate to some extent. If you can use your method even for a very short time, that already lets you know that your scattered mind does not have true existence. Do not be fearful when your mind is scattered; just recognize that it is temporary. But when you succeed in concentrating, is that mind real? Of course not. If the mind were truly concentrated, it could not become scattered again. Now if both the scattered mind and the concentrated mind are unreal, that means there is originally no mind. If this is so, it should be very easy to progress in the practice. To be aware that mind does not exist will strengthen your faith, even though you have not experienced no mind. So long as you have faith in the non-existence of mind you can keep on practicing without any anxiety or disappointment.
A small setback does not mean that you have failed; it is just that the time has not yet arrived. If you climb half-way up a mountain, you cannot say that you have failed. You just need to continue climbing until you reach the summit. One time I was in a car with a few people, driving up a mountain. After two hours, I asked the driver, "What's going on? We don't seem to be getting anywhere on this mountain." He said, "Actually, we have reached the top. It was a very flat, gradual rise."
Now let us look at existence from the point of view of emptiness. For example, a monk cannot say that women do not exist just because he does not have relationships with them. There is a story I often tell from the kung-ans. A monk who was practicing Ch'an was being supported by an old woman, who provided him with a hut and daily offerings of food. One day she decided to test his practice. She told her beautiful daughter to bring the monk his food, and then embrace him. The next day, the old woman asked the monk, "How did you find my daughter?" He replied, "Like dry wood leaning against a cold rock." With that, she grabbed a broom and shooed him away, saying, "All this time I thought you were a man of Ch'an!"
Although this monk had reached a deep level of practice, he had not yet realized Ch'an. Being attached to emptiness, he denied existence. During a retreat, you can enter a state where you do not taste your food or know where you are walking. You do not recognize the person you are looking at. In this condition, your body follows the normal routine, but your mind is totally absorbed in the method. You have entered the great doubt sensation.
Prior to this, when your mind is still scattered, I tell you to concentrate carefully on whatever you are doing, and to maintain a total awareness of every action. When you are completely focused, you may slip into the next stage, where you lose awareness of your body, even as it continues to function smoothly and automatically. The third level is a return to total awareness. However, unlike the first level, there are no scattered thoughts whatsoever. When you are eating, you are just eating. When you are sleeping, you are just sleeping. No more, no less.
Originally you had to work very hard on your method, but when you get to the second level, everything flows naturally. The practice just keeps moving like a ball rolling down a hill. At that time, even though you are practicing very well, you would not think of yourself as practicing. This is called the true existence of emptiness. That is to say, you feel that nothing exists, but your mind is really there, working on the method. The experience of one's method and body disappearing can be due to two factors. On the one hand, one can slip into a kind of nebulous state out of pure laziness. On the other hand, a person using the method very well is just like someone so accustomed to riding a horse that they forget the horse beneath them. This is a good phenomenon.
A person who has arrived at enlightened mind is looking at existence from the standpoint of emptiness. Once a Ch'an master was asked by his disciple, "If many calamities were to appear before you at once, what would you do?" The master answered, "Red is not white and green is not yellow. Whatever it is, that's what it is." But isn't seeing whatever a thing is how everybody sees things all the time?
During the Sung Dynasty, China was invaded by the Mongols. When a band of warriors descended on a certain town, everyone fled, including the soldiers and the monks in the temples. When the Mongols entered the gates, they found that one Ch'an master had remained. Thinking that he stayed behind as part of a plot, they brought him before their general. When asked why he did not flee, he said, "Everybody has to die sometime. I could die here. I could die there. Why should I flee?" The general asked, "You are not afraid of death?" The monk replied, "I would not say that I am hoping to die. But if my time has come, then that's that." The general said, "I'm going to kill you." The monk replied, "All right. But I want to tell you something first. Don't think that you are killing me. Is your sword capable of killing wind or water? If you slice into water, you just separate it for an instant and then it comes together again. If you cut off my head, you just separate it from my body, but your killing me is your own business. It has nothing to do with me, because I neither desire nor fear death." That is to say, after enlightenment everything exists, but not the self.
We have talked of emptiness from the point of view of existence and existence from the point of view of emptiness. Both existence and emptiness are existing and non-existing. Do you understand? Don't worry if you don't. If you truly grasp the meaning, you are already enlightened.
Making Comparisons
Not seeing fine or coarse, How can there be any bias?
"Fine or coarse" refers to the deepness or shallowness of practice. I have often cautioned you against comparing your practice with that of others or your own self at different times. Such comparisons are only subjective. Today someone burst out crying in the meditation hall. One person may have thought, "Oh, she's not doing so well." Another, "I think she's becoming enlightened!" Or else, "Maybe she's going crazy." None of these thoughts may represent the true situation. Whether she felt pain or sorrow, became enlightened, or went crazy, it's her business. It has nothing to do with anyone else. Making comparisons inevitably means judging others.
When you are sitting, refrain from looking around and sizing people up. A common type of comparison people make on retreat is to see someone sitting through three periods and think, "How can he do that? Don't his legs hurt? Boy! My legs hurt all the time. I can barely get through one period." Sometime later, the person does move a little and they say to themselves, "Ha! Probably his legs are hurting now. So he's not so special after all."
These are examples of comparing yourself to others, but you can also compare yourself to yourself. Perhaps you are having a miserable time from day one. Your legs hurt, you are generally uncomfortable and cannot get into the spirit of practice. You feel plagued with problems, but there comes a day when suddenly you feel great. Your body is comfortable and your mind is calm. You are pleased by this change of affairs and say to yourself, "I finally got it." You have become so excited, you can no longer meditate. Later when your meditation is not as pleasurable, you may try to analyze how you sat so well that one time and why you are so uncomfortable now.
Comparing good and bad is just deluded thinking. As long as you are immersed in these wandering thoughts, you will not enter the proper conditions for practice. Do not concern yourself with anything going on around you. Nor should you be concerned with anything going on inside yourself. Focus fully on the method and do not make external or internal comparisons. If you can do that, your practice will be effective.
On the first night, I said that you must begin by isolating yourself. There are four stages of progressive isolation. First, isolate yourself from your affairs outside the retreat. Next, ignore the environment within the retreat itself. As far as you are concerned, you are the only person here. Take another step further and put aside all thoughts of the past and future. Finally, forget the thought that has just passed or the thought to come. Narrow yourself down to the thought of the present moment. You are reduced to a tiny, tiny point, which is concentrated on the method. Even so, a demon can come and grab you, because you still have that miniscule point left. But if you can continue to focus on the method single-mindedly, it will be easy for you to depart from even that one thought.
No matter how disturbing your surroundings or your inner mind, you should take clear note of it and avoid feeling any aversion. Any feelings of good or bad regarding the environment or ourselves are actually projections of our own deep-seated emotional attachments. Events and things have no intrinsic good or evil qualities.
For instance, this incense board is just a piece of wood. There is nothing good or bad about it, but when an inexperienced monitor hits someone in the wrong place -- say, the neck or shoulder blade -- the person may react to the board in a negative way. The monitor may also blame the incense board for being awkward to use. But someone who is hit by an adept monitor will feel very good and consider the board a great help. Likewise, the monitor may think that this is a particularly good incense board since it is easy to wield.
Today I cut my finger trying to open a stuck window. I may have thought that something was wrong with the window, but the window is an inert object. It is not its fault that I hurt my finger. Perhaps I should blame my hand instead, but a hand is only flesh and bone. When flesh and bone are applied to a window, there is nothing in that event itself that can be called good or bad.
The enlightened individual does not see things as bad, good, coarse or fine. There are no good or bad people in the world. Someone may think, "If a good person is the same as a bad person, wouldn't this create a lot of confusion?" This problem does not arise for one who is deeply enlightened. In the past, those who attained great enlightenment had strong hearts of compassion. They dedicated the remainder of their lives to saving other living beings. Sakyamuni Buddha himself devoted forty-odd years to teaching and saving sentient beings. It is not that the Buddha wants to save sentient beings. It is just that sentient beings need to be saved. Whether or not he saves particular beings is not up to him, but up to the beings themselves. If there are beings that are capable of being saved, then the Buddha saves them. If there are those who are too difficult to save, then he does not save them. He does not blame them for being too difficult to save, nor does he condemn them to hell. This is not the attitude of the Buddha or the patriarchs.
The Buddha's response to sentient beings can be likened to a mirror. In itself, a mirror contains no image or particular characteristic. It merely reflects whatever you put in front of it, as it is, without hindrance. Likewise, the Buddha teaches people according to their differing requirements. If someone needs a demon, a demon will appear; if they need the Buddha, then the Buddha will appear; if someone needs Ch'an practice, then Ch'an methods appear. The Buddha does not conceive these things and try to push them on others. Rather, his compassionate response is just an automatic reflection of a person's own mind.
This is why there are various levels in Buddhism. It is a recognition of the many different capacities of sentient beings. Whatever an individual's tendency, they can find a level of the teachings that is right for them.
One who is really involved in the practice becomes like a mirror, without discrimination or biases. When you reach the point where the method disappears and even you disappear, your mind will be a mirror -- containing nothing, reflecting perfectly.
The Great Way is broad, Neither easy nor difficult.
The purpose of using Ch'an methods in training students is to sweep away any attachments that remain in their minds. If they desire to attain Buddhahood, the master may say, "There is no Buddha." No doubt, it is necessary to have a certain attachment to the method, to gain some result, such as samadhi or enlightenment. But when your mind is a steady stream, uninterrupted by extraneous thoughts, the Ch'an master will push you to let go of the idea of practice, to break your attachment to striving for an end.
There are a few stories of Ch'an patriarchs and their students which illustrate this. One student went up to his teacher and said, "I want to practice to attain the Way." The teacher said, "There is no Way to be attained by practice." Another student declared, "I want to attain liberation." His teacher replied, "Who is holding you back?" There was a student who said, "I have heard it said that Sakyamuni Buddha left home, practiced for many years, and attained enlightenment." His teacher commented, "Hah. What a pity. If I had seen him, I would have given him a good beating and thrown him to the dogs."
You may think that these teachers are destroying Buddhism by making such statements. But actually they are working to remove even the slightest attachment in the student's mind. When a person really understands what it is to have a mind free of discrimination, he can be considered capable of practice. To reach this point, faith is of the utmost importance. Some may think, "Sakyamuni Buddha and the patriarchs left the home life and cultivated for many years before they attained enlightenment. As for me, I don't think I'm up to becoming a monk (or a nun.) So what's the use of practicing?" If you consider practice to be difficult and painful, then practice is difficult and painful. But if you consider it easy, then it's very easy. Practice itself is neither difficult nor easy. As I said before, there is nothing inherently good or bad in events themselves. Discriminations of good and bad, difficult and easy, are in our own minds and have nothing to do with the phenomenon itself.
Someone asked me how you can be concerned about alleviating suffering if you hold the concept that there is nothing really good or bad. An illustration I gave previously may explain it. While you are sitting, your leg becomes painful. But as soon as you stretch it out, the pain goes away. There is no question that it hurts, but the pain is not real because it does not endure. It is capable of changing and disappearing. It is the same with good and bad. They are subject to change. Bad can become good. That bad exists is only a particular way of seeing and dealing with things. Pain is still pain, but what is important is your understanding of its nature. From that perspective, you can learn to alleviate your own suffering. When it comes to seeing the suffering of others, you can reflect on your own experience. Even though you tell yourself that suffering is empty, you still feel pain. Likewise, in teaching others, even though you may say that suffering is non-existent, you cannot deny their experience of suffering. As far as they are concerned, pain is direct and real. Thus, from the perspective that suffering is unreal, you still respond to that unreal experience. You strive out of compassion to alleviate the suffering of others.
There are two ways of understanding that practice is neither difficult nor easy. A beginning practitioner can only understand it intellectually. He may believe that practice is neither difficult nor easy, but this is quite different from knowing directly through experience that difficulties are just fabricated by the mind. There is nothing difficult about practice itself. The individuals themselves bring difficulty to the practice. During retreat, one person may find practice extremely difficult, and another may find it easy. It can even be different for the same person at different times. It has to do with our mental attitude, or the way we approach it.
People respond to difficulty in different ways. Some people become so overwhelmed by troubles in their practice, they end up without any discrimination, letting go of their hopes as well as their despair. As a result, the instant they turn their minds towards practice, they get a good result. Although this may happen, it is not the case that everybody needs to go through the same kind of process. In fact, when some people encounter trouble, it does not reinforce their practice at all. On the contrary, they are unable to practice. Their minds are filled with thoughts of misery and a sense of failure.
You should have faith that every method is a good method and every individual is good practitioner. After all, if you are not a good practitioner, why are you still here after five days?
