For Dōgen this attitude is one of “watching over water and over grain.” Here he is talking about the tenzo’s work. When the tenzo cooks, he must take care of water, grain, fire, everything that happens in the kitchen. We have to pay careful attention to everything. When we prepare meals, many things are going on at the same time. As we cook the rice, we have to prepare soup and other side dishes. It’s even more difficult when you cook with firewood. It’s very easy to forget about the fire when you’re doing something else. You have to be very careful, attentive to each thing. Even when we are caught up with several different things, we must remember the fire.
This attitude, concentrating on a particular thing while remaining aware of everything else, is the same as in our zazen. We don’t concentrate our mind on a certain object in our zazen. Our mind is nowhere and at the same time everywhere. It’s the same as when we are driving. We don’t focus our attention on a particular object like the steering wheel but are just awake. Our mind is really nowhere, which means everywhere. When our mind is nowhere and everywhere, we can react very naturally to whatever happens. That is our zazen. Our minds should not be fixed in one place but rather be nowhere and everywhere. That is our awakening. That is parental mind. Dōgen Zenji continues:
Therefore, watching over water and over grain, shouldn’t everyone maintain the affection and kindness of nourishing children? Great Teacher Sakyamuni even gave up twenty years of a buddha’s allotted life span to protect us all alike in these later times. What was his intention? It was simply to confer parental mind. Tathāgatas could never wish for rewards or riches.25
According to Buddhist scriptures, the Buddha could have lived one hundred years, and yet he died when he was eighty in order to donate twenty years of his life span to all beings. This is how the Buddha manifests parental mind, the attitude of caring for things and other people.
Magnanimous Mind
The third aspect of the attitude advocated by Dōgen Zenji is magnanimous mind. “As for what is called magnanimous mind,” he said, “this mind is like the great mountains or like the great ocean; it is not a biased or contentious mind.”
We must try to avoid bias or a one-sided perspective and instead strive to see the whole situation. If we say, “This is me and that is them,” our community is divided and our minds become one-sided. This leads to internal conflict and struggle and our group cannot be called a community or sangha. A sangha is a peaceful community of people, a mixture of water and milk, not water and oil. The attitude of magnanimous mind is no separation.
“Carrying half a pound, do not take it lightly; lifting forty pounds should not seem heavy.” Here again Dōgen is talking about cooking. Sometimes we cook for one or two people. Sometimes we have to cook for one or two hundred people. We should not think that to prepare a meal for one or two people is easy or that to prepare a meal for many people is heavy or difficult. We take the same careful, attentive attitude in either case.
“Although drawn by the voices of spring, do not wander over spring meadows; viewing the fall colors, do not allow your heart to fall.” Here spring and fall are used to represent favorable conditions and adversity. In spring we are happy and we wander around and forget reality. During the fall we become sorrowful and forget about reality. Too often we are moved by emotions, by circumstances, by good times and bad. Magnanimous mind, according to Dōgen, means that “the four seasons cooperate in a single scene.” Spring, summer, autumn, and winter are one season. We should accept them as one reality of life. That is magnanimous mind.
“Regard light and heavy with a single eye,” he goes on to say. “On this single occasion you must write the word ‘great.’ You must know the word ‘great.’ You must learn the word ‘great.’” The attitude of magnanimous mind is the same as that of our zazen. Let go of thought, resist the pull of discrimination, and accept the situation as one.
These are the three attitudes or three minds with which we want to practice as a community, as a sangha. Our vow functions as the three minds, to nurture the Dharma, to practice with others, to create a situation or place to practice with other people. To do this we have to maintain these three attitudes, especially magnanimous mind. We must not be fettered by circumstance. We try to keep practicing steadily. That is the attitude we learn from our sitting practice. Whatever happens, whatever the situation, we just keep sitting. Sometimes we are busy, sometimes we are tired, sometimes we are involved in things. But we always come back to the zendo and sit down quietly. This is our practice.
VOW AS SANGHA
Sangha, or community, is an important manifestation of the concept of vow. We see this in the life of Guishan Lingyou, a famous Chinese Zen master who established a large and influential sangha in China.26 How he accomplished this is instructive.
Guishan was instrumental in the establishment of Zen monasteries. Before his time there were no formal Zen Buddhist orders. People simply came together to practice. But then Zen monks started to create their own unique form of monastic practice. It was the beginning of Zen as a distinct school of Chinese Buddhism. This at least is the traditional view of the history of Chinese Zen.
Guishan was tenzo, the chief cook in the monastery where he practiced with his teacher, Baizhang Huihai. One day Guishan was standing near the abbot’s room where Baizhang was staying.
Baizhang asked Guishan, “Who is it?” and Guishan replied, “It’s me, Lingyou” (Guishan’s dharma name). Baizhang said, “Would you dig in the firepot and see if there is fire or not?” It was winter and the firepot was their source of heat. Guishan stirred the firepot and said, “No fire.” Then Baizhang got up and came over, dug deep into the ashes, and found a tiny ember. He showed it to Lingyou and said, “What is this? Isn’t this fire?” Guishan was enlightened.
The fire in this story refers to the buddha-nature. Buddha-nature is not something solid or immovable, but rather an energy that motivates us to practice—and not just zazen or Buddhist practice. Buddha-nature is the fire of the life force that enables us to aspire to be better persons, to be more helpful to others, to settle into a healthy way of life, and to practice the Way. It’s difficult to find the fire of buddha-nature inside ourselves, but we must. It’s there. We are alive, so we have this force that drives us to practice and wake up to the reality of life. It may be only an ember, but all of us without exception have it. When we practice with other people, we gather together small fires. If we try to build a fire in a hibachi or firepot with a single piece of charcoal, it soon dies out. But even one tiny ember, if fed with charcoal, becomes a big fire. This is the meaning of sangha. We practice together with other people in a sangha. Each one of us has a small fire, which alone will die out sooner or later. Together we become bigger than ourselves. This was Guishan Lingyou’s enlightenment.
Baizhang sent Guishan to Mount Gui, an isolated, precipitous, and awe-inspiring mountain suitable for a great monastery. He practiced there alone for several years. Dōgen Zenji comments on Guishan’s practice, which he greatly admired, in a chapter of Shōbōgenzō titled “Gyōji.” Gyōji means continuous or ceaseless practice. Here Dōgen talks about many Chinese Zen masters and their practice, Guishan being one of them. For Dōgen, Guishan’s practice offered an important example of how to establish a monastery or sangha. He remarks:
After the bestowal of the prophecy (Dharma transmission), Zen master Dayuan (Daien) of Mount Gui [i.e., Guishan Lingyou] went directly to the steep Gui Shan. There he made friends with bears and animals, lived at a thatched hermitage, and kept practicing. He didn’t avoid hardships with wind and snow. He ate only chestnuts or horse chestnuts. There were neither temple buildings nor temple provisions. However, he ceaselessly devoted himself to continuous practice for more than forty years. Later, his temple became well known throughout the country and many excellent practitioners gathered there.27
People came to practice with him, and eventually his sangha grew huge. It is said that he had fifteen hundred students and forty-one dharma succ
essors. Even though in the beginning he practiced alone, his practice was not for himself. He vowed to create a monastery or sangha to practice with others.
Dōgen Zenji discusses the inner attitude we should maintain when we vow to create a sangha or practice place. He continues, “When we make a vow to found a temple (a sangha or a monastery) we should not be motivated by human sentiment, but we should strengthen our aspiration for the continuous practice of Buddha Dharma.” Our vow, then, should not be based on the human tendency to undertake things that we see as good, useful, or beneficial for ourselves alone—things we expect to bring us fame, profit, or self-satisfaction. This human sentiment isn’t necessarily bad, but when we practice Buddha Dharma with others it is a hindrance. If each person seeks his or her own happiness and holds his or her own views, opinions, values, and ways of thinking, then there will be conflict. If we practice with other people on the basis of human sentiment, it may work for a while, but eventually it will fail. So our practice should be based not on human sentiment but on an aspiration for the continuous practice of Buddha Dharma.
Dōgen Zenji continues, “Even if we don’t have lofty temple buildings, if we practice, the place can be called a dōjō of ancient buddhas.” Dōjō means a place for practice. We now use the word dōjō for martial arts like karate or aikido, but originally this term referred to the place where the Buddha was enlightened under the bodhi tree. Dōjō is both a place for practice and a place of enlightenment because practice and enlightenment are one.
“We hear that ancient people practiced on the ground or under a tree. Such places are sacred forever. A single person’s continuous practice creates a dōjō for many buddhas.” This is the basic point of Dōgen Zenji’s practice. We don’t need lofty temple buildings for our practice. We don’t need a formal zazen hall. When we vow to establish a dōjō, monastery, or sangha, we should not forget this. The number of buildings or people is not essential. The critical points are practice and aspiration. Dōgen said:
Foolish people in this degenerate age should not be vainly engaged in construction of temple buildings. The buddhas and ancestors never had desires for buildings. Many people today meaninglessly construct a Buddha hall or other temple buildings although they haven’t yet clarified the eye of their own self. Such people build temples, not in order to offer the buildings to buddhas, but to make them their own homes of fame and profit.
They don’t understand Buddha Dharma, but they construct lofty buildings. That’s why there are so many temples in Japan now. They are monuments to their founders. Today, Japan is prosperous. Even Buddhist priests have money. They construct gorgeous buildings, huge Buddha halls, and beautiful zendos. I was surprised when I visited a big temple in Japan. They had just built a huge two-story building. The first story had a spacious hall for giving lectures. On the second floor, there was a zendo with a big Mañjuśrī statue. But there were no monks practicing there. They used the building only once a month to have zazen-kai, day-long meditation retreats, and retreats for laypeople a few times a year. To me this is a waste of wealth. It has no meaning as Buddha Dharma. Dōgen Zenji made this same criticism. My teacher, Uchiyama Roshi, was also very critical of this kind of activity. Many people, sincere practitioners who would like to practice as Dōgen Zenji did, try to have a formal sōdō and a statue of Mañjuśrī, and everything Dōgen Zenji described. These people build a zendō for the sake of human sentiment. They think that buildings are essential and that they cannot practice without formal monastic buildings. Uchiyama Roshi said that we can practice zazen with only three square feet for each person, a zafu (round cushion) and zabuton (square mat) to sit on, and our aspiration to practice. That’s all we need. This is a very important point.
Dōgen Zenji continues:
We have to quietly contemplate Guishan’s continuous practice in ancient times. To contemplate means to think of it as if we were living on Mount Gui right now. Listen to the sound of rain at midnight. The raindrops have power to pierce not only moss but also a rock. On a snowy night in winter, even birds and animals don’t come to us. Unless we devote ourselves to continuous practice, valuing Dharma more than our own lives, we cannot stand such a life.
Guishan practiced alone, but I think this is not just a description of his solitary lifestyle. This is a description of our zazen. When we sit in zazen, even if we are with other people in a busy city, we are totally alone. The sound of raindrops and the sounds of the birds and animals are the sounds of our life. The snow is the scenery of our life. We just see it. We don’t need to worry about what we should do today or tomorrow. Of course, we have a schedules, goals, and projects. But we just sit, right now, right here. We try to see that this is the only reality and everything else is the scenery of our life. We don’t consider this practice as a step to something else. This practice right now, right here, brings about the next step. We don’t need to worry about the next step. We should be fully right here, right now, in this situation, and awake to the reality of this self. That is an essential point.
So Guishan didn’t hurry to cut the grass to prepare the land, or engage in constructing temple buildings. He only continued to practice and put his whole energy into cultivating the Way. We cannot help but have sympathy for the authentic ancestor who transmitted the true Dharma and who had to undergo such hardships in a secluded steep mountain. I heard that on Mount Gui there was a pond and a brook which might be covered with layers of ice and mist. Although it was too solitary for a human being to tolerate, practice of the Buddha Way and the innermost truth vigorously came together there through his continuous practice.
This is the most important point in this chapter. Practice of the Buddha’s Way is not something abstract but rather our concrete practice of the innermost truth of Buddha Dharma. This is the Buddha’s teaching of the reality of our life. Even though our practice is very small, it merges with the innermost truth—Buddha’s teaching of the reality of this universal life. This is an important aspect of our practice. Dōgen Zenji frequently talks about our concrete practice with our body and mind and that our personal practice actualizes the boundless, universal truth. Without our small, individual practice with this body and mind, the Buddha’s teaching, or universal reality, is just an abstraction, something written in scriptures that we read and try to imagine. The universal truth or life force can only be manifested through our practice. If no one practices, Buddhist texts remain only words. If no one lives the teaching, it’s just another part of our library; it’s not alive. Even if our bodhi-mind or aspiration is weak, our practice is the manifestation of the universal truth taught by the Buddha.
Without the practice of this limited body and mind, temple buildings and zendos are meaningless. According to Dōgen Zenji, the meaning of our practice is practice at this moment, right now, right here, actualizing the Buddha’s teaching. Without our practice there is no Buddha’s teaching.
KATAGIRI ROSHI’S VOW
In 1988 Katagiri Roshi gave a lecture titled “Twenty-five Years of Dharma Transmission in North America” in which he spoke about his experiences in the United States and his vow and vision of his activities.28 One of his experiences in his early time at the San Francisco Zen Center made him question the attitude of some American practitioners in the 1960s. At that time there were many young hippies living in the San Francisco area. Katagiri Roshi invited them to participate in practice at the center. One of them came to all the activities there. Katagiri Roshi said to him, “You come so often. What do you do? What’s your job?” He answered, “I get unemployment.” After he worked for six months or so, he could collect unemployment and meanwhile participate in activities at the center. After his unemployment payments expired, he would find another job. Katagiri Roshi was surprised by this reply. He had thought that this person was a good Zen student, but in fact the young man was engaging in an irresponsible way of life—irresponsible to his work, his society, and himself. According to Katagiri Roshi, taking advantage of the social welfare system to
fulfill one’s desire, even a desire to study Dharma, didn’t have anything to do with the Dharma and was inconsistent with the bodhisattva practice of vow. Katagiri Roshi felt that a vow entails responsibility to one’s own life, to other people, and to the whole of society. The most important point was always to walk together with all living beings.
In the lecture Katagiri Roshi also talked about his plans for the Zen community of MZMC. He mentioned four projects. I was surprised that he was so ambitious. First, he wanted to establish a monastery at Hokyōji,29 where people could practice together as a sangha in an intimate setting. For Katagiri Roshi, Dharma means living beyond our egocentricity, individuality, and distinctions based on nationality and culture. It means living together as practitioners. This is the essence of Buddhism. Second, to educate and train his priest-disciples, he planned to establish a place where people could practice with experienced teachers. Finally, within Hokyōji’s compound Katagiri Roshi wanted to build a separate facility as a retreat center, not just for monks but for anyone who wanted to experience a quiet life in nature. Fourth was Ganshōji, the Zen center in Minneapolis. This center is meant to have a function in the larger community, not just for the members of this sangha. Katagiri Roshi established a Buddhist study program that would appeal to a broad group of laypeople.
THE POWER OF RAINDROPS
In his comments about Guishan Lingyou’s practice, Dōgen Zenji talks about raindrops. He asks us to contemplate Guishan’s practice in the mountains. We should try to feel as if we were in Guishan’s place. “Listen to the sound of raindrops at midnight. The raindrops have the power to pierce not only moss but also rock.” Guishan sat by himself in the deep mountain. Our practice of zazen, like his, resembles a raindrop. We are small and can sit for only a short time. Each drop alone has little power, but still we continue to practice. As raindrops eventually pierce not only moss but also rock, continuous practice of zazen has the power to make a hole in even a rock. This is an essential point. Our practice doesn’t have a mystical, mysterious, or magical power to clear away all delusions. But like the raindrops, we sit moment by moment, day after day, year after year, and this sitting generates the power to erode a rock. When we think of our plans to establish a monastery, it’s the same. Our effort is like raindrops; it doesn’t create change in one day, or a few days, or a few years. But if we just keep doing it, when conditions are ripe, it happens.
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