In Case 20 from The Book of Equanimity, Dizang asked Fayan, “What do you think of wandering?” Fayan answered, “I don’t know.” Dizang said, “Not knowing is most intimate.”
Seung Sahn also used to encourage his students, "Only don't know!"
What is this "no knowing" that is so celebrated in Zen?
As an English, philosophy, and Zen teacher, I have a hearty appreciation of language, definitions, and concepts. Indeed, each is an important aspect of the Dharma, the Buddha's teachings.
But the Dharma really comes alive when we acknowledge the limits of our knowledge. As we read in one koan, "we can only know our consciousness till now." Our ideas about things are always retrospective. In this moment, there is something arising that we have never known.
It is humbling and wonderful to acknowledge how limited our knowledge is even of ourselves. Though we may know the dictionary definition of "I", we, like Bodhidharma, may not fully comprehend what this little letter "I" refers to. The 10th most used word in the English language becomes a dharma gate inviting us to look more deeply.
Like Bodhidharma, we all know our names. But as Shakespeare wrote, "What's in a name?" My name is Michael. But who is Michael? What is in this name other than letters? What does it point to? I can go on listing attributes, but every attribute is a relationally designated and impermanent characteristic. For example, I am a teacher only because I have students. No students, no teacher. So being a teacher is not something that exists intrinsically in my essence. Identities are provisional, born out of changing relations. Is there something that is just "me"?
Though it may have seemed dismissive and strange, Bodhidharma responded to the Emperor from a deep place. What carries this body around? "No knowing." And Fayan answered Dizang from a deep place. Rather than add anything extra, he let wandering speak for itself.
In Zen, "no knowing" is not the non-existence of thoughts or of knowledge. I know my name and birthday. I also know what I think of wandering. (I often find it quite pleasurable, especially in the woods or in ancient cities, and sometimes in my refrigerator!) Both Bodhidharma and Fayan could have told entertaining stories in response to their questioners. That is what is customary, after all. If Bodhidharma were worried about what Emperor Wu thought of him, Bodhidharma might have shared a story. Even if we are not sure about something, we tend to cover up our confusion by filling the space with stories.
But Bodhidharma and Fayan chose not to. This is because they were answering questions on a different level from our ordinary way of interacting. Their not knowing was not some kind of blankness or confusion. It was not the inability to recall facts. Rather, it was an acknowledgment that our concepts are provisional. In no longer preferencing knowledge over this sensory-world, we open beyond our conceptual maps to immeasurable reality. And it's not that this is inherently better than our conceptual maps nor of a different nature, but there is liberation in no longer being held hostage by thoughts.
When we get tangled in conceptions, we become blind. If we think we already know who our partners are, we may take them for granted and pay less attention to the emerging, magical presences before us. If we think we already know the flavor of our tea, we may never taste it again. If we think we already know who we are, we may never awaken to our true nature (which is no nature at all). As Barry Magid writes, "We must center our practice not on coming up with new answers to our questions, but on bringing to light the old answers we carry around inside us and which form the hard shell of Self that stands between us and Life" (Ending the Pursuit of Happiness, 150). No knowing means opening up beyond our ideas to how things are in this very moment.
There is an ancient Chinese story that illustrates how thoughts are just thoughts. Once there were a farmer and son who had a stallion who helped the family plow the fields. One day, the horse ran away and their neighbors exclaimed, “Your horse ran away? What terrible luck!” The farmer replied, “Maybe so, maybe not. Who knows?” A few days later, the horse returned home, leading a wild mare back to the farm as well. The neighbors proclaimed, “Your horse has returned and brought another horse home with him. What great luck!” The farmer replied, “Maybe so, maybe not. Who knows?” Later that week, the farmer’s son was trying to break the mare, and she threw him to the ground, breaking his leg. The villagers cried, “Your son broke his leg, what terrible luck!” The farmer replied, “Maybe so, maybe not. Who knows?” A few weeks later, war broke out and soldiers from the national army marched through town, recruiting all the able-bodied boys for the army. They did not take the farmer’s son who was still recovering from his injury. Friends shouted, “Your boy is spared, what tremendous luck!” To which the farmer replied, “Maybe so, maybe not. Who knows?”
Like Socrates, the mark of the father's wisdom is his willingness to acknowledge that there is a bigger picture that we humans cannot comprehend, and that everything changes. The neighbors jumped to conclusions that did not prove to be true. Still, you have to give them credit for not getting stuck on their previous notions. Imagine if the neighbors had felt certain that they were right and then defended their points of view. "Of course it is bad news that your son broke his leg! Have you no compassion or love? We should take your child from you!" When we stake out a position, even when evidence suggests that there is more to the story, we often blindly defend our previous claim. There is even a name for this: confirmation bias. We can go on endlessly marshaling facts to support our point of view, even though there may be other valid ways of interpreting the situation, and even as the situation changes. Wars are waged when both sides are certain they are right.
Of course, we are the neighbors in this story. We are the ones who jump to conclusions. When we pay attention to how the mind works, we eventually see that our thoughts are just thoughts, and they, like all of our perceptions, are incomplete and biased presentations of an incomprehensible mystery. There are actually no fixed, intrinsic essences anywhere that we can pin down.
This does not mean that we can't know things provisionally. It was fine for the neighbors to state their reactions. Not knowing does not mean we have to abandon knowing what a red light means while we are driving. We need to differentiate between vegetables and weeds. We should not give up our sense of what is beneficial and harmful, nor of what is right and wrong. Without words and letters, concepts and facts, we could not survive, never mind be of service.
But imagining that our conceptions capture fixed essences or that they are in some way absolutely true closes our heart-minds to infinite possibilities. Most painfully, when we get lost in our thinking, we obscure our innate intimacy with the world.
Knowing is like a wave on the surface of the ocean. These waves are the relative truths or conceptions that we use to navigate the world. We need them to survive and distinguish skillful from harmful actions. These waves are sometimes beautiful, like a poem, and sometimes terrible, like a desire for revenge. But waves are also empty of fixed essence and ever-shapeshifting. They exist provisionally. For us human beings, such relative truths are a consequence of having brains and are not a problem unless we get lost in them. Then they can blind us to the depths of existence and make us feel disconnected and empty. Unfortunately, this is what usually happens!
Like Bodhidharma, we all know our names. But as Shakespeare wrote, "What's in a name?" My name is Michael. But who is Michael? What is in this name other than letters? What does it point to? I can go on listing attributes, but every attribute is a relationally designated and impermanent characteristic. For example, I am a teacher only because I have students. No students, no teacher. So being a teacher is not something that exists intrinsically in my essence. Identities are provisional, born out of changing relations. Is there something that is just "me"?
Though it may have seemed dismissive and strange, Bodhidharma responded to the Emperor from a deep place. What carries this body around? "No knowing." And Fayan answered Dizang from a deep place. Rather than add anything extra, he let wandering speak for itself.
In Zen, "no knowing" is not the non-existence of thoughts or of knowledge. I know my name and birthday. I also know what I think of wandering. (I often find it quite pleasurable, especially in the woods or in ancient cities, and sometimes in my refrigerator!) Both Bodhidharma and Fayan could have told entertaining stories in response to their questioners. That is what is customary, after all. If Bodhidharma were worried about what Emperor Wu thought of him, Bodhidharma might have shared a story. Even if we are not sure about something, we tend to cover up our confusion by filling the space with stories.
But Bodhidharma and Fayan chose not to. This is because they were answering questions on a different level from our ordinary way of interacting. Their not knowing was not some kind of blankness or confusion. It was not the inability to recall facts. Rather, it was an acknowledgment that our concepts are provisional. In no longer preferencing knowledge over this sensory-world, we open beyond our conceptual maps to immeasurable reality. And it's not that this is inherently better than our conceptual maps nor of a different nature, but there is liberation in no longer being held hostage by thoughts.
When we get tangled in conceptions, we become blind. If we think we already know who our partners are, we may take them for granted and pay less attention to the emerging, magical presences before us. If we think we already know the flavor of our tea, we may never taste it again. If we think we already know who we are, we may never awaken to our true nature (which is no nature at all). As Barry Magid writes, "We must center our practice not on coming up with new answers to our questions, but on bringing to light the old answers we carry around inside us and which form the hard shell of Self that stands between us and Life" (Ending the Pursuit of Happiness, 150). No knowing means opening up beyond our ideas to how things are in this very moment.
There is an ancient Chinese story that illustrates how thoughts are just thoughts. Once there were a farmer and son who had a stallion who helped the family plow the fields. One day, the horse ran away and their neighbors exclaimed, “Your horse ran away? What terrible luck!” The farmer replied, “Maybe so, maybe not. Who knows?” A few days later, the horse returned home, leading a wild mare back to the farm as well. The neighbors proclaimed, “Your horse has returned and brought another horse home with him. What great luck!” The farmer replied, “Maybe so, maybe not. Who knows?” Later that week, the farmer’s son was trying to break the mare, and she threw him to the ground, breaking his leg. The villagers cried, “Your son broke his leg, what terrible luck!” The farmer replied, “Maybe so, maybe not. Who knows?” A few weeks later, war broke out and soldiers from the national army marched through town, recruiting all the able-bodied boys for the army. They did not take the farmer’s son who was still recovering from his injury. Friends shouted, “Your boy is spared, what tremendous luck!” To which the farmer replied, “Maybe so, maybe not. Who knows?”
Like Socrates, the mark of the father's wisdom is his willingness to acknowledge that there is a bigger picture that we humans cannot comprehend, and that everything changes. The neighbors jumped to conclusions that did not prove to be true. Still, you have to give them credit for not getting stuck on their previous notions. Imagine if the neighbors had felt certain that they were right and then defended their points of view. "Of course it is bad news that your son broke his leg! Have you no compassion or love? We should take your child from you!" When we stake out a position, even when evidence suggests that there is more to the story, we often blindly defend our previous claim. There is even a name for this: confirmation bias. We can go on endlessly marshaling facts to support our point of view, even though there may be other valid ways of interpreting the situation, and even as the situation changes. Wars are waged when both sides are certain they are right.
Of course, we are the neighbors in this story. We are the ones who jump to conclusions. When we pay attention to how the mind works, we eventually see that our thoughts are just thoughts, and they, like all of our perceptions, are incomplete and biased presentations of an incomprehensible mystery. There are actually no fixed, intrinsic essences anywhere that we can pin down.
This does not mean that we can't know things provisionally. It was fine for the neighbors to state their reactions. Not knowing does not mean we have to abandon knowing what a red light means while we are driving. We need to differentiate between vegetables and weeds. We should not give up our sense of what is beneficial and harmful, nor of what is right and wrong. Without words and letters, concepts and facts, we could not survive, never mind be of service.
But imagining that our conceptions capture fixed essences or that they are in some way absolutely true closes our heart-minds to infinite possibilities. Most painfully, when we get lost in our thinking, we obscure our innate intimacy with the world.
Knowing is like a wave on the surface of the ocean. These waves are the relative truths or conceptions that we use to navigate the world. We need them to survive and distinguish skillful from harmful actions. These waves are sometimes beautiful, like a poem, and sometimes terrible, like a desire for revenge. But waves are also empty of fixed essence and ever-shapeshifting. They exist provisionally. For us human beings, such relative truths are a consequence of having brains and are not a problem unless we get lost in them. Then they can blind us to the depths of existence and make us feel disconnected and empty. Unfortunately, this is what usually happens!
It is helpful not to be too attached to particular wave formations. Let them come, and let them go. Whether it is some sexy sense of self or a hateful condemnation, just "open the hand of thought" (Uchiyama). In letting waves simply come and go, we find ourselves opening beyond the waves to immeasurable depths. These depths are not merely another idea but are boundless reality manifesting as our life -- an intimacy beyond all compare.
This is zazen.
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