Living by Vow

by Shohaku Okumura

  Consider an orchestra: Each person plays a different instrument. A violin is not a piano, and a piano is not a drum. They all make different sounds. They are independent and cannot replace each other. Yet when they work together, they make one musical whole. But even as we listen to an orchestra as one sound, there are still many independent musicians all playing their own parts. Both sides are always present. This is true of any community. For example, in this sangha there are different positions, each filled by a different person who carries out his or her own duties. But this sangha also exists as a whole, as one sangha, and in this sense there is no separation among us. “Interact” refers to everything working together and “not interact” describes everything having its own individual shape, function, and practice.

  Harmony in Community

  Community always includes both aspects. If we ignore either, the sangha, family, or body becomes sick and functions poorly. If we think only of one individual and lose sight of the community as a whole, the community doesn’t work. But it’s not healthy to put too much emphasis on the community and ignore individuals. When we go too far toward either extreme, we become sick. We have to try to find the Middle Way. This is one of the most important concepts in Buddhism. We find the Middle Way when we sacrifice neither the individual nor the community. In Shōbōgenzō “Bodaisatta Shishōbō” (Bodhisattva’s Four Embracing Dharmas), Dōgen Zenji said, “Identity-action means not to be different—neither different from self nor from others.”107 This means we have to find a way for both self and others to be peaceful, harmonious, and beneficial as a whole. This is called compassion. It doesn’t mean that I sacrifice myself for the sake of the community but that the community should include this self. We have to find a way that this community can include this individual self and be healthy. This is the bodhisattva Way.

  Interacting and Not Interacting Interact

  The next line of “Sandōkai” says, “When interacting, they also merge.” “When interacting” as a translation of e-go is not quite accurate because it implies that things interact only at particular times. Actually all things are always interacting. The Japanese word for “merge” here is wataru. The Chinese character for this word has two parts; one means “water” or “river,” and the other means “to walk.” Together, the two mean to cross the river, in this case to cross on foot a river with no bridge. Often Chinese or Japanese villages are separated by a small river. The river is a boundary that is crossed only when there is a problem to be resolved. This character thus means to negotiate, to meet in order to solve problems. It also means to see around the world, or to walk around the world and see things. So wataru means to cross borders and work together.

  At the same time, it implies some independence, since people don’t cross the boundaries between villages very often. Especially in ancient times, people who were born in a village died in the same village. One family might live in the same village for many generations. When I lived in a small farming village in Kyoto, Japan, there were about seventy families, most of whom had lived there more than five hundred years. In the temple there was a family grave that dated back to the sixteenth century. The villagers didn’t get out much. But when there were problems they had to cross the boundary and meet, negotiate, and work together. That’s the meaning of wataru. This kanji, or Chinese character, shows both individuality and collaboration. The interaction it describes is not tied to a special time or occasion but ongoing, among all beings and things. And yet at the same time all things have independence.

  Not Interacting Within Interacting

  The next line, “Otherwise, they remain in their own states,” refers to noninteraction, which is also an ongoing aspect of reality rather than a specific time or circumstance. Eye is always eye, nose is nose. I am I, you are you. The Chinese character translated here as “state” has two parts. One means “human being or person,” the other “standing.” Together they describe a person standing in a certain place, meaning that each person has his or her own place or position. This refers not only to individuals but to the functions of each individual. All the senses and their objects are independent. Each has its own place, stage, rank, and function. They cannot combine. Both aspects, individuality and interaction, are always present. This seems contradictory but is in fact the nature of reality.

  Wondrous Dharma

  Dōgen Zenji’s major work is Shōbōgenzō. Shō means “true,” “right,” or “correct.” Bō is “dharma.” Gen means “eyes.” A zō is a storehouse or treasury. Shōbōgenzō thus means “treasury of the true dharma eye.” This means that this reality, the reality of our life, is a treasury of the eye. In this case, “eye” stands for the wisdom that sees the true dharma. The Sanskrit for “true dharma” is saddharma. It is part of the title of the Lotus Sutra, Saddharmapuṇḍarīka Sutra, where it means “true reality or true teaching.” The Chinese translation of this Sanskrit word is myōhō. Myō is an interesting character with two parts: one means woman and the other young. Literally, myō refers to the beauty of a young woman. It means beautiful, excellent, wonderful, strange, and always changing—something we can’t grasp. Myō is sometimes translated into English as “wondrous,” meaning excellent and ungraspable. We can’t understand it with logic. So the reality of our life is excellent, wonderful, and yet strange and hard to understand. As explained above hō means dharma.

  Reality itself is a question for us. There is no way to reduce the reality of our life to any logical system and completely understand it, because our life is so complex. Reality is always asking us, “What is this life? Who are we? What am I doing?” Somehow we have to answer with our practice. Practice doesn’t necessarily mean sitting or studying the Buddha’s teaching. Practice can mean the activities of our day-to-day lives. Even when we try to avoid answering reality’s questions, that avoidance itself is an answer. If we try to deny reality, that’s also an answer. So we can’t avoid it. Each one of us has to engage this reality, including our self, body, mind, and situation. Our self and our situation work together. We have to accept this total reality as our self. Self is not a separate part of reality. Our life is the sum of all the things happening inside and outside us. We try to be peaceful, not only inside ourselves but throughout the whole universe. There may be no war within this country, but if there is fighting somewhere else this country cannot be peaceful, because everything is connected. We have to work together with things inside and outside ourselves. This attitude is bodhisattva practice.

  These four sentences express the wondrous reality of our life; a life that has two aspects, interacting and not interacting, that also interact with each other. And yet each and every thing stays in its own dharma position. This expression “dharma position” is originally from the Lotus Sutra. Dōgen Zenji uses it in Shōbōgenzō “Genjōkōan,” where he says that firewood stays at the dharma position of firewood, and ash stays at the dharma position of ash, and yet “before and after is cut off” by the fire. It’s difficult to understand, but we have to work through this as a koan. Genjō refers to whatever is happening in this present moment as the dharma position. Koan means both “reality” and also “question.” Reality asks a question, “What is this?” and we must try to answer. The answer is our practice.

  DARKNESS AND LIGHT

  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.

  Differences of the Objects

  Here “forms” means the material objects of our sense field. Although this poem only mentions forms and sounds, it means all six objects of our sense organs (including mind, which senses mental formations). All things have varied natures and characteristics. We are all human beings and yet each of us looks different. Although we share a common nature or essence, we vary in appearance. All things have some
aspects in common and also some unique qualities.

  Shitou continues, “Sounds are fundamentally different in pleasant or harsh quality.” There are many different kinds of sound, some pleasing, some terrible. We feel good when we listen to beautiful music, but if we are sitting in the zendo and someone turns on loud rock-and-roll, it’s disturbing. The same song might make us feel good or bad depending on the situation. The effect of a song depends not only on the nature of the sound itself but also on the condition of this body and mind.

  The same is true of taste. Delicious food and awful food might have very similar nutritional value. But we have likes and dislikes. Each thing has its own unique character, and we also respond to it in different ways. Sometimes we feel good, sometimes we feel bad. Even when we have delicious food in front of us, if we are not hungry the delicious food is the same as junk food. When we are really hungry, even junk food seems a feast. The appearance, quality, meaning, and value of things around us all depend on the properties of each thing and on the condition of our body and mind. Nothing has a fixed nature or value.

  Darkness and Light: Nondiscrimination and Discrimination

  Shitou goes on to say, “‘Darkness’ is a word for merging upper and lower; ‘Light’ is an expression for distinguishing pure and defiled.” This is the same principle as ji and ri. Ji, it will be recalled, is the aspect of independence; each thing has its own characteristics. Ri is the aspect of universality or unity. For example, a hand is made up of five independent fingers, each with a different shape, function, and name. We cannot separate the fingers from the hand, and we cannot separate the fingers from the billions of cells that make them up. A cell is a collection of billions of atoms that cannot be separated. Each atom is also a collection of smaller particles. This one hand is a part of my body, which is a part of the human society, which is a part of the larger ecology of the earth. Earth is a small part of the whole universe. Nothing is fixed and yet each thing is really independent. This is really a wondrous way of being. This is what is meant in the Heart Sutra when it says, “form is emptiness and emptiness is form.” Nothing is fixed, yet this hand is this hand. I am I, but this “I” doesn’t exist independently. I can exist as a part of something or as a collection of things. Darkness, or ri, is the universal aspect of our life. Light, ji, is the individual, independent aspect of our life. In the dark, colors are indistinguishable. In the light, everything becomes clear. We can distinguish between red and blue, north and south, grass and water. We should see our life and world from both perspectives, light and darkness, differentiation and non-differentiation. We usually see ourselves as individuals, distinct from other people. I say this is me, and this is my opinion. I like this, I hate that. If someone else has a different opinion we may feel angry or sad. Many conflicts and problems arise from this difference. Yet when we see oneness or universality, we understand that we are living out the same life, supported by all beings. We realize that without others we cannot live. When we clearly, deeply understand this, many problems disappear naturally.

  Nondiscrimination Is Not Enlightenment

  Because of our upbringing, we can easily see our individuality. So the first thing we have to learn is to see the universality of our life. We need to be able to see that we share our life with other people, with all beings in the whole universe. That is the meaning of interdependence, one of the main teachings of the Buddha. But if we cling to that perspective and call it enlightenment, it’s a mistake. The Buddha taught that we must see the reality of our life from both sides.

  Our zazen practice is to awaken to the reality prior to separation. Ordinarily we see things from one perspective or the other. When we sit, we let go of thoughts and all particular perspectives. We don’t grasp anything. That doesn’t mean that we have to extinguish thought. Thought is always there as we experience our life, even when sitting in this posture. Our mind often seems busier than usual when we sit in a quiet place. In fact, our body and mind are busier and noisier in everyday life, but since our environment is also noisy, we don’t notice the commotion inside ourselves. When we come to a quiet place, however, we hear even the smallest noise. When we sit in the zendo, we can hear the sound of the clock. The sounds our bodies make, coming from within us, become more noticeable, and it seems that our mind is noisier than usual. I think that’s a good sign of our practice. We hear this noise because our mind is beginning to calm down. Of course, we should let go of the internal noise. We should neither cling to nor try to escape from the noise. We should just be awake and let it go. Let all thoughts, feelings, and daydreams simply come and go freely. Everything is moving; nothing stays forever. Just let everything be with you.

  In zazen you should keep this upright posture, breathe quietly through your nose, and let go of everything. We don’t try to control anything, just keep this posture and let go. That is how darkness and light manifest. Thought is still there. Yet we don’t think. It’s a difficult point to explain. It’s like when you are driving a car and shift into neutral. The engine is moving but the car doesn’t go anywhere. In our zazen we put our mind into neutral. Thought is there but we are not moved by it. My teacher Uchiyama Roshi said, “Thought is just a secretion from our brain.” Thought is not a poison. But if you grasp and are controlled by it, it becomes poisonous. We actualize both darkness and light when we open our hand of thought and are not moved. That is sitting practice. Our zazen is not a method to contemplate reality which has lightness and dark. It is a way to manifest both darkness and light. We are not the observer but rather the reality itself.

  FOUR GROSS ELEMENTS

  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—

  The four gross elements are fire, wind, water, and earth. Here these four words refer not to the literal elements but to the elements of our life. For example, fire represents body heat; wind symbolizes breathing and moving; water denotes blood, tears, or other bodily liquids; and earth suggests bones, nails, hair, and other solids. In addition to these four, Mahāyāna Buddhism considers ku, which means “emptiness” or “space,” the fifth gross element. In Chinese, space and emptiness are represented by the same character, which means “sky.” Everything occupies space, so space is, in a sense, another element.

  Each element has its own nature: fire heats, wind moves, water is wet, earth is solid. These elements cannot be confused. But at the same time the five elements combine to form one body, one mind, one person. Not only this one person but everything in this universe is composed of these five elements. Everything is just a collection of those elements, and yet each being, each thing, maintains its independence. It’s really wondrous and yet this is reality.

  Shitou continues, “Eye and form, ear and sound; nose and smell, tongue and taste.” This is a list of some of the sense organs of the body and mind and their objects. They are independent and yet work together to create the world. When we sit in this space, the space and my sitting become one. When I cook in the kitchen, this body, my self, the ingredients, the water, the fire, the utensils, and the space called the kitchen become one being working together. When we play baseball, this whole universe becomes the world of playing baseball. Our activity and the universe become one. It all works together. If we become angry, this whole world becomes the world of anger. Everything around us makes us crazy, angry. When we have a competitive mind, this entire world becomes the world of competition. All other beings, all other people, become competitors. Our body and mind work together with our environment to create one world. In this sense our mind is very important. A change in our mind could change the whole world. Our practice is important because it is not just the practice of our mind; it influences the whole universe.

  ROOT AND LEAVES RETURN TO THE SOURCE

  Thus in all thingsr />
  The leaves spread from the root;

  The whole process must return to the source;

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

  The Source Gives Birth to the Root and the Leaves

  Here Shitou uses the expression “leaves and root” in the same way as “spiritual source and branching streams.” This too is a symbol of individuality and universality. The leaves represent individuality and the root symbolizes oneness. I question the translation of the next phrase, “The whole process must return to the source.” The Japanese word used for “whole process” is hon matsu. Hon means “original” or “foundation,” and matsu means “twigs and leaves.” Hon can also mean “root.” From the root or foundation all individual beings arise. And this sentence says that both hon (root) and matsu (twigs) must return to the source. A better translation would be, “Unity and individuality must return to the source.”

  This “source” is different from the “spiritual source” mentioned near the beginning of the poem. “Spiritual source” refers to the root (oneness). In contrast, this “source” is a translation of the Chinese word zong (Jap., shū), which means “essence” or “origin.” This is a very Chinese expression of reality. In Chinese thought, individuality emerges from oneness. It is often said that Zen Buddhism is a mixture of Indian Buddhism and Chinese philosophy—in this case Taoism. The idea that individual beings spring from oneness is a typically Taoist way of thinking. Lao Tzu said, “Return is the movement of the Tao. Yielding is the way of the Tao. All things are born of being. Being is born of nonbeing. The Tao is nowhere to be found. Yet it nourishes and completes all things. The Tao gives birth to One. One gives birth to Two. Two gives birth to Three. Three gives birth to all things.”108 This means that myriad independent things flow from oneness. This oneness in turn derives from the Tao of nothingness, or mu. Ultimately both difference and unity return to the source (shū), which is nothingness (mu).