Mind at Ease, Part 1
Photo by Alex Shutin
“We look out at the world and we see nothing but conflict, nothing but clamor and strife and forces that seem to feed on our discontent. And we think, how can I be at ease in the midst of all this?”
In this talk on Gateless Gate 41, Zuisei speaks on waking up to the state of our minds and the ongoing journey of cultivating ease and peace in the midst of all that life brings us.
This talk was given by Zuisei Goddard.
This transcript is based on Zuisei’s notes and might differ slightly from the final talk.
Gateless Gate, Case 41: Bodhidharma’s Ease of Mind
Main Case:
Bodhidharma sat in zazen facing a wall. The Second Ancestor, Huika, stood for a long time in the snow. Finally, he cut off his own arm and presented it to Bodhidharma. He said, “My mind is not at ease. Please, Master, set it at ease for me.” Bodhidharma replied, “Bring me your mind and I will set it at ease for you.” Huika said, “I’ve searched for it everywhere, but I cannot find it.” Bodhidharma said, “There—I’ve set it at ease for you.”
Wumen’s Commentary:
The broken-toothed old foreigner proudly travelled ten thousand miles over the ocean. This was as if he were raising waves where there was no wind. Ultimately, he got only one disciple, but even he was maimed. Alas, he was a fool indeed.
Wumen’s Poem:
Coming from the West, and directly pointing—
This great affair was caused by the transmission.
The trouble-maker who created a stir in Zen circles
Is, after all, you.
A couple of weeks ago Hojin Sensei and I led a retreat on the Four Immeasurables, exploring this teaching through both liturgy and the creative process. During this retreat, she brought up this koan, which has always been one of my favorites. Not so much the part about Huika cutting off his arm, which has always struck me as way too dramatic and really, utterly unnecessary.
I’ve had people ask me, “If I become your student, will you do anything in your power to help me awaken?” And without hesitation I’ve said, “Yes.” “Even cutting off my arm?” (Note they didn’t say they would cut off their arm, they want me to do it). Well, no. Not unless you were trapped somewhere and this was the only way to save your life. Because, otherwise it is utterly unnecessary. As the commentary says, now you have a maimed disciple. What’s the point of that?
I should clarify that it’s usually young guys who ask me this question in some form or another. The women seem to know better… To me, Huika’s standing in the snow and his self-amputation are just a dramatic of way of expressing his determination. He is that desperate to free his mind from delusion. He is that eager to find a lasting kind of ease.
It reminds me of a scene in Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha. In his version of the Buddha’s life, the young Siddhartha doesn’t steal away. He doesn’t leave his wife and child in the middle of the night. (I like this version of the story, it doesn’t leave anyone out). In it, Siddhartha squarely faces his choice and asks his father for permission to become a shramana (seeker). And what leads to this choice is his deep, deep unease:
Siddhartha was loved by everyone. He was a source of joy for everybody, he was a delight for them all. But he, Siddhartha, was not a source of joy for himself, he found no delight in himself. Walking the rosy paths of the fig tree garden, sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of contemplation, washing his limbs daily in the bath of repentance (Brahmin), sacrificing in the dim shade of the mango forest, his gestures of perfect decency, everyone’s love and joy, HE still lacked all joy in his heart. Dreams and restless thoughts came into his mind, flowing from the water of the river, sparkling from the stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun, dreams came to him and a restlessness of the soul…
“My mind is not at ease.” I seem to have everything—a partner, a home, a little money or a lot, I have health enough, I am loved enough, then why am I not at ease? Or maybe it’s not quite that straightforward for some of us. We look out at the world and we see nothing but conflict. Nothing but clamor and strife and forces that seem to feed on our discontent. And we think, how can I be at ease in the midst of all this? For Siddhartha it was the first. He had everything, yet he still lacked something fundamental. He knew at a certain point, he could feel it. So he respectfully requests his father’s permission to leave home and become a wanderer, a seeker of truth and the ease that eludes him.
Siddhartha’s father fully expected Siddhartha to succeed him in his social, religious, and political responsibilities, so he is not at all pleased by this request. When Siddhartha comes to face him and to ask for permission to leave home, he says no. But, Siddhartha is unmoving. They look at each other—father sitting, Siddhartha standing, for a long time. Siddhartha goes on standing silent, impassive. He goes on standing hour after hour, until day becomes night and the stars turn in the sky and finally the Brahmin can’t stand it anymore. “What are you waiting for?” he asks his son. Siddhartha says: “You know what.” Irate, the father leaves the room and goes to bed, but he can’t sleep. He paces back and forth, and every hour he goes to the window and looks in the room where Siddhartha is still standing motionless. He stands the whole night, and just before dawn the father returns to the room, “What are you waiting for?” he asks again.
“You know,” says Siddhartha
“Will you always stand and wait?” “I will stand and wait”
“You’ll be tired” “I’ll be tired”
“You’ll fall asleep”“I won’t”
“You’ll die” “I’ll die”
“And you’d rather die than obey your father?” “I’ve always obeyed you”
And, he just keeps standing. Father sat down again. He thought some more, he looked at his son. He saw his trembling knees and his calm face and realized he’d already left home. He had already left him, his father. Finally he stood, touched Siddhartha on the shoulder and said, “Go, be a shramana and find ease. When you do, come back and teach me.”
Isn’t that a wonderful moment? The father could have disowned Siddhartha, he could have cut him off, but he didn’t. He says go, and then come back and teach me what you’ve learned.
The Brahmin acquiesced in the face of determination, in the face of Siddartha’s towering clarity.
In this koan, Huika comes to Bodhidharma looking to clarify the nature of the self, the nature of his unease. He stands in the snow waiting for Bodhidharma to acknowledge him. The full story says that Bodhidharma first ignores him. He just goes on sitting. Regarding this, let me just say that this is a teaching that points us right back to ourselves, that leaves us alone to face what we have to face. Because the teacher can’t liberate us. We’re the only ones who can do it. There are other koans in which a teacher ignores the student. Where does that leave you? Right back here, where practice needs to take place.
At the same time, there is a cultural element to these stories that I think is important to identify and not perpetuate. This standing in the snow, being left alone, cutting off the arm gives Zen a particular tone, and I don’t think all of it is helpful. To me, Zen is the study of reality. It is not about proving how tough you are, or how independent. You’re not independent, neither am I, that’s the whole point. So what is this “leaving the student alone” really about?
Bodhidharma ignores Huika while he goes on standing in the snow until it comes up to his knees. Huika shows his determination by cutting off his arm. But think of it in this way:
Which thoughts are you willing to let go of to liberate yourself? How unprotected are you willing to be? How non-defensive, how gentle, how open, how fierce, how steady, how uncompromising? We all make deals with ourselves, don’t we? This thought? This one’s too good. I’m not willing to let go of this one. And why should I have to? It’s not hurting anyone. How much ease will we settle for? “My mind is not at ease. Please, Master, set it at ease for me.” says Huika.
First there’s the admission, which is critical: My mind is not at ease. Things are not okay. Even before we turn to another for help, just being able to admit, “Things are not okay” is an extremely important moment. I suppose, for me, it wasn’t so much “Things are not okay”—although they weren’t—as “No, not this.” For some, that turning point toward practice is really about the recognition of our suffering and wanting desperately to put an end to it. For others it’s much softer. Everything seems to be going well in their lives, but for some reason, they become drawn to zazen. Often they don’t even know why, they can’t explain.
This turning may not be an urgent, fire on top of your head kind of thing but let me ask you this—if someone dropped out of the sky at this moment and proclaimed, “You cannot practice anymore, it is forbidden!” How would you take this? What would be your reaction? It’s a question that I ask when a prospective student doesn’t have or doesn’t seem to have a burning question. Okay, what if we turn things around? What if you weren’t able to practice at all? What would that be like for you? Answering this question honestly will give you a glimpse into your relationship to your practice, to your mind and your life.
“My mind is not at ease.” What is this un-ease? What causes it?
Trungpa Rinpoche used to speak of delusion as our neurosis. Tibetan masters in general speak of disturbing emotions (what the early sutras call kleshas or defilements) as the very heart of our suffering. There are five overarching disturbing emotions: attachment, anger, ignorance, pride, and envy. Other disturbing emotions like sadness, anxiety, or guilt are variations of these five. Perceiving reality through one of these filters, we act based on that perception and create conflict.
Let’s say, for example, that a new person joins your company and immediately you hit it off. You think she’s smart, funny, and attractive. You find yourself looking forward to seeing her and search for opportunities to be together. Whether you’re aware of it or not, you start to view your interactions through the filter of attachment and also pride. She seems to like your company too. You notice she laughs when you make a joke. She clearly likes you. Then, going on like this for a while, enjoying yourself, thinking what a nice life you have, what a great job you’ve managed to score, and with what nice people…you find out she’s competing for the same promotion you’ve had your sights on for the last several months. After a series of tests orchestrated by your boss, she gets the job, not you. And instantly, your attachment turns to aggression, your pride to envy. Who does she think she is, prancing in like this, taking your job? And what is wrong with your boss? You thought she supported you. So much for trusting anyone…
You can see why sympathetic joy—the cultivation of joy at other’s well being—is such a profound spiritual practice in our tradition. Instead of coming from a place of lack, we come from a place of abundance. We come from a place of grace, if I may use such a word. Grace as in “graciousness” and “gracefulness.” You are happy? So am I then. This is a very un-self-centered practice. We understand that others can be happy even when we have done nothing ourselves to contribute to their happiness.
Khandro Rinpoche, in her usual pointed way, says:
Many learned and spiritually inclined people are the unhappiest people. Their learnedness makes them very critical about what’s right and wrong; how things should and shouldn’t be done; what’s true nature or not; what’s provisional or definitive—and what about the three things to do, four things to abandon, and five things to cultivate?
It’s true, isn’t it? Sometimes the more spiritual we become, the more judgmental. Of course, this is not what’s intended by spiritual practice at all, at all. But we can make anything in our image. That’s the work, to see through our filters so we can be free. Attachment, anger or aggression, pride, and envy—as well as all their many variations—are kept in place by their common denominator: ignorance. Ignorance is the crank that keeps the wheel of desire and aversion turning. It’s the drive that causes us to hold tightly to what we want and avoid what we don’t want. It’s the root of the “I” and the “me” that wants and fights and protects.
Then there is the moment of turning. The moment when we realize—wait, this is not how I want to live—trapped in my own mind, in the storm of my emotions, in my fears and insecurities. This can’t possibly be all there is to me. But I don’t know how to break out of this entrenchment. I need help. This is what Huika is doing—asking for help. This is what the Siddhartha was doing when he said to his father, “I need your permission to leave home.” I can’t do this alone. No one can.
Despite the stories, even the Buddha did not do it alone. He had to have the experiences in the palace, the good upbringing his parents gave him, enough stability to be able to turn toward a path of practice. Until he could reach that point himself, when he knew he had to leave home, then he sought teachers. He got the support of Sujata, who gave him rice porridge as he was at the brink of death after all his ascetic practices. He sat down and realized himself, yes, but he did so with the help of many, many people in his life.
This is what we do too, when we leave home. When we leave the comfort of the known, the familiar, the seemingly secure, and turn to what we don’t yet know but sense, perhaps, has great possibility.
About eight years after the day I realized I didn’t want a conventional life in which my worth would be determined by my acquisitions, my achievements, my worldly power—eight years or so later, I was sitting one evening, “I’m a monk.” I had no idea what that meant, fortunately. At twenty-three, I was not at all ready for what that meant. But that was okay. I needed to find out for myself, slowly and in time, what would be required of me. I’m still learning what is required of me. So far, it seems to be more than I think I’m ready for, but never too much that I cannot respond, which is exactly right. Otherwise how else would any of us grow, if we always did only what we thought we were capable of?
We leave home when we say: “I’ve tried everything and still I cannot find the way, so please, will you help me?” This is a moment of utter vulnerability, of great humility, and therefore also a moment of incredible power. Everything becomes possible when we say “I don’t know, but I want to.” It’s when we say this and we truly mean it.
And so Bodhidharma replies, “Bring me your mind and I will set it at ease for you.” He sounds so certain, doesn’t he? I’ve got this. Just bring me your mind, and I’ll take care of it.
Here we have to understand what Bodhidharma really means. Don’t we all at some point want the teacher to take our pain away? To do something, help us out of our suffering?
When I was working on Mu, I was rung out of the dokusan room I don’t know how many times. No. Keep working on it, Daido Roshi would say—no, no, no, no—not yet. And at one point, I remember thinking, why aren’t you helping me? Just help me…He was helping me, just not in the way I wanted. “Bring me your mind, and I will set it at ease.”
And Huika goes searching. We don’t know for how long, but we can be sure it was not an hour or two. It was not a few days or a few weeks, or a few months even. And further, what was that search like? Shibayama, in his commentary to this koan, says:
“Where is the mind that is not at ease? Who is it that is seeking it? Is the mind square or round? White or red? Does it exist or not? The mind does exist, but it is so absolutely affirmative that it is at the same time negative, is it not? It if does exist, bring it right here! How cuttingly sharp this demand is… Huika must have been pushed down into the abyss of despair by it. He was driven to the wall. Intellect was of no avail, reasoning was no help. He was not aware whether he was alive or dead. He could not even utter a moaning cry. This must have been Huika’s actual situation.”
Isn’t that a bit…dramatic? Like the cutting off of the arm in the snow? Is it? Or, is it a good description of what happens when you realize you can no longer rely on your beliefs, your ideas, your justifications? Because you see clearly that those same beliefs and ideas and justifications are keeping you from ease of mind.
Not knowing where you’re stepping, not knowing if you’re at the very edge of a precipice or at the entrance of a dark cave that will swallow you up, you step forward. At the very least knowing that the way you’ve come is not the way you want to go. “I’ve searched for it everywhere, but I cannot find it!” Huika says when he returns. Bodhidharma answers, “There—I’ve set it at ease for you!” This is what I want to take up tomorrow—the mind at ease.
For now, let me end with this fragment of a poem by May Sarton, “The Work of Happiness:”
No one has heard thought or listened to a mind,
But where people have lived in inwardness
The air is charged with blessing and does bless;
Windows look out on mountains and the walls are kind.
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