Chaozhou Ts'ung-shen was a Chinese Chan (or Zen) master and a Dharma successor of Nanchüan.
According to Case 19 of the Gateless Gate, as a young student, Chaozhou (or Joshu in Japanese) "asked his teacher, Nanchüan, ‘What is the Way,’ and Nanchüan replied, ‘Ordinary mind is Way.’ Chaozhou asked how he should move toward it. Nanchüan answered, 'If you try to move toward it, you go away from it.' Chaozhou said, 'But if we do not try, how do we know that it is the Way?' Nanchüan replied, ‘The Way does not belong to knowing or not-knowing: knowing is illusion, not-knowing is blank emptiness. If you really attain to the Way, it is like vast emptiness – limitless and boundless. How, then, can there be a right and wrong in the Way?' At these words, Chaozhou was enlightened.”
After forty years of training with Nanchüan, Chaozhou wandered throughout China and studied with other Zen masters for another twenty years, deepening his insight. At the age of eighty, he began teaching until his death when he was 120 years old (or so the story goes).
As a teacher, his dharma is both perfectly direct and deceptively simple. He instructed gently and quietly, but in very precise and profound ways. Twelve koans in the Blue Cliff Record and five in The Gateless Gate concern Chaozhou – by far the most often cited teacher, with good reason.
In case 7 of the Gateless Gate, “A new monk asked Chaozhou to teach him. Chaozhou asked, ‘Have you eaten your meal?’ The monk replied, ‘Yes, I have.’ Chaozhou said, ‘Then go wash your bowl.’”Photo by Sandra Raponi
In case 37, “A monk asked Chaozhou, ‘What is the meaning of Bodhidharma's coming from the west?’ Chaozhou said, ‘The cypress tree in the courtyard.’"
And in Case 2 of the Blue Cliff Record, Chaozhou taught, “'The great way isn’t difficult if you don’t pick and choose. As soon as I speak, you’ll think, That’s picking and choosing, or That’s clear. But I don’t identify with clarity. Can you live like that?’ A student asked, ‘If you don’t identify with clarity, what do you live by?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Chaozhou answered. ‘If you don’t know, why do you say that you don’t identify with clarity?’ ‘It is enough to ask the question. Make your bow and step back.’"
Of course, the most famous koan involving Chaozhou is Case 1 from the Gateless Gate: “Chaozhou’s Dog.”
Wumen Hukai, a Linji Zen master who lived in 13th century China, compiled the Gateless Gate koan collection and offered comments and verses on the cases. As a young monk, Wumen is said to struggled with Chaozhou’s dog for six years before he broke through. As the koan that opened the Way for him, he passed it along to us – our gateless barrier.
Please note the tenacity in both Chaozhou’s eighty years of study with teachers and in Wumen’s six years on one case. It reminds us of Bodhidharma staring at the wall for nine years when he came to China. These great teachers exerted great effort examining the gateless barrier over many years to realize freedom.
And that is at the heart of things, isn’t it. We aren’t just playing with riddles here. We are not dedicating ourselves to the Way to feel a bit less stress. If that were the goal, we can get massages. Most fundamentally, we have heard that Buddha was deeply enlightened and, together with all beings, he attained the Way. We have heard that he conquered suffering. We come to practice because we have heard that we too have Buddha nature, and we long to see this for ourselves. We long to be free.
We are not alone in this longing. Our Zen history is replete with stories of people of great determination seeking the Way. Many of these stories include nameless monks who bravely lay their hearts bare and make themselves vulnerable in asking questions of their teachers.
According to the first case of the Gateless Gate, “A monk asked Chaozhou, ‘Has the dog Buddha nature or not?’ Chaozhou answered, ‘Mu.’”
I find it helpful to begin with koans by reflecting on where the people in the story may be coming from. It helps me understand what the case is about. So first, the monk asks, “Has the dog Buddha nature or not?” What is he really wondering?
Though we feel differently now, dogs then were generally considered filthy creatures. The monk therefore might be asking: “does even a filthy rat have Buddha nature?” But again, why ask such a question? There is likely something deeper that he wants to know. The monk might really be asking, “does even someone as unworthy as me have Buddha nature?” He might be thinking, “I am told that we all have this salvific Buddha nature, so what is it? Does it really include every being in the world? Does it include my shame and broken heart? Am I too of the essence of enlightenment, because I sure don’t feel like it.”
Or maybe he is saying, “I have the nature of enlightenment, but I am special! Does a filthy being like that lazy monk across the courtyard actually share in this Buddha nature with me? How about the murderer in the prison yard? Can Buddha nature really include those that I detest?”
Either way, there is a painful sense of separateness.
In another context when asked the exact same question, Chaozhou answered, “yes.” But one teaching does not fit all circumstances. This is why we consider dokusan, meetings with the teacher, private. The teaching you receive in dokusan is meant for you in that precise moment alone.
Still, koans have an archetypal quality. On some basic level, we all have our inner monk asking similar questions.
So Chaozhou is meeting his student where he is. And this student’s question is likely based in some amount of self-centeredness. Okumora states (in Living Vow's liturgy), “No matter how hard we practice, our motivation for practice is always based in some amount of self-centeredness.” In a relative sense, this is true. We begin practicing because we want to suffer less. We want to feel better. We want enlightenment for ourselves. And maybe we question whether we are worthy. Or maybe we think we alone are worthy. Two sides of one coin.
So this monk may be caught in the relative truth of separate beings. And this monk is lost in ideas about Buddha nature and needs to wake up from this dream.
This “no” is Manjushri’s sword of wisdom cutting through delusions. Enlightenment is not as we think; nor is it otherwise.
Will the monk take up this sword and “cut off the mind road?” This does not mean stopping thinking but realizing the origin of thoughts. We call this practice “great doubt."
In his comment on Chaozhou’s dog, Wumen wrote:
“For the practice of Zen it is imperative that you pass through the barrier set up by the Ancestral Teachers. For subtle realization it is of the utmost importance that you cut off the mind road. If you do not pass the barrier of the ancestors, if you do not cut off the mind road, then you are a ghost clinging to bushes and grasses.
“What is the barrier of the ancestral Teachers? It is just this one word ‘Mu’ – the one barrier of our faith. We call it the Gateless Barrier of the Zen tradition. When you pass through this barrier, you will not only interview Chaozhou intimately, you will walk hand in hand with all the Ancestral Teachers in the successive generations of our lineage – the hair of your eyebrows entangled with theirs, seeing with the same eyes, hearing with the same ears. Won’t that be fulfilling? Is there anyone who would not want to pass this barrier?
“So, then, make your whole body a mass of doubt, and with your three hundred and sixty bones and joints and your eighty-four thousand hair follicles concentrate on this one word ‘Mu.’ Day and night, keep digging into it. Don’t consider it to be nothingness. Don’t think in terms of ‘has’ and ‘has not.’ It is like swallowing a red-hot iron ball. You try to vomit it out, but you can’t.
“Gradually you purify yourself, eliminating mistaken knowledge and attitudes you have held from the past. Inside and outside become one. You’re like a mute person who has had a dream; you know it for yourself alone.
“Suddenly Mu breaks open. The heavens are astonished, the earth is shaken. It is as though you have snatched the great sword of General Kuan. When you meet the Buddha, you kill the Buddha. When you meet Bodhidharma, you kill Bodhidharma. At the very cliff edge of birth-and-death, you find the Great Freedom. In the Six Worlds and the Four Modes of Birth, you enjoy a samadhi of frolic and play.
“How, then, should you work with it? Exhaust all you life energy on this one word ‘Mu.’ If you do not falter, then it’s done! A single spark lights your Dharma candle.”
And Wemen’s Verse:
“Dog, buddha nature–
the full presentation of the whole;
with a bit of 'has' or 'has not'
body is lost, life is lost.”
It is best to establish stable sitting before taking up mu. We begin by counting or following our breath to help establish concentration. Please do not try to rush through this practice. Indeed, this practice is enough for a lifetime. There is no other place we are trying to get. We are just deepening our realization of what we actually are.
Having developed concentration, in consultation with a Zen teacher, we might let go of the breath as an object of concentration and just sit still, be quiet, and pay attention to whatever arises. We call this practice shikantaza.
Unless a koan has been assigned to you in dokusan by your teacher, please continue with your practice. And please only practice koans with a Zen teacher who has completed a koan curriculum with an authorized koan teacher and who has received authorization to teach (transmission). But if mu calls to you, you may ask about it in dokusan with such a teacher. Working with koans is not inherently better than breath work or shikantaza. But for some, koans do have special power for the Way.
What might sitting with "Chaozhou's Dog" look like? We might sit for a few minutes coming into the body and breath before breathing out “mu.” Then we might drop our focus on the breath and just sit with that single word.
As Wumen says, “with your three hundred and sixty bones and joints and your eighty-four thousand hair follicles, concentrate on this one word ‘Mu.’ Day and night, keep digging into it…. Exhaust all your life energy on this one word ‘Mu.’”
You may notice that you want to understand mu. When we begin practicing, we imagine that “knowing” what Buddha nature is will enlighten us. We seek mu with our thoughts. We may need to exhaust ourselves. For some of us, this can take years. We are rather stubborn.
We might remember that when Chaozhou was asked, “what do you live by?” he simply answered, “I don’t know.” When Bodhidharma was asked who he was, he replied, “I don’t know.” And when Chaozhou himself asked his teacher how to practice the Way without knowing what the Way is, Nanchüan responded, “the Way does not belong to knowing or not-knowing.”
The way does not exclude knowing, but knowledge is not enough. Has a dog Buddha nature or not? If you think you know the answer, ask yourself again, do I really know what Buddha nature is? Do I know what I am?
We may answer, “I don’t know,” but in the dokusan room, this is not enough. Time and again we are expected to respond. We must actualize the Way, neither lost in knowing nor in not knowing. We have swallowed a red-hot iron ball.
You may want to give up. Sometimes feelings of unworthiness and frustration arise. But as Hakuin wrote in his Song of Zazen, "Bind grasses to build a hut, and don’t give up." Recall our ancestors staring at the gateless barrier year after year, and throw yourself back into the furnace of practice. Give yourself completely to mu, and, together with all beings, "at the very cliff edge of birth-and-death, you find the Great Freedom."