Most Intimate

Mystery, part 3

If the use of koans in Zen training seems rather silly, well, yeah, it is. There are many paths to learn authenticity, to learn acceptance, and compassion, and none of them work all that well. None of them offer any guarantees. The koan path happened to call to me – that’s the mystery that had my number.

There are many ways to learn to dwell in mystery. You don’t have to subject yourself repeatedly to being rung out of the room every time you try to explain, but that is one way to begin to grasp in your bones the limits of explanation. When I mentioned some of these koans, you may have found your mind thinking about them, trying to figure them out. That’s natural. That’s what I did, too. Even after doing several hundred, when I would first encounter the next one, my brain would start into “figure it out” mode.

You know what that’s like. You’re presented with a challenge. The brain starts looking through its memory files for concepts that would apply to this sort of situation. Crying baby. Is it hungry? Needs diaper change? Colic? Ascertain the concept that fits, and take the appropriate action. Complaining client. Apologize? Offer suggestions? Just listen? Stuck in traffic. Is there an alternate route?

The mind wants to KNOW what to do. My figure-it-out mind never stopped jumping on every new koan, but eventually it did start to jump more lightly. Instead of pouncing and clinging, it would jump on the koan, bounce a couple times, and rest there lightly, stepping off sometimes.

The mind’s job is to figure things out, and it is very dedicated to its job. But life is not for figuring out. There are times when it is good to know stuff, and apply the knowledge to figure things out and generate more knowledge. But that’s only one activity of living. Life as a whole is not for figuring out.

If you approach everything as if it were merely to be figured out, then you are bringing some idea of what a solution would look like, and you are focused only on the details relevant to that solution. “Don’t know mind” is the mind that can just let things be what they are, without need of figuring them out, categorizing them. “Don’t know mind” can also be called “beginner’s mind.” “In the beginner’s mind, there are many possibilities,” said Shunryu Suzuki. “But in the expert’s mind there are few.”

Imagine an expert botanist strolling through the woods on one of our local trails. She knows every plant, its species and genus, the conditions it requires to thrive, what variations are normal and which are rare. She can rattle off several pages worth of information on every item of flora she encounters. She has expert’s mind. She can very quickly sift through the many possibilities and zero in on the one right one. I’m not suggesting she get rid of her expert mind, but along with her expert mind, she could also cultivate a beginner’s mind. She can open herself to the unknown.

In every sprout, every blossom, every twig, and every leaf, there is something about it that isn’t captured by all the categories of knowledge, all the concepts honed by thousands of botanists studying in classrooms and in the field and reading each other’s journal articles. There is something that the bark is, the blade of grass, the soil, that is not reached by those concepts. Whatever we learn about a thing, that thing also has it irreducible mystery. What is here? What is it?

After you say plant, and leaf, and oak, and white oak, and hydrated and photosynthesis and cellular respiration and everything else you know or think you know, there is still this fact in front of you – and the mystery of it is not diminished, not diminished even the tiniest amount – by all your knowledge.

Maybe our expert botanist takes a moment to set aside her knowledge. Or maybe she plunges into her knowledge and runs through every single thing she can think of about a leaf in her hand and comes at last to the end of it. Either way, she can arrive at don’t know mind – the mind that dwells with the mystery of that faded, once-flexible-now-brittle leaf. The mind of wonder opens up, the beginner’s mind in which there are many possibilities.

Creativity comes from mystery. When we know, we’re just applying familiar concepts. When we reach down to the mystery we do not know, new and creative responses to the thing, to the situation have the space to – flourish, to use a botanical concept. In the mystery, you can flourish. Only don’t know.

I’m not praising ignorance for ignorance’s sake. Reading, and studying, and learning are great goods. Learning is growth and growth is life. But when you have arrived at knowledge, that little twig of learning is at its end.

Only don’t know, so you can open yourself to the next thing to learn. But not only that. Only don’t know – not just for the sake of learning – but for the sake of being present. “Only don’t know” is the gateway to dwelling in the mystery that is all around you.

Here’s one more koan, specifically about that. I have mentioned this one before.

Fayan had studied and practiced Zen with his teacher Dizang for more than 10 years.
Fayan made ready to depart, sensing his time with Dizang had run its course.
Dizang asked Fayan, "Where are you going, senior monk?"
Fayan said, "I am on pilgrimage, following the wind."
Dizang said, "What are you on pilgrimage for?"
Fayan said, "I don't know."
Dizang said, "Not knowing is most intimate."
Fayan suddenly attained great enlightenment.

Not knowing is most intimate. Knowing, useful at it is, is like a screen of concepts between ourselves and the thing itself.

Not knowing is most intimate. Every moment offers us the chance to ask, “What is ineffable here?” This is an unanswerable question – because any answer would be effing it, and then it wouldn’t be ineffable. So ask the question, not for the sake of an answer, but for the sake of orienting yourself to the unspeakable. What is ineffable here? What is the mystery of this moment, this sight, this sound, this feel, this taste, this smell?

It is possible to go through life doing no more than responding to every situation with the knowledge we have, as best we can – bringing our concepts and purposes to bear on everything we encounter. This is a grave mistake. There is something else present. Call it the silence inside the sound, the darkness inside the light, the stillness inside the motion. Or call it the sound inside the silence, the light inside the darkness, the motion inside perfect stillness.

Call it the mystery. It surrounds us and holds us always.

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This is part 3 of 3 of "Mystery"
See also
Part 1: Road to Not Knowing
Part 2: On the Koan Path

On the Koan Path

Mystery, part 2

At a sesshin (Zen meditation retreat) in 2003, I asked the teacher to give me a koan. He recited: “A monk asked Zhaozhou in all earnestness, does a dog have buddha-nature. Zhaozhou said, 'MU'.”

And then the teacher asked me: “What is Mu?” I happened to have read something about that little story. I knew that Zhaozhou was a Chinese master who lived in the seven and eight hundreds. I knew that “Mu” was a Japanese word that meant “no,” or “not have.” I also knew that the Buddha had been very clear that all sentient beings, including dogs, do have buddha nature, and that Zhaozhou knew that very well. So there’s this tempting intellectual puzzle: why would Zhaozhou say “no”?

I said, “Mu is no.”

The teacher said, “Right. Sit with that,” and he rang his little hand bell, which meant, this interview is over.

In a subsequent interview I said, “But a dog does have Buddha nature.”

The teacher said, “Right. Sit with that.” And rang his bell.

Each time I came in, he’d say, “What is Mu?” I tried out every answer I could think of. In between I sat with Mu.

“Mu is nothing – nothingness,” I said.

He said, “Right. Sit with that.” And rang his bell.

I sat, and felt the expansiveness of this negation. Next time I went in, he said “What is Mu?”

I said, “Mu is everything, the whole universe.”

He said, “Right. Sit with that.” And rang his bell.

I sat, and felt the mystery of the whole universe. Next time I went in, he said “What is Mu?”

I said, “Mu is beyond comprehension.”

This time he said. “Good.” And then, “Sit with that.”

He was reaching for his bell, and I blurted, “how can I sit with what I can’t comprehend?”

He said, “Sit with that.” And rang his bell.

I sat, and felt my frustration. I was aware that the great 13th-century master Mumon had spent 6 years sitting with Mu – and that spending years on Mu was normal. Next time I went in, he said, “What is Mu?

I said, “I don’t know.”

He said, “No. You don’t. Sit with not knowing.” And rang his bell.

I had read about this Mu koan -- about dissolving into Mu. I sat and imagined myself dissolving into Mu. Next time I went in, he said, “What is Mu?”

I said, “I have dissolved into Mu. There is no separation between me and Mu.”

He said, “Separation. Nonseparation. You have been reading Zen books.” And rang his bell.

Next time I went in, instead of “What is Mu?” he said, “Show me Mu.” And something happened. Nothing very much, but after that, the questions changed. Show me Mu when you are in the shower. Explain Mu to a six-month-old baby? Where is Mu when you are -- you are married? Yes – where is Mu when you are having an argument with your spouse? Show me Mu in powdered form.

The first koan – which might be Mu, as it was for me, or might be, “Who hears?” or might be, “Show me your face as it was before your parents were born” – typically takes a while: months or years. After that first one, at least in my school, the others tend to come more quickly.

The retreat ended. Back in Albuquerque, at Thursday morning practice, I told that teacher about the Tucson retreat. He presented me with some further one-liner koans. Stop the sound of the distant temple bell. Make Mt. Fuji take three steps.

In 2004, with my ministerial internship over, I was still visiting various teachers before deciding which one to settle down with. Ruben Habito, in Dallas, had been recommended. I flew out there to have a retreat with him. Ruben asked me what Mu was. Then he asked me the origin of Mu – and he didn’t mean where the word came from, or the origin of the story about Zhaozhou and the dog. Then he asked me a version of the most well-known koan of all. “What is the sound of one hand?” (Not: “one hand clapping” – just, “what is the sound of one hand?”) Probably you, too, can see that “clapping” is superfluous.

And then: Count the number of stars in the heavens. Go straight on a narrow mountain road that has ninety-nine curves. There were some that seemed to be quotations of nonsense poetry, followed by, “Show me that!” For example: "'In a well that has not been dug, water is rippling from a spring that does not flow.' Show me that.”

After about a hundred of these one-liner koans, come the anecdote koans from published collections, the Gateless Gate, the Blue Cliff Record, the Book of Serenity. These tell a little encounter story – one of the masters of the Tang dynasty encountering a student monk, or encountering another master.

I memorized each story in turn. During retreats, when it was time to see Ruben one-on-one, I recited the story and waited for his question.

“A monk came to Zhaozhou and said, ‘I have just arrived here.
I beg you, master, give me instruction.
Zhaozhou said, ‘have you had your breakfast?’
The monk said, ‘I have.’
Zhaozhou said, ‘Then wash your bowls.’”

Ruben would ask, “what is ‘wash your bowls,’?” But no explanation would do. The invitation of the koan was to embody it, not explain it. Be it, inhabit it.

Another time I recited:

“When Great Master Mazu was walking with Baizhang, he saw wild ducks flying by.
The Great Master said, ‘What is that?’
Baizhang said, ‘It is a wild duck.’
The Great Master said, ‘Where did it go?’
Baizhang said, ‘It has flown away.’
The Great Master twisted Baizhang’s nose.
Baizhang cried out in pain.
The Great Master said, “How did it ever fly away?’”

Ruben said, “Mazu asked, ‘What is that?’ How do you answer?"

I said, “It is a wild duck.”

Ding-a-ling-a-ling. Come back next time and try again.

No copying. And no explaining.

“A koan is a kind of technology, a hack for the mind. It strips our opinions and views away. It surprises you by transcending the terms on which you took it up. It draws you into a different way of seeing and experiencing the world.” (John Tarrant, teacher at Pacific Zen Center)

The real koan, every Zen teacher will occasionally remind you, is your life. “Show me Mu” is just the warm up for “show me YOU.”

Show the world YOU on the subway, preparing dinner, on the phone, answering an email, brushing your teeth, arguing with your teenager. No copying. No explaining. Just YOU.

Over the course of about 10 years, I worked through some 600 or so koans. Some of them I got stuck on for a while, and had to go back to see Ruben 4, 5, 6 times on the same koan before he would advance me to the next one.

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This is part 2 of 3 of "Mystery"
See also
Part 1: Road to Not Knowing
Part 3: Most Intimate

Road to Not Knowing

Mystery, part 1

From Stephen Palmer:

We desperately want to know. We need to know. We think we should or are supposed to know. But we don’t have a clue. It’s ironic: Uncertainty, not knowing, is the most fundamental component of our reality that we swim in, and yet it’s what scares us the most and what we reject the most vehemently. It’s like a fish being terrified of water. We simply don’t know how to orient ourselves to and deal with uncertainty and impermanence. To defend ourselves against the terror of uncertainty we develop rigid, fixed beliefs.

There’s so much we don’t know, so much we can’t know, and everything is constantly changing. But if we create fixed beliefs in our minds, those beliefs can give us a sense of permanence and knowing. Never mind whether or not those beliefs actually align with truth. We cling to our beliefs for all we’re worth; if we lose our beliefs, we lose our bearings. We’re free-falling into the gaping void of “I don’t know.” And so it is that we dig in our heels and argue with each other over our beliefs. In our desperate desire to know, we become dogmatic and fundamentalist.

Zen Buddhism offers a refreshing escape from the defensive and clinging fundamentalism of belief. They call it “Don’t Know Mind.” Zen Master Bon Soeng explains,

“There’s all of this bias toward knowing. But we don’t really know. We have this radical teaching: How about admitting the truth that we don’t know and go from there. If we really live that, it changes everything. Don’t Know Mind doesn’t mean stupid. It means What Is It? Suddenly our eyes are open, we’re vibrating with energy because we wonder, ‘What?’…rather than, ‘Oh yeah, I know that!’ So this Not-Knowing actually gives us life. It gives vibrancy and energy to the world we live in. This kind of I-Know shuts everything down and we get stuck…Not knowing is what opens us up and comes alive…Clear it away. Return to zero. What do we see, what do we smell, what do we taste, what do we touch? Everything is truth. What we know blocks the truth. Returning to not knowing opens us up.”

But we don’t need to “know” anything to enjoy the giggle of a child, to marvel at the awesome beauty of nature, to create art, to be honest with ourselves, to trust our intuition. We don’t need to “know” anything at all to smile at a stranger, to offer compassion to a friend, to feed a homeless person, to donate to an orphanage.

In fact, we function better when we drop all mind-induced beliefs and conceptualizations and simply be with what is. Rather than being terrifying, not knowing can be wondrous, magical, and peaceful. As we rest in “Don’t Know Mind,” the fear subsides, the hardness of fundamentalism relaxes. We become softer, more open, more relaxed, light-hearted, more curious, more teachable, kinder, and wiser.

* * *

The mind does want to know. The pursuit of knowledge is often a good thing. Knowledge has lots of practical applications. It lets us do things, solve problems, prevent problems from arising. We advance our purposes. Sometimes that feels good. Size up a situation – like an action-movie hero who scans the room and instantly assesses everything in it as a possible tool or possible threat. That skill is admirable.

But do you really want to live that way all the time? Friendship and family and love are not about advancing your purpose, solving problems – not about opportunities and threats.

Let me tell you my story of venturing into mystery, and learning to dwell there, at least part of me. In 2002, I was studying for ministry and LoraKim, a couple years ahead of me in the process, was ready to begin ministering to a congregation. She got the call to serve our congregation in El Paso. Her fluency in Spanish helped make that a good fit. In between my studies, I was practicing Buddhist meditation.

In 2003, I was the ministerial intern at our congregation in Albuquerque, New Mexico. On Thursday mornings in Albuquerque, I got up very early and bicycled a couple miles to a Zen center that had six a.m. morning practice. In August of that year, I took a week off from the internship and took a bus to Tucson, Arizona for my first week-long Zen retreat. Mostly silence. Each morning there was a dharma talk by the teacher. A couple times a day, one at a time, the students – there were about 20 of us -- went down the hall for a few minutes of one-on-one with the teacher. I said, give me a koan.

I had heard about these koans. They seemed like puzzles, but what I’d read was at pains to say, no, a koan is most definitely NOT a puzzle. And I get that now. A puzzle, you squeeze down to the right answer. When I do a Sudoku puzzle, I squeeze a cell until I wring out everything except the one number that has to go in it – or squeeze on a number until there’s only one cell for it to go into. Koans are the opposite.

They’re for unsqueezing your life, expanding rather than narrowing down, limitless possibility rather than a right answer. I asked him to give me a koan, and he did.

NEXT: The koan.
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This is part 1 of 3 of "Mystery"
See also
Part 2: On the Koan Path
Part 3: Most Intimate

What Is Mystery?

This word “mystery” is itself somewhat mysterious, isn’t it? It seems to invite examination of the division one makes between “stuff I know” and “stuff I don’t know” – with the latter called “mystery.”

“Stuff I know” doesn’t imply certainty. Some of what is in my “stuff I know” folder might actually belong in “false beliefs.” For now, I have it in “stuff I know” if (a) I believe it is true, and (b) I have some reason or evidence for believing it true (though the evidence might not be conclusive), and (c) it matters, in some way, to my life and my understanding of the world.

“Stuff I don’t know” comes in a variety of flavors:

1. Stuff I temporarily don’t know, but some people do, and I could find out. This would include more-or-less agreed-upon facts of history (Who was the English monarch just prior to the King Harold who died at the Battle of Hastings in 1066?) and science (What is the chemical composition of benzene?)
2. Stuff that is known, by someone, but that I can never know: government or corporate secrets, for example.
3. Stuff that is known, by someone, and isn’t a secret, but I lack the aptitude or the will to learn to comprehend – such as how to solve certain very complicated problems in theoretical mathematics or quantum physics.
4. Stuff that no one knows now but that will, or conceivably could, become known. This includes future events: Who wins the 2017 World Series? It also includes possible discoveries: What other planets have life? What is “dark matter”? Is cold fusion electrical generation possible?
5. Stuff I don’t know because I’ve adopted an agnostic stance on the subject. I do this when I’m aware of strong arguments on both sides and I don’t need to have an opinion on the matter. Did the boxer Hurricane Carter commit the 1966 murders of which he was convicted? I don’t know. Is Renoir or Monet the greater painter? Should the US build more nuclear power plants? Some people have opinions on these questions. I do not.
6. Stuff that no one knows or ever will know because the question is nonsense. Is the Earth upside-down? This is a nonsense question because the concept “up” only has meaning within the context of Earth (or whatever planet or body the speaker is standing on). Standing on Earth, “up” means “away from the center of the Earth.” The Earth itself floats in space, and that’s not a context in which “up” has any meaning. Sometimes it isn’t clear whether a question is really a nonsense question or not. Is “What is the meaning of life?” a nonsense question? One might argue that “meaning” occurs only within the context of a life, just as “up” occurs only within the context of Earth. Various things move up and down within the Earth context, but “up” doesn’t and can’t apply to the Earth as a whole. “Up relative to what?” one would ask. Likewise, various things have meaning within the context of a life, but “meaning” doesn’t and can’t apply to life as a whole. “Meaning relative to what?” one would ask.
7. Stuff that no one knows or ever will know because . . . well, just because it’s unknowable. Ah, this is the interesting one. Now we’re talking proper mystery. These questions hover on the border of nonsense – but we cannot quite dismiss them that way. Why is there something rather than nothing? The agnostic stance might seem attractive, but the question is too compelling to dismiss that way either. What is mine to do in this world? What is love?

These questions are not to be answered, but lived into. True mystery is not to be dispelled and isn’t dispellable. Rather, we live in and with the mystery.

There is always something beyond what we know. One way to say this is: There is always more to learn about anything. Another way to say it is: Existence is shot through everywhere with mystery.
Every experience, every moment, presents itself, and we bring to it our “stuff I know” folder. This is an oak tree, we say. Or, Here is my office. We know these things, these places. But in each moment and experience there is also the presence of the unknown -- something about it that will never go in the "stuff I know" folder, can never be encapsulated, articulated, filed, and cross-referenced. Every moment offers us the chance to ask: What is ineffable here? This is an unanswerable question (because any answer would be effing it, and then it wouldn't be ineffable) – but is it unanswerable because it is nonsense? I’d say, rather, that there is an unspeakable quality in everything. We cannot speak it, but we can nevertheless be present to it.

It is possible to go through life doing no more than responding to every situation with the knowledge we have, as best we can – bringing our concepts and purposes to bear on everything we encounter. This is a grave mistake. In addition to the “stuff I know” – and in addition to the first 6 categories of “stuff I don’t know” – there is something else present in everything you see, hear, touch, taste, or smell. It is the unspeakable – the silence inside the sound, the darkness inside the light, the stillness inside the motion. It is the mystery. It holds us always.