Living by Vow

by Shohaku Okumura

  “Without having the slightest expectation, maintain the prescribed manner of conduct.” Here he’s talking about monks living in a monastery. They should follow the schedule and devote their whole energy to daily practice. In the case of laypeople, taking care of our families, living in communities, and working is what we do.

  “Think of acting to save and benefit living beings, earnestly carry out all good deeds, and give up former evil ones. Do this solely for the sake of becoming the foundation of happiness for human and heavenly beings.” In each activity we should think of how we can benefit all living beings. That is our vow. We try to practice skillfully to create a foundation of happiness for all beings. That means we try to make this world better, even if only in small ways. We have many problems in this world today. We should do what we can to make it a better place for those who follow us. That too is our vow. Each of us has different capabilities and each of us can do something, even something small to improve this world. That is true bodhisattva practice.

  “Without stagnating in good deeds of the present, continue practicing your whole lifetime.” If we think we are doing good, we already have a problem. If we think we are good people because we try to make the world better, we have a problem. This is a judgment. We think that we are good and that those who don’t follow us are bad. This is a problem. If we think in this way we ignore emptiness. Even though we are doing good deeds, we should not think of ourselves as good people. We are doing what we choose to do or feel we should. It’s just a natural function. This is a subtle point. Our good deeds can make us arrogant. Fighting is often caused by this kind of arrogance. We think, “We are doing good and they are not, so they are our enemy. We have to eliminate them to make the world a better place.” Then we really have a problem. Many wars are caused this way. The wisdom of emptiness is a way to avoid conflict based on concepts of justice.

  Just keep doing. This is the meaning of shikan. Dōgen Zenji’s most famous phrase is “just sitting,” or shikantaza. We may think that just sitting means it’s okay if we merely sit, that we don’t need to do anything else. But shikantaza doesn’t mean that. It means just sit for now, without any expectation for the future, without thinking that we are doing good or practicing well. Just sit.

  “An ancient called this practice ‘breaking the bottom of the lacquer pail.’” This is a common expression for becoming enlightened. For Dōgen Zenji enlightenment means just sitting or just doing good. Just keep practicing without any expectation.

  “The way of the life of the buddhas and ancestors is like this.” This is the way buddhas and ancestors practiced. When he mentions just sitting, Dōgen Zenji is talking about the practice of prajñā. He’s talking about becoming free of even the Buddha’s teaching. This is the Buddha’s practice, or prajñā-pāramitā.

  Nāgārjuna says something very similar in Mūlamadhyamakakārikā: “Those who delight in maintaining, ‘Without the grasping, I will realize nirvana; nirvana is in me,’ are the very ones with the greatest grasping” (16:9).93 We believe that we are letting go of thought, opening our hands, and grasping at nothing; we think that we are completely free from self-clinging and that we are in nirvana or nirvana is within us. Nāgārjuna says that those who think this way are the very ones with the greatest grasping. We must open our hand even concerning our practice, even about opening our hand. Nāgārjuna continues, “Where nirvana is not (subject to) establishment and samsara not (subject to) disengagement, how will there be any conception of nirvana and samsara?” (16:10). We don’t have to establish nirvana or eliminate samsara. There is no separation between them. This is a koan. There is no answer, so we have to keep opening our hands. If we think we are okay because we open our hands, then we are grasping. So what? This is our practice.

  GREAT BRIGHT MANTRA

  “Therefore know the prajñā-pāramitā

  Is the great transcendent mantra,

  Is the great bright mantra,

  Is the utmost mantra,

  Is the supreme mantra,

  Which is able to relieve all suffering

  And is true, not false.”

  In this section the sutra says that prajñā-pāramitā is the wisdom to see impermanence and interdependence. This body and mind exist as a result of many factors. When these elements change, we change. Consequently, there is no fixed self-nature within us, nothing substantial. To see this reality is prajñā-pāramitā. It is a difficult reality to face moment by moment. We often forget about it because our way of thought in daily life is very different.

  In our usual thinking we use concepts and words. Each word has a certain meaning or definition that doesn’t change. A word should always mean the same thing. If the meaning changes, we have no basis for consistent communication. I’m always Shohaku Okumura, always Japanese, always a man, always a Buddhist priest. But in reality my body and mind are always changing. On a conceptual level, however, I’m always Shohaku Okumura, and it’s difficult to see these changes. When the two levels of our life, conceptual thought and life force, harmonize, we have no serious problems. But sometime our thinking contradicts reality.

  For instance, I still think of myself as a young man when in fact I am getting older every day. One of my son’s favorite games was to sit on my shoulders and beat my head like a drum. He did this often.94 One day I was sitting on the sofa when he jumped onto the back of my neck. I had no pain that day but the next morning I couldn’t move my neck. I was in bed for two days and missed Thanksgiving dinner. Pain is so realistic, always fresh. It’s very difficult to accept the reality that I am getting older and unable to do some things and that my son is getting bigger every day. If I try to move something too heavy, it’s difficult. These are examples of how our conceptual thinking and self-image often diverge from the reality of our lives. When there is too great a gap between reality and our thinking we run into trouble. Prajñā-pāramitā is the wisdom to see both sides. It’s not simply a negation of our thought or a particular way of thinking. It is seeing the limitations of our usual logic. Our day-to-day thought is unable to see the reality of constant change.

  The Heart Sutra says that this prajñā or wisdom which sees the reality of impermanence, egolessness, and interdependence is a mantra. Mantra was originally a term used in the Vedic tradition of ancient India commonly called Brahmanism, and later it became an essential part of Hinduism. The practice of chanting mantras was much older than Buddhism. One of the oldest of the many sacred scriptures of ancient India is called the Rig Veda. In the Vedas there are many gods much more powerful than human beings. The basic idea of a mantra was that if Brahman priests uttered the proper words and conducted the right rituals, the gods would comply with their requests. These mantras supposedly had the supernatural power to move the gods. Originally Indian Buddhist monks didn’t use mantras. But Mahāyāna Buddhism was strongly influenced by Hinduism and began to use them. The word “mantra” is used commonly in Vajrayāna Buddhism, which arose around the seventh century as the final development of Indian Buddhism. In the Vajrayāna school (such as the Shingon school in Japan), prayers serve a particular purpose. For example, on certain occasions the priest builds a fire inside the temple, sits in full lotus, makes a particular mudra, and chants mantras. Then Vairocana, the main Buddha in Vajrayāna, is supposed to help them. This is the basic idea of the Vajrayāna or Shingon school of Buddhism.

  On Shikoku, one of the major Japanese islands, there are eighty-eight destinations for pilgrims. As Shingon practitioners visit each temple, they often chant the Heart Sutra. This sutra is also used as a mantra in Vajrayāna Buddhism. For Zen Buddhists, however, reciting the Heart Sutra doesn’t mean that we believe it’s a mantra that can influence the gods. For instance, right now I have pain in my neck, but I don’t believe that reciting the Heart Sutra will relieve it. Although the sutra has the phrase “relieve all suffering,” I don’t believe it works as a kind of painkiller. Instead it enables us to change the way we view our lives and ourselves. It allows us
to see the deeper meaning and broader reality of our life. Our way of thinking is limited by our experience, education, culture, and values. Our picture of the world is narrow. This wisdom of prajñā-pāramitā enables us to break through these fixed systems of value and see reality from a wider perspective.

  The Heart Sutra concludes:

  “So proclaim the prajñā-pāramitā mantra,

  Proclaim the mantra that says:

  Gate, gate, pāragate, pārasamgate! Bodhi, svāha!”

  Since this is a mantra, the words themselves are believed by some to have divine power and so are not translated. Depending on the translator, the meaning is, “Gone, gone, gone beyond” or “Gone altogether beyond. Oh, what an awakening!” Bodhi means “awakening” and svāhā means “all hail.” “Gone” points to a reality beyond our system of values, beyond the boundary of our ready-made picture of the world and ourselves. This mantra enables us to break through our internal limitations and see a deeper reality inside us. The Buddha taught us to wake up to this deeper meaning in our daily lives.

  Some of my time in Japan I lived on takuhatsu, religious begging. Usually I walked the street and stopped in front of each shop. I would stand there and say, “Hō.” In Japanese this literally means “bowl,” and figuratively it means “dharma.” In Osaka there is a large temple called Shitennōji.95 Here, on the twenty-first of each month, people observe en’nichi, a kind of a memorial day for Kōbō Daishi, the founder of the Japanese Shingon school. Thousands of people visit the temple. Whenever possible I went to that temple on the twenty-first and did standing takuhatsu. I stood from about ten o’clock in the morning until about four in the afternoon. For six hours I didn’t move. I just stood with a begging bowl and recited the Heart Sutra. It takes about three or four minutes to recite the whole sutra, so I would chant it more than a hundred times. Usually when people do takuhatsu they chant Enmei-jukku-kannon-gyō. This is a very short sutra, too short to repeat for six hours, so I recited the Heart Sutra instead. Chanting kept my mind from darting here and there in distracted thinking.

  The people who visit the temple are mostly older people who are very religious in the traditional sense. They are very sincere Buddhists and give generous donations, sometimes a small amount of money, sometimes ten yen or a hundred yen, about one dollar. When they made a donation they did gasshō and bowed to me. I also bowed while I was chanting. I saw many people who were poor but more generous than the rich. It was apparent to me that they were suffering. Some were in wheelchairs. Chanting the Heart Sutra was a very powerful practice. I could see people’s suffering. It’s not something mysterious, but there was a special realm in which we were living together, sharing our suffering. Although we didn’t talk we communicated on a profound level. I felt dharma joy. The Heart Sutra was a mantra that enabled us to relieve suffering.

  Suffering is more than just pain. Suffering is pain plus something mental. Pain alone is not such a big problem because it will end sometime. For example, I had pain this morning and knew I had to give a talk. That made my pain suffering. Still, I was able to come and speak. Chanting this mantra, this Heart Sutra, enables us to communicate with each other deeply without speaking. For this reason chanting is a really good practice.

  At some Zen centers in the United States, we chant in both Japanese and English. Some ask me why we chant in Japanese. They think it doesn’t make sense. Chanting is first of all a practice of breathing. When you chant you use your hara. In a Japanese monastery one is taught, “Chant with your hara, your abdomen, not with your mouth.” Chanting is a practice of deep breathing with your abdomen. Next we are taught, “Chant with your ear, not with your mouth.” That means we should listen to what other people are chanting. We should be together with all beings when we chant. We shouldn’t chant alone. When we chant with others, the chanting of all people should be one, like a chorus or orchestra. Chanting enables us to be right now, right here at this moment. We have to put our whole body and mind into chanting and let go of other things. When we are chanting we should not think about sitting or eating or errands we have to do. Just be right now, right here, 100 percent. In this way chanting is a mantra. The meaning is not so important. Of course, it’s better to understand the meaning, but the meaning is not really the point. Chanting can be prajñā-pāramitā if we put our whole time and being into it. It can open our eyes to reality, not to an intellectual reality but rather to our life energy. When we chant wholeheartedly, our voice is the sound of emptiness, exactly like the sound of the wind bell in Rujing’s poem. It is the sound of the wind, the bell, our ears, our mind, the entire universe.

  SANDŌKAI

  The mind of the great sage of India

  Is intimately communicated between east and west.

  People’s faculties may be keen or dull,

  But in the path there are no “southern” or “northern” ancestors.

  The spiritual source shines clearly in the light;

  The branching streams flow in the darkness.

  Grasping things is basically delusion;

  Merging with principle is still not enlightenment.

  Each sense and every field

  Interact and do not interact;

  When interacting, they also merge—

  Otherwise, they remain in their own states.

  Forms are basically different in material and appearance,

  Sounds are fundamentally different in pleasant or harsh quality.

  “Darkness” is a word for merging upper and lower;

  “Light” is an expression for distinguishing pure and defiled.

  The four gross elements return to their own natures

  Like a baby taking to its mother;

  Fire heats, wind moves,

  Water wets, earth is solid.

  Eye and form, ear and sound;

  Nose and smell, tongue and taste—

  Thus in all things

  The leaves spread from the root;

  The whole process must return to the source;

  “Noble” and “base” are only manners of speaking.

  Right in light there is darkness, but don’t confront it as darkness;

  Right in darkness there is light, but don’t see it as light.

  Light and dark are relative to one another

  Like forward and backward steps.

  All things have their function—

  It is a matter of use in the appropriate situation.

  Phenomena exist like box and cover joining;

  Principle accords like arrow points meeting.

  Hearing the words, you should understand the source;

  Don’t make up standards on your own.

  If you don’t understand the path as it meets your eyes,

  How can you know the way as you walk?

  Progress is not a matter of far or near,

  But if you are confused, mountains and rivers block the way.

  I humbly say to those who study the mystery,

  Don’t waste time.96

  THE TITLE of this poem, “Sandōkai,” is composed of three characters. The first, san (cen in Chinese) means “difference,” “diversity,” “variety.” In this poem it is used as a synonym for ji, which indicates the concrete, phenomenal aspect of our life. The second character, dō (tong in Chinese), means “sameness,” “equality,” “commonality.” Here it is used as a synonym of ri, the absolute or ultimate reality of emptiness beyond discrimination. Kai (qi in Chinese) means “promise,” “agreement,” or “tally.” In ancient times when merchants made a contract, they wrote it on a tally (a wooden board), which they then broke into halves. When they actually exchanged goods, they put the two halves of the tally together to confirm the agreement. San-dō-kai refers to both aspects of our lives: the concrete, comprised of many specific situations, ideas, evaluations, and things; and the absolute, based on universality, emptiness, and nondiscrimination. These are like the halves of a tally. These aspects work together as one seamless reality. Hence, “
Sandōkai” can be translated as the “Merging of Difference and Unity.”97

  THE MIND OF THE GREAT SAGE OF INDIA

  The mind of the great sage of India

  Is intimately communicated between east and west.

  People’s faculties may be keen or dull,

  But in the path there are no “southern” or “northern” ancestors.

  The first four lines of this poem by the Zen master Shitou Xiqian (Sekitō Kisen) are an introduction to what follows. To understand this, we need to know the situation in Shitou’s time.

  “Southern” and “Northern” Ancestors

  Shitou lived in eighth century China, from 700 to 790. He practiced with the sixth ancestor, Dajan Huineng (Daikan Enō, 638–713) when he was young, perhaps as a teenager. After Huineng died he practiced with one of Huineng’s disciples, Qingyuan Xingsi (Seigen Gyōshi, 660–740). Shitou became Qingyuan’s dharma successor, thus a second-generation disciple of the sixth ancestor. It is said that earlier, under the fifth ancestor Doman Hongren (Daiman Kōnin, 602–675), Zen had divided into two schools, Southern and Northern. Huineng’s lineage was called the Southern school, while the Northern school was founded by Yuquan Shenxiu (Gyokusen Jinshū, 606–706), one of Huineng’s dharma brothers. There is a famous story about the dharma transmission from the fifth ancestor Hongren to Huineng.