It was while I was a resident at Yokoji Zen Mountain Center that I completed the Blue Cliff Record (J: Hekiganroku), the classic koan collection compiled by Setchō Jusen (980–1052). I decided it might be useful to collate my numerous scribbled notes, phrases and poetic allegories into some cohesive order. With time and study, I managed to clarify these strange texts to a degree in the language that I would use. It became something of a project, even something that others might find useful. A tall order to be sure, so I figured it was best to see what developed, forgetting any lofty ambitions about publication.
As we know, much of the language is famously abstract—almost unintelligible at times, and this is part of the problem. The main cases themselves don’t need to be analysed; we just absorb them to the point where the koan works on us. But it might help to interpret Engo’s prefaces and Setchō’s verses to make them more accessible to the average Westerner. After all, the prefaces are effectively introductions, and the verses act like summaries, so this became my goal.
Eventually, I learned that much of the language used is part of the Chinese poetic tradition and would have been readily understandable to most people at the time. Not so for the modern Western practitioner. For example, what do you make of this, the preface to Case 4, ‘Tokusan’s Bundle and All’:
Under the blue sky, in the bright sunlight, you don’t have to point out the east or define the west anymore; but under the conditions of a particular time, it is still necessary to give medicine according to the illness. But tell me, is it better to let go or to hold still?
At first glance, it’s not that clear what Engo is telling us, is it? Why would I feel the need to point out east or west, ‘under the blue sky?’ What’s all this about medicine and illness? Let go of what? When I look at this paragraph, it tells me when someone is ill, they need the right medicine. A devastating insight, I’m sure you’ll agree, but is there more to this? As soon as I see words like ‘bright,’ I think of yang, which means literally ‘brightness.’ This word is also associated with ‘heaven’ because light comes from the heavens: the sun (which is also mentioned), the moon and the stars: the three celestial sources of light. But we also know that yang refers to the oneness aspect of our being, the ‘absolute,’ and yin refers to the relative state of our being, so now a different picture is emerging.
The first couple of lines, therefore, could read: in a state of oneness, there is no ‘east’ or ‘west’ because duality doesn’t exist. The next lines could be: but as a teacher, one must identify the student’s relative problem or illness. Maybe it is necessary to ‘let go’ of some dreamy notion or a conflicting thought. On the other hand, sometimes it’s necessary to investigate our own attachment or ‘hold still’ to a decision that one has made. Another interpretation might be we must let go of our notions of ‘Zen,’ and hold still to our one true state. The problem here is, what if I’m wrong? What if my opinion, my assessment, and my understanding are simply incorrect? Am I not just adding confusion to the already confusing nature of koan study?
Yes. Then again, as Katagiri Roshi once said, ‘You have to say something.’ My commentaries are always going to be subjective. After all, every koan is about you, so in the above case, we have Tokusan arriving with his ‘bundle.’ If I said his ‘baggage,’ is that easier? What about me turning up with my baggage? Tokusan walks ‘east to west and west to east’ across the hall. If you didn’t know, walking from west to east is a metaphor for the journey to enlightenment. The author of Siddartha, Herman Hesse, wrote a short story called Journey to the East, in which he writes:
Our goal was not only the East, or rather the East was not only a country … but it was the home and youth of the soul, it was everywhere and nowhere, it was the union of all times.
The ‘heavenly’ sun rises in the East, and Oestre (where the words ‘east’ and ‘oestrogen’ come from) is the Germanic Goddess of the Dawn and Spring. Spring is the time of rebirth, new life and resurrection and in the Bible, the East represents heaven. Tokusan’s story is developing.
There were strict rules for arrival at a temple, and as Katsuki Sekida (1893–1987) tells us:
The attire of a monk visiting a teacher for an interview was formally specified. But Tokusan disregarded the regulation and, carrying his bundle under his arm, intruded into the lecture hall…
Matthew Juksun Sullivan states:
According to the Chanyuan Qinggui (the oldest complete monastic code we still possess), when entering a hall, a monk “should not cross in front of the altar … and should not walk from the right side to the left.” But Denshan (Tokusan) carts his rucksack into the Dharma Hall and, without bowing, parades around the room like a fire inspector.
Tokusan’s rebellious theatrics result in Setchō commenting, ‘exposed.’ What has been exposed? Later, Tokusan returned, ‘immediately shouted,’ and left. Setchō again says, ‘Exposed.’ Is there a difference between the first and second ‘exposed?’ Master Isan later comments that Tokusan will one day ‘build a grass hut atop a solitary peak and scold Buddhas and revile Zen Masters,’ but Setchō wearily (it seems) just says: ‘He adds frost on top of snow.’ He’s young; he’s had some insight, and maybe he’s a bit arrogant, but after all, we can only be who we are.