When we sit Zazen, even if we’re working with a koan, we do not actively try to achieve insight. But nonetheless, Chan and Zen masters throughout history have exhorted us to awaken to Reality. How does insight happen when you’re “just sitting?” How do you awaken to what you have not yet seen without getting caught up in concepts of enlightenment and delusion, before and after? How do you lean into the unknown if you’re trying to let go of any kind of doing at all?
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Silent and Serene, Forgetting Words
Bright Clarity Appears Before You
The 12th century Chan master Hongzhi is one of my favorite teachers about zazen, or what Chan calls “silent illumination.” I did a two-part episode going line by line through Hongzhi’s poem Guidepost for Silent Illumination (click here), but most relevant line for today’s discussion is the first one (translation by Taigen Dan Leighton):
Silent and serene, forgetting words, bright clarity appears before you.[i]
In the spaciousness of zazen, there is no separation between you and your insight. It’s not a matter of, “I meditate, I settle the mind, and then I see some aspect of the truth,” as if that truth were somehow separate from you, or outside of you. Instead, in the spaciousness of zazen, you are one with your experience, including your memories, longings, efforts, fears, excitement, hopes, thoughts, loves, and confusion. The truth of your life becomes clear, as if a light comes on in a dark room.
Turning on the light of your nondual awareness doesn’t require the least willful mental effort, any more than discerning the temperature of water running across your hand does. When you feel the water, you just know it’s cool, or it’s warm. You don’t have to think, “Hmm, let me figure out what temperature this water is.” You just know.
Silent and Serene, Forgetting Words
In zazen we’re letting go of any deliberate effort, any willful activity, including planning, figuring things out, fixing things, explaining, or creating a mental map of the world. We naturally create a mental map that allows us to categorize and predict everything we encounter, allowing us to function efficiently in society and look out for ourselves. But in the space of zazen, we try to let go of our mental map.
It can even be said that we should “let go” go of the distractions and fantasies that come up during zazen. Usually we think of these as coming from the outside, or at least from an unruly and unhelpful part of ourselves, and therefore these are things we need to fight, push away, or somehow get rid of in our zazen. But at a certain level, they are simply more willful activity. Our thoughts – whether random or focused – are subtle little ways of trying to fix or escape the present moment. Maybe we feel a little bored, or uncomfortable with ourselves. Maybe we don’t really want to face what’s going on in our lives. Maybe we fear the emptiness or meaninglessness we imagine might be lurking behind things. So, our distractions and fantasies are also willful activity. Part of our mind decides, “Oh, let’s go over here and think about this instead of just sitting.” It’s another way we try to make ourselves more comfortable in the moment.
When we manage to let go of all of this, that is inward silence. I don’t know about you, but I have an incredibly busy mind, so moments when there are no words in there — when there are no thoughts — don’t happen very often. But occasionally it’s like, wow, it’s just silent. And of course, in this practice we are even letting go of trying to make our meditative experience any particular way. That’s what is so mind-boggling, and so difficult to grasp, about zazen.
Notice those times when you think, “Hmm, my meditation isn’t going so well today.” Built into that thought is an idea of how your meditation should be going: “I shouldn’t be thinking. I shouldn’t be planning. I shouldn’t be thinking about my grocery list. I should be…” (whatever it is you’ve decided good meditation looks like). After all, we’re talking about still spaciousness, so surely that’s how good zazen should be, right?
But the practice is what we do; it isn’t the result. When we say, “silent and serene,” we’re not saying you’re only doing zazen when you’re silent and serene. You’re doing zazen when silence, serenity, and stillness are your intention and your aspiration – when you respond with silence and serenity no matter what ends up happening in your body and mind. The practice is noticing when you’ve gotten caught up in activity again, and then just letting things be. The practice is the returning, the letting go, repeatedly, over and over. So “silent and serene” is what we do: we let go of the chatter, we let go of the effort, we let go of analyzing our zazen, we let go of all of that, over and over and over. If we do this with an absolute minimum of agenda and no judgment whatsoever, the result is more stillness.
For example, when I was sitting today, I found myself thinking about a website project I’m working on. When I realized that was happening, I thought, well, that’s not what I want to be doing during zazen, right? So, what is my response in that moment? For me, it helps to think of it as embracing what is happening. Sitting there thinking about my website project was simply what was going on. That was my reality in that moment. If I simply embrace it, I don’t try to make it go away. I don’t try to make something else happen. I just embrace it and include it. I shine the light of awareness on whatever is happening. Then there is a moment of serenity and stillness that has nothing to do with vanquishing a thought. The more completely, wholeheartedly, and even foolishly I embrace whatever is happening, the longer stillness continues.
Strangely, as soon as something is included — as soon as we shine the light of awareness on it — it is no longer a problem. There is this almost miraculous transformation from resistance to things as they are to profound peace with things as they are. We do this over and over and over. It’s wonderful if we can convince ourselves to let go completely and allow that moment of stillness and silence to last longer than a moment or two. That’s lovely. But we should remember this is not a matter of mental skill or discipline.
It’s a matter of the heart. It’s a matter of choice, trust, and inviting ourselves to let go. That’s not easy either, but it’s difficult in a different way than most of the activities in our lives are. Any willful effort to fix our meditation only makes things worse. There’s a metaphor for this: We’re holding a bowl of water and trying to let the water become very still so all the silt sinks to the bottom and we can see through it. If there are ripples on the surface, it only makes things worse to pat the surface of the water. All you can do is refrain from reacting and just sit still. Similarly, when thoughts and words agitate our zazen, it doesn’t help to think, “Oh no, what can I do to calm my mind?” There is nothing you can do except hold still. Any willful effort just agitates things more.
However, there is an effort we can make that isn’t willful effort. It’s working with our heart’s willingness to let go, and this kind of “effort” invites you to get creative. For example, one thing I do when I’m sitting and find myself preoccupied with busyness, projects, worries, and all kinds of things going on, is tell myself, “Alright, I have these 25 minutes, or these 50 minutes, that I am dedicating to zazen. There is absolutely no reason I need to think about my projects during this period of time.” If I really need to think about what’s going on, then I shouldn’t be meditating! But unless there’s a real emergency, I can set aside all my activities and responsibilities. Of course, my mind often thinks, “No way, we’ve got some really good stuff going on here. We need to keep thinking about this.” But it isn’t true, and I know from experience that if I give myself a mental and emotional break during zazen, I’ll be much better able to deal with things afterwards.
How do you encourage yourself to focus on meditation? When you’re meditating and find yourself busy with other things or distracted, what is something you do or tell yourself? Do you recite a verse? Do you recite a vow? Do you call something to mind that helps you become more wholehearted in your meditation?
Bright Clarity Appears Before You
Maybe we only end up experiencing a few moments of silent illumination here and there. Maybe we’ve only experienced it once, or a couple of times. But there’s something about it we recognize. Words are inadequate, but it occurs to me to say that we recognize being “silent and serene” as our natural state, or as a state of being awake, or as a moment of clarity. As Hongzhi says, “inner illumination restores wonder.”[ii]
It’s like suddenly hearing the call of a bird because we have become quiet — literally and mentally. Usually, even if we’re physically silent, we’re so caught up in our internal narrative we don’t notice anything else. But when we choose internal silence as well, suddenly there’s a moment of, “Oh!” The clarity that manifests then is not something new. It’s not something we have achieved. It’s not that we’ve managed to calm the mind and therefore can see through a portal into another realm where the truth resides. Instead, it’s realizing the clarity was here all along, we were just so distracted and self-absorbed we didn’t notice.
The bright clarity we invite with our zazen is both transcendent and not transcendent. It is transcendent in that it goes beyond our habitual, constrained, inward-turned, self-interested, worried, fearful, defended way of being. In comparison to the way we usually are, it can feel very special. But it is not transcendent in the sense of excluding anything or being better than anything. It does not transcend by leaving things behind. We don’t pop out of our bodies and glide into the luminous ether. This bright clarity includes our bodies. It includes our limited, manifested selves. It includes our desires, our hopes and fears, our habits and quirks, our passions and righteousness, our attachments, our opinions, our physical impermanence, our pain and sickness, old age and death, and our fierce determination to live.
If we perceive some bright clarity that seems to exclude all this human messiness, it’s only a partial perception. And that’s fine; we can appreciate it but should remind ourselves that it is only partial. In a moment of silent illumination, we become aware of the state of things — especially the state of ourselves. It’s just this moment: Direct, silent awareness. A stray word may pop into our heads now and then, but we don’t let it lead us away. We don’t need words for this. Words are our effort to weave an abstract understanding of things so we can maintain our mental map of the world and take care of ourselves. But we don’t actually need the discriminating mind to manifest our fundamental nature, and we don’t need words to perceive the truth. Again, it’s like hearing the call of a bird or feeling the temperature of water on your hand.
One way to think about this is a teaching I learned in a Buddhist context, about the three nens, or three levels of mind. The first level of mental activity or perception is very basic. For example, when you hear the call of a bird, at the first level it’s simply a vibration you are sensing – a phenomenon arising dependent on the sound waves, your ear, and your brain. The sound will have qualities like volume and pitch, but that’s as far as it goes.
The second nen is naming and categorizing: “Ah, that’s a bird call,” or perhaps, “That’s a robin.” The third nen is commentary: “Oh, that’s so beautiful. I’m so happy sitting here listening to a bird call,” or if it’s not a bird call, perhaps, “Oh, that’s an annoying sound. Why has my neighbor started using his bandsaw while I’m listening to a Dharma talk?” That is the commentary level. What we usually do is spin around and around at that third level. We comment on a comment, and then comment on that comment, and keep going. We rarely even dip back down to get fresh data from the first level. We tune out our direct experience and get caught up in commentary.
Using the framework of the three nens, our meditation — and our mindfulness as we go about the day — is trying to shift our awareness back into that first or second level of mental activity, where we are simply perceiving things. The naming part usually happens very quickly, and we don’t have much control over it. It’s not really a problem. If a name pops in and we remain fairly aware and open, we are not being pulled into the commentary.
In moments of silent illumination, insight is occurring whether or not we end up with a conscious takeaway, lesson, or conclusion. In that moment of silent illumination, we remember our basic nature in a very fundamental, physical way. We remember that things don’t depend on this executive “I” that we dream up. Things don’t depend on us staying in our loop of commentary. Other things are going on. We breathe. We are present. We face ourselves.
Sometimes, as bright clarity appears before us, we gain insights that are quite practical. If we’re not excluding anything, then there we are, sitting with who we are and the way we manifest in this life. For example, recently I was sitting and noticed that the things distracting me — the things I was getting caught up in — were projects I care deeply about. They come from a sincere desire to make positive changes in the world. However, I once had someone observe that I was “tightly wound.” I think that’s a rather negative take, but I asked myself, “How does being tightly wound relate to my desire to have a positive impact on the world?”
There’s certainly a kind of tension and determination in my activities. Put positively, that’s energy, right? When something is tightly wound, it has a lot of energy that can be released in activity. But what is the downside of being tightly wound? I asked myself this not in an abstract, philosophical sense, but in a very personal one: What is the downside of my experience of being tightly wound? The answers were right there: It can be exhausting. It can also result in a certain intensity that isn’t always skillful. This opened up a new avenue for me to explore: Is there a way to be very energetic and active without unnecessary tension?
This is the kind of personal insight that can occur in the space of silent illumination. It is not a matter of going and looking for something or analyzing something. It is simply that there we are, with ourselves, and things reveal themselves. Insight can occur.
Insight isn’t limited to our personal selves. It isn’t limited to our personal habits, quirks, lives, or choices. This is the amazing thing, right? We are limited. We are individuals. We can’t pop out of our bodies and become some omniscient, godlike being. But we are reflections of the greater universe. Like the little jewels in Indra’s Net — an infinitely vast net, with each jewel being at the junction point of its strands — we reflect all the other beings, all the other strands, and all the other jewels. We are not ultimately separate from anyone or anything, so a certain kind of insight into ourselves is also insight into something bigger than ourselves.
Insight into the Reality beyond the scope of your individual life is exactly what Dogen’s Genjokoan is all about.[iii] He explains that the entire moon – the whole of the Dharma – can be reflected in a drop of dew on a blade of grass – your individual body-mind. Although a bird can never reach the end of the sky – your own direct experience is inevitably limited – if you make this very place your own, your practice becomes the actualization of reality. Insight into your true nature, into Buddha-Nature, Suchness, Interdependence – all of this is right in front of us, waiting to be discovered when we are able to allow ourselves to become still, silent, and open.
Endnotes
[i] Leighton, Taigen Dan (translator). Cultivating the Empty Field: The Silent Illumination of Zen Master Hongzhi. Boston, MA: Tuttle Publishing, 2000
[ii] Ibid
[iii] Okumura, Shohaku. Realizing Genjokoan: The Key to Dogen’s Shobogenzo. Somerville, MA: Wisdom Publications, 2010.
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Image by Josch13 from Pixabay
