Jizo Bodhisattva

by Jan Chozen Bays

  We know that in physical exercise it’s the actual exercise that is the practice, the lifting and putting down of the weights, the climbing and descending of the steps, the stretching and relaxing at the bar. It’s not the miles or the pounds of barbells. Those are only tools. In spiritual practice it’s not the number of retreats or initiations or a count of the years of practice that give us joy or fruit. They are only tools. The practice is the actual exercise, over and over again, of noticing and returning. The lifting up and putting down of thought. The holding steady, the expanding, the contracting of mind.

  Our practice is to return over and over to this day, this very moment of pilgrimage. Where am I now? That very awareness is a function of a bigger mind. We don’t have to wait for a teacher to ask us or check us. We can develop the ability to look clearly at our mind state and to adjust it. “Now I’m awake, focused-oops, asleep! Try again. Take a deep breath.” Returning is the practice of Jizo Bodhisattva, a patient returning to each realm of suffering, to each being that has slipped back in to hopelessness. Practice is returning.

  When Paths Diverge

  A couple in our sangha are divorcing after more than two decades together. The woman has decided to train at a monastery overseas and hopes to become ordained. In his shock and grief, her husband has worked extremely hard at directing the ferocious anger that arose at his feeling of abandonment into useful channels. As he spoke to me about this, his eyes filled with tears of sadness, then with tears of joy at how much he has learned from this terrible time. He has assumed responsibility for his daughters, and has become much closer to them. His work has mysteriously benefited as energy tied up in the difficulties of relationship has begun to flow again. He has a new and welcome sense of the usefulness of the energy of anger. It rises and falls, minute by minute as we talk. It is becoming a companion, an inducement to stay on the path. He is using the energy of anger and transforming it into determination.

  A cause of his sadness is the loss of his best friend, now ex-wife. They were practicing together, now apart. A small source of comfort is to know that both are on the path of practice, though in different places in space. Can the heart that hurts stay open? Open enough to close the apparent gap of space and divorce papers?

  A monk friend says he sees everyone, even the man on the couch drinking beer and watching football, as on the path, trying in his own way to find freedom from suffering. Shunryu Suzuki Roshi asks if we can see this in a spouse who snores while we meditate. “True zazen is beyond being in bed or sitting in the zendo. If your husband or wife is in bed, that is zazen. If you think, ‘I am sitting here and my spouse is in bed,’ then even though you are sitting here in the cross-legged position, that is not true zazen.”

  A Catholic monk told me that in the contemplative monastery only one in ten monks is doing the work of deep contemplation. The rest are chanting, cooking, helping to keep the schedule. Support Bodhisattvas.

  Can we see everyone who seems to us not to be practicing as Support Bodhisattvas that make our practice possible? Growing the food necessary to nourish the body of practice, generating the electricity to light our meditation hall, paving roads that lead to our teacher, cutting down trees for our sutra books? How can we say that any paths diverge?

  Destination:

  Enlightenment Is Not in the Future

  Do not ask me where I am going

  As I travel this limitless world

  Every step I take is my home.

  Dōgen Zenji

  Most Zen students begin spiritual practice with the goal of enlightenment. We used to advise new students to read the book Three Pillars of Zen but not to read the section at the back relating various people’s enlightenment experiences. No one could resist. Any old copy of Three Pillars will automatically fall open to those, the most well-thumbed pages. Most of us secretly picked the one that read, “All at once the Roshi, the room, every single thing disappeared in a dazzling stream of illumination and I felt myself bathed in a delicious, unspeakable delight.” Who could resist?

  We want to know ahead of time: Where am I headed? What will it be like? Can I have just a hint? Unfortunately reading or discussing such experiences often puts a roadblock in the way, as the mind grasps at a phantom, in this case a memory of something once read or heard about what enlightenment will be like. This very grasping shuts out the present moment, which is the substance of enlightenment.

  One student came to me from another Zen center, full of enthusiasm to race through koans. She became very upset when I told her to stop working on koans for awhile and develop a stronger basic meditation practice. She was obsessed with “finishing all the koans.” “Why?” I asked. “To get enlightened,” she replied. I pointed out that the Buddha did not work on koans and he certainly became enlightened. Nor did most people who have awakened. It did not satisfy her.

  I tried a new tack. “Let’s assume you finish all four hundred koans, then what?” “Then I’ll be enlightened.” “When you’re enlightened, what will you do?” “I’ll save all sentient beings,” she said. “Then what?” I asked. She was stuck. “I don’t know.”

  To have your course in practice all planned out means you are never fully present in the moment. You are always sliding forward into an imagined future, comparing what is occurring now with what you plan to have happen. And you are always disappointed, because the future is seldom as we plan it. At least 90 percent of our dreams for the future never come true and are wasted mental effort. The only place we are truly alive is in the present moment. This experience of being fully awake in the present moment happens so seldom that when it does we call it a “peak experience” and remember it all our lives. What if fifty percent of our life were as vividly lived as those rare peak experiences? One hundred percent?

  The best way to handle the mind’s anxiety about endings is to live as if there is no end to practice. This can be a source of joy, not disappointment. The Buddha taught us that everything is impermanent. This means no real endings. This is good. Although we think an ending will satisfy us, if we reflect on our experience, it never does. Let’s say I decide to buy a new car. For weeks I read Consumer Reports, canvass new car owners, and test-drive cars. I daydream and night dream of cars. Finally I decide what car to buy, negotiate a deal, and drive it home. For a few weeks I am so pleased, so aware of this, my glistening car, its nice smell, how well it drives. I am surprised and happy to see it in my driveway each morning. Then I begin to notice small defects. A lock sticks. A scratch or two mysteriously appear, marring the bright surface. I no longer notice what I am driving. Back to the old dreams and thoughts. It was the search and the capture of the living thing that was exciting, not the carcass once I got it home.

  The greatest benefit of our practice is that it does not seem to end. It continually opens before us. As soon as we have opened to a new aspect of that Great Life, as soon as our small mind claims it, names it, and begins to suck the life out of it, before we have even burped, along the path comes the next challenge. It often seems to me the next thing is more than I can bear or handle, but this has never been so. The path seems to have a wisdom about exactly what is needed and how much will be almost, but not quite, too much. The path never asks of us what we cannot do. This is something I have grown to trust.

  What is the destination of our pilgrimage? It is to return home.

  Another meaning of the word pilgrim is “an exile.” Hakuin Zenji said, “Is there a soul on earth who belongs on this shore? How sad to stand mistaken on a wave-lashed quay!” We all know that we don’t belong on this shore of suffering. We know it is a mistake to be tossed around by waves of thoughts and emotions, living in the midst of a storm. We are uncomfortable inhabiting our own bodies and minds. But we don’t know where we do belong. That is why we set out on pilgrimage, hoping to find the place we do fit.

  We have an instinct, a vague memory, that there is a place of “original home,” a place where we are completely at ease, satisfied, where we can
lean back and rest. If there is such a place, we were once there. What we think of as “me” emerged from it at birth into a world of confusion, a mixture of pain and joy. All our longing comes from this. All our sickness is homesickness.

  Many people tell me that their experience of Zen practice is the experience of coming home again. With a shock they realize that without knowing it, they have wandered far off. “I once knew this! How could I have forgotten it?” is not a rare realization during retreats.

  Like the Buddha we must be clear that samsara will never satisfy us. Like the Buddha we must leave home, the cozy rat’s nest of self-satisfaction, self-defense, and self-indulgence that imprisons us. Like the Buddha we must become pilgrims, seeking that which is truly good and satisfying. At his death the Buddha said, “I was twenty-nine years old when I renounced the world, seeking after good. For fifty-one years I have been a pilgrim through the wide realms of virtue and truth.”

  Once we find the way home, it is our natural desire to help others who are confused and homesick. Jizo Bodhisattva has been on pilgrimage since the death of the Buddha, carrying on the Buddha’s vow to save all beings. We cannot do better than to follow his example.

  What can I accomplish?

  Although not yet a Buddha,

  Let my priest’s body

  Be the raft to carry

  Sentient beings to the other shore.

  Dōgen Zenji

  chapter eight

  The Ring Staff

  I have an old staff that has well served many.

  Its bark has worn away; all that remains is its strong core.

  I used it to test the waters and often it got me out if trouble.

  Now, though, it leans against the wall, out if service for years.

  Ryōkan

  As he travels, Jizo Bodhisattva carries a pilgrim’s staff. It is a tall, stout staff cut from a tree branch and topped with a finial of metal. In English it is called a “sistrum,” in Sanskrit the khakkahara, in Japanese the shakujo. The Buddha allowed mendicant monks to carry the khakkhara as they traveled, particularly those who were old or sick and needed its support.

  The sistrum has a handle made of wood, round or hexagonal in cross section. The power of the sistrum is said to lie in the finial and rings on the top. The number of rings can be four for the Four Noble Truths, or more often, six rings for the six perfections or the six realms of existence. Some staffs bear twelve rings for the twelvefold chain of cause and effect. Each number reminds the pilgrim monk of his purpose, to carry and manifest the fundamental teachings of the Buddha in the world. Thus the sistrum can be called the chi-jo or wisdom staff of the Dharma.

  The metal rings jingle as they strike each other. Thus the name ushojo, “the stick with a voice.” The rings serve as the voice of a mendicant who has undertaken the practice of silence. As the monk or nun walks, he or she plants the staff on the ground and the rings jingle. This sound warns small animals to move out of harm’s way. A Japanese text, the Shinbunritsu, says that the bhikshus who had not obtained liberation from fear complained to the Buddha about the snakes, centipedes, and scorpions that were in their path. The Buddha said, “I permit you to take up the shakujo and shake it.” Large animals, who might become frightened and attack if a human came upon them without warning, can also move out of the way. The ring staff is a means to practice ahimsa or “nonharming.” This is to live a life in which there is continual consciousness of the potential we humans have to harm other living beings or to frighten others so they attack us.

  The jingling of the rings also prevents the thoughts of the monk from wandering. The sound of the sistrum cuts through even the din of the bustling marketplace, helping the monk ignore the distractions of samsaric existence. The voice of the staff announces the arrival of a monk or nun on alms rounds. A Japanese text, Ubasoku-gokaiigikyo, instructs the mendicant, “The shakujo is shaken three times for getting food. If three times produces no results, try five; if five is unavailing, try seven; if seven is useless, go on to another house.” Traditionally monks on begging rounds in Japan wear large straw hats to cover their faces. They announce their presence at shops and homes with a sustained hearty cry “Ho!” which means “Dharma!” When alms—generally a small amount of rice or change—are given, the monk recites a sutra but does not thank the donor. To do so would decrease the merit of the offering. Alms are not given to an individual from an individual but are the Dharma supporting the Dharma. This is called the “emptiness of the three wheels, giver, receiver and gift.” The three wheels can be thought of as three cogs that turn and mesh to produce a beneficial result. At times we are the giver, at other times the receiver, at other times we are the gift. Our life is made up of all three and is their very turning. The voice of the ring staff and the voice of the monk are the voice of the Dharma.

  Bashō’s Staff

  The pilgrim’s staff is a feature in several Zen koans. Here is one from the collection of koans called the Mumonkan. The Chinese character mu means nothing, without, nothingness, or emptiness. Mon means gate or entrance. These koans are stories of Zen teachers and students who, with the mind of deep questioning, challenge each other to awaken more fully. The title, Mumonkan or Gateless Gate tells us that although we must struggle to open the gate to full awareness of reality, that reality is actually not entered. It has always been there, around us, completely penetrating us, and functioning as us. Our experience is that the gate must open and be kept open through our continued practice. From the Gate’s experience, it was never closed.

  Mumonkan Case #44: Bashō’s Staff Koan:

  Master Bashō said to his disciples, “If you have a staff, I will give you a staff. If you have no staff, I will take it from you.”

  Master Mumon’s Commentary:

  It helps me wade across a river when the bridge is out.

  It accompanies me to the village on a moonless night.

  If you call it a staff, you will enter hell as fast as an arrow.

  Master Mumon’s Verse

  The depths and shallows of the world

  Are all in its grasp.

  It supports heaven and sustains the earth.

  Everywhere, it enhances the Truth.

  When we study a koan we ponder it word by word, phrase by phrase. How does it reveal our own life? Master Basho’s koan taught two things. On the one hand we should realize the staff that we are never without. On the other, if we lean on anything, even that staff, we must realize it will be taken away. If we do not give up our dependence upon it, impermanence will do the job for us.

  Master Bashō was a Korean who lived in the eighth century. He went on pilgrimage to China to find a teacher of clarity. When he met Nanto Koyu he stayed to study. Eventually he realized the Truth, succeeded the Dharma of Master Nanto and settled on Mount Basho, from which his name comes. Many Zen masters were named after a mountain. I used to see this as the teacher taking the name of the mountain where he or she established a temple and taught. Now I see that actually the mountain teaches through the body of the person. The new name is the true name of that activity.

  The characters for Bashō mean banana or plantain tree. This name is related to the Buddha’s teaching about emptiness of the five aggregates (skandas). The body, he said, is like sea foam, feeling is like a water bubble, perception is like a mirage in the desert, consciousness is like a magician’s trick, and mental formations are like a banana tree. The stalk of a banana or plantain tree is actually made up of overlapping leaves surrounding a hollow core. If we try to look for the “banana tree” by peeling away the leaves one by one, we find there is nothing else there. In the same way, if we look for our “self” by peeling away layer after layer of mental and physical reactivity, we find there is nothing else there that we can touch or feel. Our mind is full of concepts and ideas that overlap so completely that they seem to be something else. The sense of being an isolated person is actually an activity, an ongoing construction project, a changing work in progress.

/>   There is only one other surviving fragment about Master Basho’s life.

  A monk once asked Master Bashō, “What is the water of Bashō?”

  Basho replied, “Warm in winter, cool in summer.”

  When a banana tree is cut, water flows out of the stem. The monk asks, “What is the essence of your Dharma?” or “What flows out of you?” Bashō’s answer is, “Whatever is needed.”

  Water falls from the sky, trickles off leaf tips, joins other drops underground, becomes streams and rivers, and we are able to drink and bathe in it at will. We take this for granted. The earth supports our every step whether we ask it or not. The air supplies 21 percent oxygen and 79 percent nitrogen at every breath, exactly what we need. The essence of all Dharma is that we are completely supported at every moment. Although this is true, we must, however, be willing to practice without counting on any support whatsoever.

  Zen Sticks

  What was the staff that Bashō held up? Zen masters use several different kinds of sticks in their work, called in Japanese the kotsu, the hossu, the kyosaku, the shippei, and the shujo. The kotsu is a short stick about seven to twelve inches long, carried in ceremonies. It can be a simple smoothed branch or is sometimes carved ornately on one end in the shape of a lotus. If the stick is used every day it seems to take on the personal character of the teacher.

  The hossu is a fly whisk, a wooden handle with white hair from a horse or deer tail or shredded fiber attached to the top. Originally the brush may have been made from kusa, the grass the Buddha sat upon when he was enlightened. The fly whisk symbolizes observance of the precept of ahimsa or nonharming, because it brushes away rather than killing small insects. It also symbolizes brushing away all obstacles to enlightenment. It is used now in certain ceremonies. Yamada Roshi wrote that each Zen stick is a part of the Buddha’s body. The hossu, he said, is the Buddha’s white, bushy eyebrow. During sesshin in Alaska and Japan, when mosquitoes were out, I could appreciate that the hossu had very practical uses in ancient China. There is no practice quite as exquisite as sitting still while a mosquito leisurely walks about on your face, moves over small hairs one at a time, then chooses a site and drills in. When students are able to do this, to willingly offer a drop of blood and endure a bit of itching to feed a small creature, they have their first inkling of how the Buddha once gave his flesh to feed a starving tiger that was nursing cubs.