A Whip for a Good Horse: Reflections on Torei Enji

Torei Enji, a disciple and dharma heir of the great Japanese Rinzai Zen teacher Hakuin, once wrote a letter to a samurai to encourage his practice. This letter is now known as "A Whip for a Good Horse." Before I dive in, a note on the title. In the Dhammapada, the Buddha states, "Be like a good horse; touched gently by the whip, the horse moves forward with power and energy. Have an abundance of confidence, good conduct, effort, concentration. Be aware and attentive. Put aside this great mass of suffering." So the title of this reading is inspired by the Buddha's teaching, which invites us to be responsive in our practice in order to alleviate suffering for ourselves and all beings.

Part 1

In Part 1 of this abridged letter, as demarcated in Living Vow Zen's sutra book, Tori Enji writes: “Contemplating these four transcendences – impermanence, suffering, emptiness, selflessness – and seeking the way of enlightenment is called the four seals of the Dharma. This is the essential gateway. When you understand the mind darkened by ignorance and see its real nature, then ignorance becomes identical to the enlightened nature. Then the 12 links of dependent origination all accord with the right way and eventually arrive at the great realization of liberation." 

Last night I watched this animated series called Midnight Gospel. It is bizarre. And I highly recommend it. The animation is two dimensional, colorful, murderous scenes of creatures disemboweling each other. What it actually is is a podcast, and the interviewer, Clancy Gilroy played by Duncan Trussell, questions guests. There are eight interviews and they took these interviews, which are genuine, and animated them, creating these simulated realities that these characters travel through as they talk. 

Many of the interviews are actually about meditation, and he interviews a number of meditation teachers and folks of some renown, but my favorite episode is the last where he actually interviews his mother. She is dying; she had stage 4 cancer in real life, and he asked her if he could interview her for his podcast. She agreed, and their conversation is just beautiful. 

But facing his mother's death for this interview is a very powerful lesson, and she's able to remain very present with him in this interview and to meet him in his emotional breaking down, his witnessing of her imminent death, and they talk very openly about it. And this ability for them to be there together in this grief is just such a powerful healing moment for both of them, especially for him -- to be with her and love her so openly and devotedly. 

But what’s interesting is that the pathway to his healing love is directly through his grief. They talk about how in every person’s life a tornado comes, metaphorically speaking, and you’re left changed by that forever. These are the moments of reckoning and transformation that are available to us all. 

Undoubtedly we’ve all faced these moments in our lives, losing people whom we adore –  these transcendencies including impermanence and suffering as part of the essential gateway. I think we might prefer if the essential gateway were fun happy roller coaster rides and movies and cotton candy, and of course those are also dharma gates, but Buddhism includes acknowledging what we think of as suffering in our lives and practicing with that in a very conscious way, which is quite different from maybe our ways of dealing with pain or suffering that we have practiced over the course of our lives. We may find at some point that we've tried everything else, many different strategies, and nothing else really worked to alleviate suffering, so we come to practice Zen both hopeful and perhaps a little bit defeated having worked so hard at keeping an awesome body, and it falls apart, or at protecting the people we love, and still harm comes to them. And that sense of activity wears us out. Chogyam Trungpa says, “It's hopeless, it's truly hopeless,” and the same podcast narrator talks about how Trungpa really meant it. 

It does seem that the dharma gate for many of us is this courageous willingness to turn toward that which we may have spent many years avoiding -- life as it actually is, which includes pain and loss -- and perhaps we've realized that setting the graveyard behind rows and rows of evergreen trees doesn't mean that people don't die. Hiding them from view does not mean we don’t lose people we love. Watching beautiful young people on TV doesn’t mean we don’t get older. We can’t escape into these fantasies, and this is the beginning of the path, almost a path of giving up, a path of realizing, "it's hopeless. It's just hopeless. I just can't do it anymore. I just can't fix everything. I can’t even fix myself." It’s like swallowing a hot, iron ball in your gut and there's nothing to be done with it, and it may form as a kind of burning anxiety or a grief that sneaks up on us in quiet moments. We feel it in so many different ways, this this kind of underlying existential dread that we often just avoid by scrolling on our phones, massive amounts of a beer or whatever... It may be we each have our different ways of escape, but we find that it's there waiting for us. We shut off the phone, lie down in the dark, and there’s our demon. 

What a powerful thing this practice is, the courage to decide, "I’m going to stop running away. I'm going to just face it. I'm just going to face the thing that frightens me. I'm just going to be with it. I'm not going to escape into chatter. I'm not going to escape into false promises. I'm just going to sit here and be with whatever this trouble is."  We turn the light around and shine it within. 

And in this podcast, he sits down with his mother and he says that her dying, it's so hard, and she says, "yes it is," and he says, "so what do you do?" and she says, "you cry!” How’s that for a beautiful dharma teaching? How about you just be what you are. If you're scared, just be scared. This benefits all beings. Being with our own pain compassionately allows us to do the same with others without needing to push them away.

But we have a kind of protective set of mechanisms at work most of the time. Trungpa calls it the armor we put on. I think of it as the hamster wheel of escape -- the many things that we do to try to avoid feeling what we just feel. And as I say, they don't really work, these escapes. The pain, the trauma, it all just gets stored up in the cells of our bodies, one wound after another, and when we sit on the cushion at first, even for a while, we begin to metabolize these wounds. The cells of our bodies, they begin to unfold and release what we have been holding for years, in fact what we have probably inherited after countless generations, woven into the cells of our bodies. This is our store consciousness, our habit minds, much of it unconscious, at least initially. We might like to keep it that way, but in sitting, it all begins to emerge and unfold. And we think, why did I start this practice? I feel worse! That’s often true, we often can feel worse maybe even for a while. 

But with practice, with just ongoing courage – even perhaps after taking breaks when we lose our faith – but once we’ve begun to taste this practice in a deep way, we may realize that nothing else is as deeply healing. Because when we allow ourselves to be exactly what we are, our tears fall, and every tear is healing not only ourselves but the world. Generations worth of wounds healed. 

And what they talk about in the end of this podcast is the way that this grief is of course just another face of love. In the Buddhist tradition we tend to use the word compassion. Just compassion. A great kind of beauty in it. We have to experience that for ourselves. We have to see that for ourselves. Our great fear of death even. We may have a fear because why? Because we love life! it's so simple. We don’t want to lose everything and everybody we love. 

Why would we try to pretend, "I'm cool with losing you."  It hurts. That's part of love; that’s part of the beauty of love. Avoid the that particular face of love -- grief, and maybe the fear that we have about losing people, losing things, losing situations, losing places and life that we love -- if we avoid feeling these things, then we avoid the love too, because they are one. We can end up living a kind of plastic brittle existence, our heart not really touched by the intimacy of life. 

And I think we come to practice because we want that back. We want to feel alive again. 

So no, it isn't always easy. It hurts to have the heart break and open, but it's worth it because in that breaking open, we find our deep appreciation of life and the people in our lives. 

You may find yourself randomly dancing in the kitchen sunlight. Touched by the beauty of life.  Maybe with tears in your eyes.  

So this dharma gate of suffering, often felt because of impermanence, reveals to us love and selflessness, because we find that everything we encounter, even these deepest fears, are shapeshifting and have no fixed essence but transform before our eyes, often into compassion and joy when we allow them to unfold. 

We just have to BE it, not separate, and it unfolds, and we find there's actually nothing there to hold onto, and this is a dharma gate to impermanence and boundlessness that doesn't separate and protect and isolated itself out of fear of pain.

This is the essential gateway. "When you understand the mind darkened by ignorance and see its real nature, then ignorance becomes identical to the enlightened nature."

Of course we can do things to alleviate suffering where possible. But that’s not really what our sitting on the cushion is about. Our zazen is about meeting ourselves exactly as we are, giving ourselves permission to be exactly as we are. This mind of ignorance, of shame, of grief -- we imagine, “this can’t be enlightenment!” It can’t be my anger or my fear. We just believe that narrative so deeply, believe that we're supposed to be something other than what we are. It can't be my trauma or our collective trauma. And so we continue down that that path of trying to escape what we are, which is utterly futile, repressing things – but it is just what we are in the moment. So we are actually lying to ourselves. That is what is so futile about it.

What a courageous thing to sit here together, to decide to allow our hearts to just be as they are, to stop running away. To let ourselves love and be heartbroken and to feel it all, to let our hearts be touched by the world, to let ourselves be intimate with the world, with this moment. And to do this with the support of each other, to know that everybody here is in it with us. We’re not alone in this journey, in this practice of meeting ourselves and each other in this profoundly intimate way, this so vulnerable path. 

Then we see that our grief is our love, that this thing that we have been judging cannot be it is precisely it, is precisely emptiness, is precisely selfless, is boundless intimacy. “Then the 12 links of dependent origination all accord with the right way, and we eventually arrive at the great realization of liberation."

Not liberation from what we are, but liberation into what we are.  

Part 2 

Part two of Enji's letter deepens his themes by discussing three important Buddhist teachings -- the twelve links of dependent origination, the six realms, and the six paramitas. (I have given separate talks about each of these teachings, and you can find them on Morning Star Zen Sangha's website. I invite you to check them out.) Below, I consider a bit more philosophically what Enji implies about how these 3 important teachings relate with each other, then dive into parts 3 and 4 of his letter. 

Torei Enji begins this section of his letter by saying that the twelve links of dependent origination produce "obstructions" to awakening. 

The twelve links are:

1. ignorance, the root belief that things exist as separate entities with fixed essences. 
2. Volition is the desire to protect our personal existence.
3. Name and form distinguish my body from everything else and divide reality into this and that.
4. Consciousness tries to pin things down into fixed categories.
5. Sense faculties are often interpreted as inside the mind.
6. Contact is the way we view objects as external to us — the other side of this dualistic notion of senses and objects.
7. Feelings can be a burden to us when misconceived as nouns and when categorized as good and bad.
8. Craving is the way we seek "good" feelings (without recognizing that the seeking itself is painful).
9. Clinging results when we try to hold onto things that produce "good" feelings. 
10. Becoming describes the way our craving, clinging, and their corollary, aversion, become habit minds that drive our lives. These are the three poisons, the basic engine that drive us to be reborn endlessly in the six realms, metaphorically speaking. More on this below.
11. Birth is the notion of a separate self and an external world.
12. Old age and death arise once we believe we exist as separate entities.

The twelve links are experienced as obstructions to awakening when we believe that relative truths -- which are provisional designations -- are absolute truths, particularly the belief that our ever-changing self has an innate, unchanging quality (an intrinsic nature). The fundamental ignorance described in the twelve links is the belief that things exist as separate, fixed entities. Buddha said that the root of suffering is our belief in atman -- abiding selfhood. (This is why he taught "anatman" -- no separate, fixed self.) 

Based on this root ignorance about the way we actually exist, we elevate ourself over all other beings and strive to protect ourself, whom we view as our constant companion, thus breaking the precepts. It is actually rather subtle the way we do this; usually we are unconscious of this operating system. 

We need a glimpse of nonduality to realize that there is another way. We call this glimpse "awakening."

It is true in a relative sense that I am not you, and you are not me. Recognizing relative truths allows us to distinguish "between a hawk and a handsaw." However, because we tend to be Aristotelian in our logic and adhere to the principle of noncontradiction, we often neglect the awareness that we are also utterly interwoven. Both sides of this coin are true -- we are separate waves, and we are one body of water.

The twelve links of dependent origination illustrate for us how the "bureaucracy of ego" (to quote Trungpa) tends to take control. When we only perceive the relative truth of separate existences, we feel lonely and isolated from the universe. We tend to make ourselves the center of the universe with everything else existing "outside" of us. We make enemies. The lack of awareness of the way things exist on a deeper level propels us through the six realms.

Torei Enji describes the incarnations of the six realms as human, who are benign; demigods, who are jealous and angry with one another; hungry ghosts, who cling to things that are impermanent; animals, who are fearful and filled with desire; hell fiends, whose rage never dies down; and heavenly beings, whose minds are still and peaceful. As Torei Enji writes, "even in one day there is floating and sinking.... Truly we should see how much we wander in the course of a day." 

What I love about this statement is Torei Enji's humble acknowledgment that wandering through the six realms is just part of life. Why? Because the relative truth that we exist as separate beings is true to our conventional understanding, and we need this way of understanding to function in the world. We need to be able to tell a hawk from a handsaw (or edible food from poison). Indeed, there is no relative truth that we need to "get rid of" to awaken.

However, we get lost in our conceptions sometimes (we call this "delusive certainty"), then act in ways that are harmful. We need the precepts, moral guideposts, to help wake us up when we are possessed by delusions, for even with decades of practice, we will inevitably get sucked into confusion from time to time. Our path is to wake up, atone, vow, and keep practicing.

Unfortunately, when we only experience life according to the relative truth of our provisional categorizations (such as “me” and “everything else”), we get lost in the six realms and cannot wake up. We unconsciously take our categorizations, our mental formations describing "reality," as the absolute truth, and this leads us to seek permanent refuge in provisional truths that are actually ephemeral. 

Our tendency to get lost in conceptual maps is the root of samsara, the hamster wheel on which we run to secure happiness for ourselves. We aim to secure happiness in relation to something that we imagine will be permanent, whether it is a house, a loved one, great wealth, a blissful mental state, or a sense of self. These forms of self-seeking are based on the delusion that a permanent happy state can be attained by some separate, fixed entity called our self. We are lost in the pursuit of happiness, and the pursuit itself is dukkha, a kind of suffering, a lack of openness to, and appreciation of, the way things are in this very moment. We are too busy trying to become something else to realize the beauty of what is.

This form of self-seeking may fold into our spiritual practice. We might imagine that the goal of practice is to be a heavenly being or to attain a fixed state called "enlightenment," and this spiritual goal drives further seeking, preventing us from appreciating what we are in this moment. Trungpa calls this "spiritual materialism." We may occasionally succeed at attaining some sort of blissful state, then think, “now I’ve made it,” feeling special. Thus the sense of self forms around a transient state, and when it inevitably passes, we may feel like failures. Failure may lead us to be jealous or angry or hungry for more bliss, our self-interest propelling us through the six realms, including hell realms, where we combat each other for our personal desires. We may criticize ourselves, believing for myriad reasons that we are not good enough. We set up our scales and measure our spiritual practice constantly. “How am I doing?” Again, at the center is a belief that there is some separate entity called a self that can be "fixed." Seeking a different life (or defending the one we have, if feeling like heavenly beings) becomes our addictive habit driven by ignorance, greed, and aversion.

What is Zen's medicine? Torei Enji suggests the six transcendences, more commonly termed the six paramitas. These are quite similar to the eightfold path. They include skillful means to help us alleviate suffering. Most fundamentally, we pay close attention to our thoughts and actions and notice how they result in either benevolent or painful states. This mindfulness helps us make decisions that are more beneficial for ourselves and others. This is an important part of our practice.

And, if we are not careful, we can find ourselves practicing the six paramitas or the eightfold path in our habitual, self-centered way, aiming to be something other than what we are or clinging to what we think we are, all driven by desire, leading us right back into the cycle of samsara. We imagine getting to the end of the eightfold path sometime in the future. We can berate ourselves when we make mistakes and glorify ourselves when we fulfill vows. All of this is extra.

Hakuin, Enji's teacher, wrote, "the six paramitas... have their source in zazen." Why? Because when we sit and look deeply into the relative truth of our separate self, we find inter-being. The notion of a separate self which is the root of our suffering is seen as merely a provisional designation with no innate, fixed referent. There is no constant companion. It’s a mirage. We also see that all mental states are ephemeral. Thus, we can stop trying to attain some permanent state for this self that does not exist in the way we thought it did. We can also worry less about getting rid of what we categorize as unpleasant states. These too shall pass. These too have no intrinsic nature.

Wisdom, one of the six paramitas, is recognizing that there is no abiding, separate self and that no phenomena exist independently or with fixed essences. Craving thus loses its grip, for we know we can't hold onto anything. As Sallie Jiko Tisdale says, "We do a lot of pushing away and grabbing onto, and they're both clinging. They're both attachment. This is fundamental Buddhism, the Four Noble Truths. Zazen is a way of cultivating a space in which everything can arise and fall, including myself, without entanglement." This initially sounds disappointing, but it is actually a huge relief to let things be just as they are. It is also a relief to stop concerning ourselves so much with obtaining things or states of mind.

It is actually possible to open beyond conceptions that divide this from that and to awaken to boundless intimacy. How? By staying curious about what is and not believing all the stories we tell ourselves. As the Heart Sutra states, there is no eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, mind. This is because no aspect of the self functions without its non-self elements. If there is no object seen, there is no vision. There is no eye that functions in isolation. Senses and objects actually merge. The realization of intimacy with all beings is the medicine that heals our divided minds and world. We see through the division between self and other that drives our suffering and causes us to behave selfishly. Our inherent inter-being, discovered in meditation, is the wisdom at the root of the remaining paramitas of morality, effort, patience, and generosity. We should see “the emptiness of the three wheels -- giver, receiver, and gift” (Meal Chant). Then we are truly honoring the paramita of generosity, which is sometimes translated as “relinquishment,” for we have given up believing in separate, fixed selves. Recognizing that we are interwoven, that our well-being is interdependent, we care for all beings as we care for our own life — for all beings literally are our life. If all beings vanish, so do I.

Wisdom, the true source of all the paramitas, is the deep realization that we do not exist as absolute entities. We realize wisdom in the practice of meditation -- the effort of looking deeply into what we actually are. In realizing our lack of separate self, we care for others AS ourselves, AS our own lives. This is an uncontrived, nondualistic embodiment of the six paramitas.

Here’s the key: we lose sight of the intimacy of all beings when we aim toward being something other than what we are. Aiming to be something other than what we are is just more of the "self selfing the self" -- more dualistic practice. Off the cushion there are times we need to take action to improve things. In zazen, we are invited to let go of our expectation to be different, to begin to sense the water. The practice is to realize what we actually are, not what we think we are or should be. Thich Nhat Hanh describes this as the practice of aimlessness -- recognizing inter-being in this very moment. No need to seek elsewhere. Everything is here.

But can we aim to be aimless? It doesn’t help to think that way, but we can allow zazen to open us beyond all mental models of zazen. We just entrust ourselves to the sangha. We keep throwing ourselves into the fire of practice where our forms illuminate our true nature, which is no nature at all. Just be quiet, pay attention, and stay curious about what actually is. Let your body answer. Walk in the zendo with the sangha with no hope of getting anywhere, and the walls that seem to separate us dissolve, revealing a boundless intimacy that surpasses understanding.

Parts 3 & 4

In sections three and four of his letter, Enji invites us to more deeply comprehend "the root of all ignorance" regarding our fundamental nature, and the fundamental nature of reality. This ignorance regarding our fundamental nature causes suffering, so it is worth investigating. 

Enji invites us to deepen our investigation by asking ourselves, "Who hears? What feels? What cognizes?" In essence, he is bringing us into this moment and asking, who is hearing these words right now? We call this "inquiry practice."

I have practiced with this kind of hwadu -- a focusing question -- for many years. So it is not about getting to the final answer and moving on. We might imagine that we should answer these questions intellectually, and we can use our minds to think about such questions. But I think Enji is inviting us to use our eye of practice to explore what we are. When we think we know what we are, rather than getting caught up in the content of our thoughts, Enji invites us to ask, "who thinks that?" This way we "doubt the seer, doubt the hearer," doubt the thinker. We remain in a state of wonder. "Who am I?" For me, this is the heart of practice. That is why I called my blog, "The Wonder of Zen." 

In this practice of staying curious about what we are, we might notice senses of self that arise. The Buddha taught that there are six levels of consciousness. These are the 5 senses, plus the mind, or thinking. In Buddha's model, senses of self are constituted by those 6 senses. Because of their importance, senses of self are described as the 7th level of consciousness in Vasubandhu’s Yogacara. In this teaching, senses of self arise along with our 5 senses, thoughts, and the 8th level of consciousness, our "store consciousness."

Whether we designate the sense of self as a separate level of consciousness is not so important, but it is helpful to specifically identify senses of self because they are so important in terms of suffering. As discussed above, the fundamental ignorance that Enji describes is our tendency to objectify ourselves and objects in the world as if they were separate identities rather than inseparably intimate. We view the objects of the world as "out there" and our bodies and minds as "me." This leads to a sense of isolation, a sort of "me-against-the-world" attitude that is actually quite lonely. As Ben Connelly summarizes, the Buddha taught that our tendency to "objectify [ourselves and] the world causes us to feel alienated. It causes us to feel frustrated. We lose the things we want to hold. We harm people because we are trying to hold on, and we think we've got it all figured out and they are wrong." 

We might therefore imagine that senses of self are a problem. But senses of self and conceptions of others actually help us distinguish one wave from another in this vast ocean of being. This is the basis of healthy boundaries. We describe this capacity to distinguish "this from that" as the "relative truth," and without this capacity, we might try to eat cars. We could not survive. 

Our sense of self also sometimes offers helpful information for us in distinguishing what is beneficial from what is harmful. When I help students in my English classes, I might feel happy for them and good about my teaching. Then, as I did earlier this week when frustrated with a student, I might make a sarcastic joke, see the student's reaction, and feel bad. The Flower Ornament (Avatamsaka) Sutra describes shame and conscience as two of the "ten inexhaustible treasures" of the bodhisattva. Even the painful sense of self associated with shame can guide our actions as bodhisattvas. Inspired by this dropping sensation in my gut, I reflected on the precepts, apologized, and vowed to do better.

Vows are deep intentions that help transform our habitual responses. Accordding to the Yogacara, intentions (sometimes called impressions) integrate into our store consciousness, or our unconscious mind, which for now we might think of as our mind's past conditioning and the way it shapes our perceptions and habitual responses. In the Yogacara, this conditioning is described as the 8th level of consciousness, whereas Buddha referred to this simply as karma. This past conditioning goes back innumerable generations -- yet another example of how even unconscious aspects of ourselves are born of relation. This conditioning may sound like a fixed self, but this is not the case. In the same way that our body is conditioned by our experiences, so are our potential habit-minds. We can be mindful of our harmful tendencies, then vow to be beneficial instead. In this way, we plant new seeds that ripen and grow.

In a sense, every choice we make ripples back through time, reconditioning our past conditioning while saving others from our unkind habits. Research shows that even our memories change every time we remember, as remembering involves the imagination. If our past conditioning were a fixed entity, we could never change, but we can and do change over time. In this sense, the notion of no fixed self is liberating, opening up possibilities. For me, the engine of transformation is our Bodhisattva Vows. Working mindfully with the Precepts, we wake up to our harmful habitual responses and vow to do better, softening old habit-minds and opening the heart.

Sometimes our past conditioning is painful or frightening. We may have experienced trauma in the past. We might get triggered in the present and spin off into disproportionate feelings of shame/blame -- one of the more painful versions of self/other that there is. We may not be able to distinguish the triggering event from the conditioning traumatic experience. The Buddha taught that suffering that is not felt thoroughly repeats endlessly. Zazen can offer space for us to feel and heal those old wounds. 

We may also need other forms of support in the "transformation of consciousness," another phrase from the Yogacara. We do need to be careful in how we interpret this phrase. This does not mean there is a "thing" called consciousness that transforms; consciousness is a dependently arisen process or flow that is always transforming, not a thing with abiding selfhood. In the deepest sense, we are simply realizing our flowing nature and the flowing nature of all phenomena. Sometimes, however, we may need to prepare the path. My personal journey included five years of therapy. One who has faced toxic racism may benefit from cultivating rich, ancestral connections and affirming communities, in part to nourish positive senses of self through supportive relationships. We may need to nourish positive senses of who we are before, or at least alongside, delving deeply into the nature of the self, or introspection can be triggering. Different histories and habit minds call for different skillful means, which is why we tend to consider personal practices individually during dokusan.

But the Buddha also taught that we cannot ultimately alleviate all suffering on the relative level alone. In the same way that we can have some affect on the conditioning of our body, we can have some effect on the conditioning of our habit-minds, but there is also much that is out of our control. Our body can become ill. We might suddenly lose our job or our family. Causes and conditions are endless, and they condition us. And we will all face sickness, old age, death, and losing everything and everyone we love. We can't hold onto anything, so there is no way to shore up identity. Everything is vulnerable to the vicissitudes of life. Clinging and aversion are painful forms of adventitious suffering -- a second arrow landing in the original wound.

Recognizing impermanence can taste like bitter medicine, but it generates "a sense of urgency" in our practice, inviting us deeper into the Dharma. Thich Nhat Hanh wrote, “any teaching that does not bear the dharma seals of impermanence, non-self, and nirvana cannot be said to be the teaching of the Buddha." As Enji reiterates in these sections, when we operate only on the relative level, we tend to chase dreams of happiness endlessly and become "disturbed that [we] have lost the original nature" and "wander through the six dispositions and four kinds of births." (These are the ways we are born into the six realms described in section two above.) To be free of birth and death, we must "break up the root of ignorance" regarding our true nature.

Hakuin Ekaku, Torei Enji's teacher, wrote, "self nature is no nature." Form is exactly emptiness. The Buddha described himself as a "flowing occurrence" and challenged our notion of static selves. In looking deeply, rather than innate selfhood, he says that we find a flow of changing elements. There are no fundamental building blocks or first causes, only the flow of thoughts and sensations. Every cell in our body is replaced over time. Even our "store consciousness," our previous conditioning and karmic ripening, is modified with every new experience. There is nothing permanent anywhere. Reality and everything in it is fundamentally ungraspable. The water of the river is ever-changing. Ben Connelly writes, "letting go of the sense that we are a self experiencing things is the way to enter this mysterious flowing unfolding." So from the perspective of time, we find non-self.

This is also true from the perspective of space. TNH writes, "The self is made of non-self elements.” He likens the self to a rainbow. The rainbow is nothing without the non-rainbow elements of water, sunlight, the air, the witness, and the earth on which the witness stands. It takes a universe to produce a rainbow. 

We too are made of non-self elements -- air, words, passing feelings, the sounds of the world, and one another. In this moment, you are part of my life, and I am part of your life. My life is not a separate thing. Senses of self also arise out of causes and conditions and shape-shift with every encounter. Look deeply into them to see that senses of self reflect relations. I am only a father because of my children.

For me, the point is not to be rid of senses of self. It is important to fully embody roles in this world. We can even appreciate dependently arisen senses of who we are. Any of us who are struggling might remember our relationship with a parent, teacher, ancestor, or even a child that brought us a sense of strength, joy, and ease. Remembering joyful times with my children can open my heart when I’m struggling. But as any parent knows, we don't always feel like wonderful parents. Everything changes. So for me, the most profound medicine is the recognition that looking deeply into senses of self or any form of suffering, we come to see that all mental formations are inherently ephemeral, born out of ever-changing causes and conditions. Identity is not innate but based in ever-changing relations. 

Recognizing identity as a shapeshifting, dependent arising rather than unchanging and innate can feel rather vulnerable, and we might wish to avoid that sense of vulnerability, but since senses of self lack any fixed essences, we don't need to struggle with them. After all, they are empty of any fixed referent and are thus not really a problem. While it is pleasant and perhaps sometimes skillful to invoke positive senses of self, our liberation does not ultimately depend on the content of our minds but on our seeing the true nature of that content, which is sometimes expressed as no nature at all. This is our true refuge, that which allows us to be a refuge for all beings, as all beings reside in our hearts. There is a lightness and connectedness in this experience of "non-self" -- a kind of “enlightenment,” an unburdening of this existential self-centered concern that we have carried. To taste the emptiness of the phenomenal world is beyond words — yet the ancestors point with poetry: “How boundless and free is the sky of samadhi. How bright the full moon of wisdom” (Hakuin). The world is vast and wide....

Recognizing interdependence also leads us to care for all beings as our own life. Thus, we "sport in the ocean of vows" as bodhisattvas. Because we are interwoven, what we do ripples through the interdependent web of causality, transforming karma not only for ourselves but for all beings with whom we are “quantumly entangled.” So non-self does not render life meaningless. On the contrary, since all things are malleable and interconnected, the teaching of non-self actually means that every action we take matters! So please, hear the heart's call, and do something beneficial if you can. Your action will ripple through the entire universe.

And, having said all this, even “non-separation” or "non-self" doesn’t capture the living mystery. No metaphors do. When we cling to notions even of emptiness, we can get lost. We may "form a fixed belief that the dharmakaya (emptiness) is [our] true self. Any fixed belief about the true self is limited and false and thus an illness.  As soon as you say, 'this is the true self,' it is no longer your true self. If there is any separate awareness of the dharmakaya, a view of [fixed] self still persists, so there is still sickness. Ultimately there's not even a square inch of ground on which to stand. Stop subtly looking for a place to hang your hat. Don't stand still; don't rest anywhere" (Gerry Shishin Wick, italics mine). 

The Dharma is intended to alleviate the suffering associated with essentialism and clinging -- the notion that things have fixed essences that we can grasp. The absolute equality of emptiness and form undermines even our tendency to turn emptiness into a "thing." Yes, waves are merely water, but it is also true that each wave is a dynamic expression of the ocean, beautiful in its particularity and fluidity. Sometimes we call this "suchness" -- the sharp taste of lemon on a humid day, a beautiful rainbow in a gray sky, a clanging radiator on a cold evening.

Honestly, attach to any idea, and we lose touch with visceral presence. As Enji's teacher Hakuin wrote, "this very place is the lotus land; this very body, the Buddha.” Awakening is realizing what we actually are. No words or concept can capture the incomprehensible aliveness (though words and concepts are themselves manifestations). Words are like trying to capture the spring breeze in a bottle. There really is no last word in Zen.

So I think the most important thing is to just keep practicing. This is the heart of Enji's encouragement. Enji calls this "progressive practice." We just take the next step and "give up lesser enlightenments." As Uchiyama Roshi wrote, "open the hand of thought" endlessly. Sit still and ask, "Who hears? What feels? What cognizes?" 

What is? Wonder, allow the mystery to come forth, then offer your most beneficial response.

Koan practice with a skillful teacher and sitting with a sangha are powerful means to explore all these aspects of the dharma without getting stuck anywhere. We just can't do it alone for we end up "selfing the self" endlessly, unconsciously reifying understandings. But with together-practice, "eventually, you return to the nature of all Buddhas. This is called fulfilling Buddhahood." 

So, what is this Buddhahood?

The First Noble Truth: A Gateless Gate to the Four Noble Truths

The Tao of Pooh complains that Buddhism seems too dire with all its talk of suffering. People who are hurting want to be free from suffering and understandably want to pursue happiness. Some may also be afraid that if they let suffering be, they may become overwhelmed by it.

Of course, skillful means that alleviate suffering are helpful in some situations. For example it is sometimes possible to shift our attitudes or behaviors and feel better.

But we can become overly focused on habitually avoiding pain, and then we close off our hearts and lose the good stuff too, like love and compassion. As Gibran writes, joy and sorrow are inseparable. Look deeply into joy and sorrow is there. Look deeply into sorrow and joy is there. That which causes grief once caused us great happiness. Grief is a form of love. Only the veil of time separates them.

Buddhism offers a path to be free in the deepest sense, to be free not from but amidst suffering, to be free to feel both joy AND sorrow. 

Yes, there’s joy too! But we usually don’t need as much help accepting joy in our lives. Buddha shared the first Noble Truth that life includes suffering to specifically name it as a gateway to insight. He was saying, “Let’s begin by acknowledging and turning toward that which we usually try to deny. We’ve tried endlessly to avoid suffering by indulging our many desires and fantasies. How’d that work out? How about if we try something different.” 

Photo by Sandra Raponi

We do need help caring for and looking deeply into our suffering. That’s why the first teaching Buddha offered after his awakening was, “Life includes suffering.” There is not only light; there is also shadow.

We may want to skip this teaching to get to the "good stuff," but that's just more of our dualistic thinking trying to take charge again. That's just more being driven by desire to avoid life as it is, which Buddha clearly states is the source of our deepest pain. We might imagine that we can bypass looking deeply into our suffering and skip to the enlightenment part. We may chase mental states, seeking to be something other than what we are and running on the hamster wheel of self-improvement, ironically getting more self-involved and worn out. We may go into denial and repress our feelings. In this practice, our pain lingers under the surface of a mask that we wear. We may even judge ourselves and others when we feel unhappy, as if it is a failure of our practice. Ironically, the longing to escape pain is actually the greatest suffering. It can even take the form of suicidal ideation. 

Trungpa describes these strategies to avoid pain as the armor we wear, and it’s a heavy burden. We put on this armor imagining that we can separate ourselves from the causes and conditions that give rise to suffering in the world. Underlying this hope to protect ourselves is a belief in ourselves as separate entities, a "distorted view of reality, with each of us as selves at the center of their own universe, and everything else arrayed around us as our objects" which we try to manipulate for our own ends. "That leads to... anxiety about the preservation of the welfare of the self. All of this leads to greed, anger, fear, conflict, and general unhappiness" (Garfield).

We may try to gain control over anything that causes us suffering, but we just aren’t in control of many of the most important aspects of our lives. We did not choose when we were born, and we don’t get to avoid sickness, old age, death, and losing everything and everyone we love. The more we meditate, the more we see that we don't really have control over our thoughts and feelings either. As Trungpa says, “it’s completely hopeless.” This is why there are Buddhist books called The Wisdom of No Escape, Ending the Pursuit of Happiness, Cutting through Spiritual Materialism, and If You’re Lucky, Your Heart Will Break. Most of us need permission to simply feel our feelings and be whatever we are. Sangha is a safe place to have a broken heart. I wish it for you.

Why? Because when we turn toward the relative truth of suffering, toward what we think of as suffering, we find the absolute truth that there is no suffering. Buddhism is not so dire after all! 

One painful obstruction on the path is the delusive certainty that our life is Samsara and not Nirvana. Samsara is actually not separate from Nirvana. Indeed, get rid of Samsara, and there is no Nirvana. Get rid of the mud, and there is no lotus. Get rid of sorrow and there is no joy. Get rid of delusion and there is no enlightenment. Get rid of suffering and there is no compassion. Emptiness is exactly form.

We need encouragement and courage to look deeply into suffering with the eye of practice to see this for ourselves. We need to practice taking off our armor and opening our hearts. We practice opening our hearts while doing zazen. Practice does not mean believing our stories, getting caught up in them, and enacting them. It does not mean indulging self-reifying mental formations that might lead us to cause harm. Practicing zazen means sitting still, being quiet, and paying attention -- actually feeling all our sensations, including joy and pain, rather than getting wrapped up in our ideas. It means watching suffering arise and dissolve. It means watching senses of self come and go. Zazen is a great teacher, far better than philosophy. 

In zazen, rather than discovering any fixed essence in our suffering, we discover impermanence and flow. We also see that there is no innate, separate self to protect. 

Just like suffering, the self is made of nonself elements (water, wind, thoughts, feelings, etc.), all of which are constantly changing. We can let go of the relentless quest to control our experience and be the vastness unfolding. This is a practice of compassion: letting be. This is a practice of wisdom: looking deeply. This is a practice of vulnerability: opening to the thusness of our lives. This very life is boundless! It is not bounded by suffering after all. But we must see this for ourselves in practice.

In zazen, we become a refuge for ourselves and all beings. We discover an utterly reliable beauty, aliveness, and spaciousness that does not depend upon the content of our minds. This is the deepest form of liberation. This is the third and fourth noble truths realized: there is an end of suffering, and we find it right in the midst of suffering.

"When you understand the mind darkened by ignorance and see its real nature, then ignorance becomes identical to the enlightened nature" (Torei Enji). Turn around the light and shine it within, and the universe sings in our hearts. This is the most profoundly salvific Dharma.

Reflections on "The Diamond Sutra:" Beyond Is and Is Not

The Diamond Sutra is a profoundly important text in Mahayana Buddhism. Composed in India somewhere between the second and fifth century CE, The Diamond Sutra extols the bodhisattva vow to save all beings while claiming that there are no separate beings to save. How does one hold this paradox?

Zen embraces such paradoxes yet also asks us to leap beyond them. The Diamond Sutra offers a metaphorical nudge.

Here's an adapted and abridged translation, followed by some discussion.

The Diamond Sutra [translation by Mu Soeng]

Bodhisattva-mahasattvas should cherish one thought only: “When I attain perfect wisdom, I will liberate all sentient beings in every realm of the universe.”

 
Yet although immeasurable, innumerable, and unlimited beings have been liberated, truly no being has been liberated because no bodhisattva who is a true bodhisattva entertains such concepts as a self, a person, a being, or a living soul. Thus there are no sentient beings to be liberated and no self to attain perfect wisdom. If they cherish the idea of a dharma, they are still attached to a self, a person, a being, or a living soul. If they cherish the idea of no-dharma, they are attached to a self, a person, a being, or a living soul. Therefore, do not cherish the idea of a dharma nor that of a no-dharma.

The truth is ungraspable and inexpressible. It neither is nor is not. What are called dust particles are not dust particles. That is why they are merely dust particles. What is called true perception is indeed no-perception. This is what the Tathagata teaches as true perception.

The teaching of the Tathagata on the perfection of patience is really no perfection and therefore it is the perfection of patience. A bodhisattva should also practice generosity without dwelling on form. The reason he practices generosity is to benefit all beings. Practicing generosity while still depending on forms is like walking in the dark. Practicing generosity without depending on forms is like walking in the bright sunshine seeing all shapes and colors.

The past mind cannot be gotten hold of, the future mind cannot be gotten hold of, and the present mind cannot be gotten hold of. The dharma called the anuttara samyak sambodhi is at one with everything else. That is why it is called the perfect, unexcelled awakening. It is self-identical through the absences of a self, a person, a being, or a living soul, and that is why it is fully known as the totality of all the wholesome dharmas. And yet, no dharmas have been taught by the Tathagata. Such is merely a name. Thus they are called “wholesome dharmas.”

The true nature of the Dharma cannot be understood. No one can be conscious of it as an object. At the same time, no one should say that those who have set out on the path of the bodhisattva need to see all dharma in terms of their annihilation. Do not entertain any notion of the annihilation of dharmas.

So you should view this fleeting world:
A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream; 
A flash of lightning in a summer cloud;
A flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream.

Reflections:

The Diamond Sutra begins by celebrating the bodhisattva's vow to attain enlightenment and save all beings.

Many of us begin our practice aiming for the first part of the vow, the aspiration to attain enlightenment for ourselves. We initially imagine that we will rise above karma altogether like we are some sort of orb, impervious to of cause and effect. We picture ourselves as entirely separate, enlightened beings who are not susceptible to the vicissitudes of life. 

Over time, we see that this is not how we actually exist, and the gap between our expectations and our experience weighs on us. Liberation never looks the way we think it should. We may persist in our self-interested approach to practice, but for many of us, the second part of our vow to save all beings begins to feel appealing. Maybe focusing on saving others will help us open beyond this painful self-concern?

The vow to save all beings does touch our hearts. We realize that our immature notions of ourselves at the center of the universe are limiting and inaccurate. We expand our awareness and begin to serve something greater than ourselves. Altruism can feel good.

But dualistic ways of thinking persist. Practicing the precepts without the wisdom of nonself is inherently egocentric. We begin to formulate strategies to improve our "selves" and save “others.”  We might aim to cultivate generosity (or any of the six paramitas), but our motive for being generous is, ironically, self-improvement. We may get caught by a grandiose idea of being a bodhisattva, of being the one who saves other beings, or even of being a helper. It's quite a little ego booster. We identify as bodhisattvas in contrast to those who are the recipients of our charity. There is something condescending in our efforts. Our pride becomes their shame. With this identification as a fixer or helper can come a sense of superiority, aloofness, distance, sadness, and isolation. We are just painting the walls of our prison.

Seeing ourselves as bodhisattvas, we may also reify the idea of others who need to be saved. We may hope to resolve our own anxiety and pain by "fixing" other people's lives. We might find ourselves running ragged volunteering and cajoling others to join us. We may burn out after biting off more than we can chew. Or we may begin to think we are better than other people who we believe are doing less. Unfortunately, our lack of tolerance of suffering provides little solace. If we desire to help too much, others may play along and become our dependents. We may nourish our identity as helpers but disempower others by stealing their agency and even trying to replace their existing support networks. 

Despite our efforts, we eventually also see that there is no way to prevent all suffering in the world in any conventional sense. We all lose everything and everyone we love. It's our first noble truth. We may begin to feel like failures. Our hearts may break, then break open, for all the beings we cannot save, including ourselves. 

If we are honest, we may realize that we simply do not know how to save all beings. Our strategizing and directional efforts inevitably fail. If we can bear sitting with disillusionment, we may begin to see what underlies our struggle -- a conception of the self, of others, and of suffering as abiding, separate entities. 

When we are attached to ideas of ourselves, we act on behalf an imagined, enduring entity that does not actually exist. We long to protect this supposed entity, and we suffer when our self-concept is punctured by inevitable change. When we hope to fix others, as if there were other selves who could be brought to a separate, permanent state of salvation, we find that there is no such place. There is nothing substantial that we can attain for ourselves or for others. Everyone and everything is subject to change.

But our dualistic way of thinking is our basic operating system; we project independent substantiality into things. When we take our bodhisattva vow with integrity, one effect is that, like a mirror, it helps us see the dualistic operating system that undergirds suffering. 

But we still don't know what else to do. Should we just give up? 

What if we do give up trying to save all beings according to that dualistic framework? What would happen if we "give up the pursuit of happiness" (as if it were "out there" somewhere waiting) and choose instead to bear witness and be with things as they are without knowing in advance what to do? What might it look like to honor our bodhisattva vow to save all beings non-dualistically?

According to an ancient Chinese story, Layman Pang once fell in the mud. Ling Zhou, his daughter and a Zen adept in her own right, then threw herself down in the mud with him. When he asked her what on earth she was doing, she replied, "helping." Layman Pang laughed.

Ling Zhou did not reach down from above but simply joined in without knowing "the answer." Here there is no gap between self-and-other.

Did she save her father? Ling Zhou’s wisdom and her gift was her compassionate non-separation. Sometimes being "saved" means being free to be exactly as we are. 

Maybe saving does not need to look as we imagine. Maybe it doesn't always fit into our narrative of us fixing someone else's life. Maybe saving can be meeting on equal ground and just being "in it" together. Attention can be our guide, not imposed dualistic ideas. We can let go of our expectations for particular outcomes. We may find that sometimes, being together in the situation is not only enough but exactly right. Sometimes people don’t want to be fixed, and many problems can’t be solved. In such moments, we share Buddha’s sanctuary. We don’t need to escape people's pain by running away or by fixing them.

When my mother slowly degenerated with Alzheimer's, there was ultimately no fixing that could be done. Eventually, all my strategies failed. Not knowing what to do next, my role was to simply be with and love her. As she lost the use of language altogether, I still felt deeply connected with her. I could not stave off her disease, but our togetherness was of absolute value, quite beyond the scales of success or failure. Even when there's no cure, it's possible to heal.

This does not mean we are unresponsive. While suffering has no fixed essence, people still suffer, and as interwoven beings, our hearts may break. And, we can sometimes be of benefit. In allowing ourselves not to know what to do in advance and in openmindedly bearing witness to the entire situation, possibilities emerge that are often more appropriate than anything we can plan in advance. As Bernie Glassman says, "Healing cannot arise until we bear witness to the suffering," like Buddha leaving his protected childhood palace. We let the imagined walls between ourselves and others come down.

We meet on equal ground when we open beyond our dualistic ideas of self and other, saved and unsaved. We open beyond dualistic notions when we acknowledge but see through the senses of self that we think separate us from everything and everyone.

There is some basic reasoning that can help us comprehend the lack of a fixed, separate self. This is reasoning we can easily understand. From the perspective of time, there’s no fixed self, only change. The cells in our body are constantly dying and being replaced. So are our thoughts and values. More gradually changing aspects of ourselves may lead us to believe there is something abiding in the mix, but any amount of change undermines identity. Even yesterday’s and today’s “me" are not the same. And from perspective of space, there is no separate self because a self is made of non-self elements. We sometimes call this "dependent arising." We are water, earth, air, and sunlight. We are culturally inherited languages and practices of our ancestors. Remove these non-self elements, and nothing remains. There’s no innate or intrinsic self; every bit of us is borrowed and relational. The bubble is nothing without the water surrounding it. There is also not a unified self, just parts that can be broken down endlessly.

The same analysis applies to all beings. Thus there are no fixed, separate selves or essences anywhere. Therefore, "no dharmas have been taught by the Tathagata." No phenomena exist in an enduring or independent way. However, we really need to meditate to see this for ourselves. In looking closely, we begin to see that intrinsic essences are indeed unfindable, including our self.

We do not need to try to stop senses of self from arising. In fact, we need our senses of self to honor appropriate boundaries. We do not need to go to war with our shapeshifting ego. The moment we compassionately see senses of self as merely senses of self, they lose their grip on us. When we see that senses of self are actually shapeshifting, dependent arisings, we are less attached to them, and we suffer less as they change. We can simply witness senses of self as merely senses of self, and we are liberated from their grip.

However, The Diamond Sutra goes on to warn not to get stuck in the idea of “no self” or “no dharmas” either. The teaching of “no self” is just medicine to liberate us from the suffering and isolation caused by clinging to ideas of self and other. The idea of no self becomes a nihilistic hell cave when we cling to it. And in trying to annihilate the self, we create the notion of the self that needs to be annihilated! This circular argument could go on endlessly.

Zazen is the practice of leaping beyond the many and the one. When we see that self and other are "merely names" and that thoughts are merely thoughts, we are liberated from belief and disbelief. Even the notions of form and emptiness are nails hammered in the sky. 

Liberation is the practice-realization of things just as they are, which is truly beyond comprehension, beyond is and is not. Our mental models fail to capture what is. Ironically, this is profoundly liberating. We are no longer bound by our conceptions. We are entering the stream of life.

We can still use language to talk about this phenomenal world but with the recognition that language too is a dependent arising; names depend on provisional referents. Still, we operate in "conventional reality," which language helps us navigate. Even though there are not abiding essences anywhere, we use language to refer to shapeshifting phenomena that have no fixed, separate essences. The key is to wake up when we get lost in our conceptual maps. When we are lost in ideas and desires -- even the desire to help others -- we tend to suffer and cause harm, and the precepts help us wake up to what we are doing.

We all get lost sometimes. We so desperately want to be able to hang onto moments when we feel good about ourselves. We take pride in our accomplishments and in our mind's ability to comprehend reality. For a long time we may not be able to recognize thoughts as merely thoughts and senses of self as merely senses of self because of pride -- an attachment to positive senses of self. The inverse of this is shame when we make mistakes. As children, we were expected to know things and were perhaps embarrassed when we did not. We got bad grades in school. Interestingly, sometimes we believe shame even more readily than pride. But both are merely fleeting senses of self.

We are released from our attachment to intellectual pride and shame when we see that "the truth is ungraspable and inexpressible. It neither is nor is not.... The true nature of the Dharma cannot be understood." Our inability to conceptualize the true nature of reality is not a failure but simply accurate.

In opening beyond our conceptual maps, we see that our ideas of fixed essences were misleading. Even suffering has no fixed, separate essence. Pain is a flash of lightning in a summer cloud. Grief is a mask worn by love.

When we open to suffering just as it is, compassion, a non-dualistic acceptance of what is, reveals that even suffering is empty. Ironically, when we let go of the protective distance that we create between ourselves and our hearts -- when we let go of our idea of suffering as something separate -- it opens like a flower, and its imagined solidity dissolves. Beyond good and bad, just tears. 

In learning to tolerate our own suffering, we learn to tolerate others’. This releases us from the need to fix and allows us to bear witness with great compassion. In this way, emptiness -- things exactly as they are -- is a refuge for us all, one that we can share with all beings.

Like the self, suffering is no suffering. We merely call it suffering provisionally. This does not mean it is nothing or that we should slip into denial. Denial reifies whatever we are denying. We are invited to be intimate with whatever is.

When we look deeply, we find that everything is subtle, mysterious, and beyond description. This is our freedom.

So you should view this fleeting world:
A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream; 
A flash of lightning in a summer cloud;
A flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream.

We may still wonder, how can we fulfill our bodhisattva vow to awaken and save all beings? I am reminded of a quote from Catcher in the Rye: "The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one." Bodhisattva practice does not make us special, and we don't need to be. Mary Oliver writes, "You do not have to be good. / You do not have to walk on your knees / for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. / You only have to let the soft animal of your body / love what it loves." And as the late, great Tina Turner sang, "We don't need another hero." We just openly pay attention and offer an appropriate response, moment after moment. We may sit with a grieving friend, write a letter, attend a demonstration, offer incense, or even sweep the floor. Sometimes we get it wrong, atone, and begin again. A life of vow.

There's a story about Ryukon, the Japanese poet, zen master, and hermit. He lived in the mountains but would sometimes spend time with his family and play with the village children. One day a relative found him to ask for help. Ryukon's nephew, a teenage boy, was causing trouble. Ryokan agreed to see what he could do. So he went to stay at his brother's house where his nephew lived. After a few weeks, Ryokan decided to leave and go back to the mountain. He began to lace up his sandals, and the boy came into the room and sat across from him. Ryukon's hands were shaking with age, so the boy decided to help him with his sandals. As he knelt before Ryukon, tears from Ryukon's eyes landed on the boy's hands. When the boy saw the tears streaming down Ryokan’s face, he knew they were for him. From that moment, the boy completely changed.

Bearing witness without knowing in advance what we will do, we might bandage a child’s boo-boo, a child who stands before us with tears on her cheeks. This uncontrived response, which does not depend on the concept of self and other but which also does not negate the shimmering suchness of a child, is like "walking in the bright sunshine seeing all shapes and colors." Though without any separate, fixed essence, each intimate presence shines forth uniquely. We see the tears on her cheeks and hear her cry. We bandage her cut because it is simply the thing to do. We think, but we are not lost in our own ideas. We are awake with this child who, in this moment, is our life, this child of the universe. Caring for this one child is caring for the universe in the form of a child. There is no "other" anywhere. This may sound like a great mystical revelation, but it is just things as they are.

Since there is no self to awaken separate from the totality of wholesome dharmas, and since there are no separate dharmas anywhere (wholesome or otherwise), all beings are included in this moment. Indeed, all beings are included in each bow we make. Our forehead touches the floor. The earth holds us up. The air fills our lungs. The stars give shape to infinite space, which is nothing other than our mind, which is not separate from all beings. Each breath and each bow includes all beings throughout space and time. When we bow, we hold nothing back, and we are given the universe. We give ourselves away completely in this moment, and we are given everything in return. This is non-dualistic generosity in which giving is receiving and receiving is giving. Ultimately, there is no giver, no receiver, and no gift. We merely call it giving. With Avalokiteshvara as our guide, we open our bodhisattva heart as a refuge for all beings, and we let ourselves be held by all beings. Hearing the cries of the world, without knowing in advance what to do and without expectation of what the outcome will be, we each make our unique offering. As Bernie Glassman writes, each of us are one of Avaolokiteshvara's thousand hands responding to the cries of the world. Because there are no separate beings anywhere, all beings save all beings.