PERFECTING THE PARAMITAS WISDOM 2010.8

In this, the eighth and final segment, we will examine the sixth and last of the Buddhist

Perfections as usually listed, Prajna Paramita, or the perfection of Wisdom. In the

Introduction segment, we pointed out that wisdom follows from perfecting all the other

Paramitas. Again, the traditional sequencing may seem to cast the Paramitas as stages of

training, that we go through progressively. But this is a bit too linear for Buddhist

thought, as we have seen, and hopefully will clarify further in the present segment.

Reviewing the final quote from Matsuoka-roshi’s Mokurai, Chapter 3: Zen Mind is

Ordinary Mind:

The last Paramita, Wisdom, is what persons are said to possess if we

practice all the Paramitas with sincerity. We will have seen things as they

really are, with an ordinary mind. We will have seen through the illusion

of this world and will have entered that of Enlightenment.

This seeing through is the operative phrase. The world of illusion and the world of

enlightenment are not-two. When we enter the latter, we do not exit the former. They are

on the same side of the dharma gate. But we must still pass through the gate.

In the introduction I asked, how do we accede to the wisdom of the buddhas, to borrow a

phrase from Master Dogen’s Principles of Zazen, or Fukanzazengi; a wisdom that is not

accessible through intellectual understanding? Wisdom, we usually regard as a kind of

knowledge, or insight, that we do not now have, but can attain by study and

understanding. But the kind of wisdom pointed to by Buddhism cannot be attained by

study; nor can it be understood, in the conventional sense. The question of what this

wisdom actually is, as well as the true meaning of each of the Paramitas, are the questions

that we ask in Zen, or that Zen asks of us. We find the most of the answers, and encounter

deeper questions, on the cushion, in zazen.

Prajna Paramita means perfection of wisdom. Every time I read or hear the word wisdom,

I remember when Matsuoka roshi and I were walking to the restaurant for lunch as usual,

one Sunday after Zen practice. We had been out for dinner the night before, and I had

imbibed a bit too much beer and sake. So I mentioned I had a bit of a hangover. To which

he said, Oh, not much wisdom here! He certainly didn’t have a hangover, even though he

had had at least as to drink much as I had. And was much smaller physically, to boot.

So, wisdom has a practical aspect to it. We usually think of it as something rarefied,

something mystical. In Buddhism it also has that kind of connotation, that it is a wisdom

that is beyond wisdom, as it is said in the Heart Sutra that we chant, wisdom beyond

wisdom. This means that Zen wisdom is beyond conventional wisdom. But it is also

down-to-earth.

Wisdom, conventionally speaking, is usually comprised of the accumulation of

knowledge, or experience gained by trial and error. Learning, for example, not to

continue to make the same mistakes that we have made all of our lives. So, we like to

think that a person who is older, is wiser. Not always the case, however — present

company excepted, I am sure. We don’t always learn from our mistakes, and in fact, we

don’t even recognize that they are mistakes, often. Some wag commented that the Zen

life is just one long mistake. A lecturer at a conference quoted Master Dogen, saying “If I

make a mistake, it is my fault; if you make a mistake, it is my fault.” This is an attitude

we practice in Zen training, as in martial arts. The teacher is responsible for their

students’ mistakes. At least 50%, anyway.

So this kind of Zen wisdom is not a knowledge-based sophistication, or some kind of

superior ability to never make a mistake. In fact, it recognizes that making mistakes is the

only way that we can develop wisdom. Of course, this is the only way that we can learn

anything worth learning. But, as with most of the teachings of Zen, there is a seemingly

contradictory — or we might say, contrary — aspect to this Buddhist idea of wisdom.

When we look at the six Paramitas, which usually begin with Generosity, then Precepts,

Patience, Effort, Meditation and, finally Wisdom, as aforementioned, we tend to see them

as a kind of progressive program, of practicing the perfection first of Generosity, then

Precepts, and then Patience, and so forth; until we finally come to the perfection of

Wisdom, by thoroughly practicing all of the above. But the process, in real life, is clearly

not all that linear. We revisit Generosity, for example, on many different levels, as we

grow older, and hopefully wiser; we understand it differently. We understand all the

Paramitas, the Precepts, and the eight dimensions of the Path more deeply, as our life

goes on, sometimes in ways that seem to contradict our earlier understanding.

This, too, is a principle of Buddhist teachings, as illustrated in the abbreviated version of

the Heart Sutra that we chant as daily liturgy. The line that says In emptiness, no path, no

wisdom, no attainment seems to contradict Buddha’s first teaching of the Four Noble

Truths and the Eightfold Path. But this is not actually a contradiction; it is more along the

lines of a revision. It indicates that once one comes to a direct experience, such as

Buddha had, of insight, as a transformative experience, then it is clear that from that

perspective, it does not any longer make sense to say that there is such a thing as the

Path, that Buddha taught in his early career. That is, the true Path is universal, so that

everything is, in effect, the Path. It has no boundaries, which define a path as such.

We come to understand this shift in emphasis, to be partially an effect of Buddha’s own

maturation process, as well as that of his audience, over his lifetime. His later teachings

were more ambiguous, or seemingly contradictory — more embracing of ambiguity,

perhaps is the way to say it. His followers were prepared to hear the more nuanced

teaching, trained by their own experience in meditation.

Thus, wisdom, in Zen, embraces ambiguity. It recognizes that we cannot really

understand, fully, the great teaching of buddhadharma, because it is simply pointing at

this reality in which we are living, which is clearly not subject to complete understanding.

The higher, further reaches of science, in the realm of particle physics, for example, have

largely come to a similar conclusion, that in effect, closer examination and investigation

into the nature of reality, itself, effects the outcome of what is being studied. Another way

I have heard it expressed, by a world-class physicist, is — that which we can know about

something, such as a given particle — greatly obscures all that which we cannot know.

This is a kind of cosmic catch 22, if you will, that we cannot work around. We are stuck

with this kind of contradictory ambiguity. It seems to be woven into the very fabric of

existence. It certainly applies to that we can know about other persons. Our

understanding of others is, necessarily, limited by the self doing the understanding.

The perfection of Wisdom begins with recognizing our own limitations. One of my

teachers demonstrated this point very simply, yet very clearly. He pointed out that when

he is facing us in the zendo, giving a dharma talk, for instance, then he could not see the

altar and the wall of the zendo behind him, that he knows to be there. If, however, he

were to turn around and face the other way, he would see those things; but doing so

means that he would not be able to see us, his audience. We cannot see both at once.

We are in the forest, and as the old saying goes, we cannot see it for the trees. This is a

limitation built into the very body of our being, illustrated by this simple example of the

fact that our sight is not 360 degrees. And even if it were, we still could not see through

the solid earth on which we sit, stand, or walk. Hearing, feeling and thinking are likewise

limited to a portion of the spectrum of reality, the electromagnetic spectrum, and

proximate causes. And, we cannot simply extract ourselves from this condition

intentionally.

The kinds of limitations that are physiological, or physical, built into our very existence,

can be overcome to some extent, by technology. We now have awe-inspiring images

from outer space, thanks to the Hubble, and other marvelous telescopes. We have

incredible images from the bottom of the ocean; images that let us see into the

microscopic world, into the structures underlying matter; we even have images that

indirectly capture the invisible interactions of subatomic, energetic particles, resulting

from high-speed collisions. Same for auditory and other forms of information.

Unfortunately, access to this kind of information, through indirect means, can have the

effect of reinforcing the idea that we know more than we actually know. Its breadth and

depth can deprive us of the kind of fresh awareness, or naïve innocence, that we might

benefit from, if we were not so convinced of our vast grasp of knowledge of the world.

In Zen, we are looking for something, just as scientists at the outer reaches of the microand

macro-cosmic realms are looking for something. When we begin practicing Zen

meditation, we have some ideas about what we are looking for. And as mentioned in

prior segments, these initial reasons for practice tend to fall away of their own accord.

Over time, we go through an evolution of our own practice, and our reasons for doing it,

until we come to a point at which, we would have to say, that we can no longer really

explain our reasons for it. But that doesn’t stop us from practicing. This is an example of

the personal ambiguity that is intrinsic to the wisdom of Buddhism.

What we are looking for can be said to be something missing. That is, we don’t know

what it is. We don’t have it; we definitely feel we need it. We are seeking resolution of

conflicts in our life, often unclear to us; and so we come to Zen to find what is missing.

But what we find, instead, is not something — certainly not what we may expect. We

find a way of life, a way of practice, a way of dealing with our problems — including a a

way of investigating the fundamental need for something that we feel lacking.

In the Tao te Ching, there is a statement something like, Caught by desire, we see only

the manifestation; free from desire, we confront the Mystery. This is something like what

we find in Zen. It is not an answer, in the sense of an objective clarification, where we

now have the missing link, the missing piece of knowledge; but we confront the mystery.

What opens up before us in Zen is, if anything, a deeper mystery than the one we carried

in with us, when we first began practice. However, it is a very satisfying insight, or

gradual revelation, and it is enough to keep us going, enough to sustain us in our daily

life, and enough to encourage us in further exploring deeper mystery. A peek in the tent.

This notion of wisdom as not being knowledge; and conventional wisdom as not creating

unnecessary difficulty for ourselves or others, at least to some degree. These both point to

action, or a kind of non-action. Not creating problems. Getting along with everyone. In

Buddhism, this would translate roughly into following the Eightfold Path in daily life,

developing right view, right thought, right speech, action and livelihood, right effort,

mindfulness and meditation. Of course, in sequence again, we would have to say this is

backward; the development of right view and thought, for instance, would have to begin

with right meditation, not the other way around. And as to the Paramitas and Precepts; by

attempting, at least, to perfect these, we would be living a life of wisdom. Or at least not

living a life of extreme foolishness, getting ourselves and others into trouble by

continually violating precepts, adding unnecessary suffering, on top of the necessary

suffering built into existence.

This kind of staying out of trouble, or avoiding entanglements, sometimes thought of as

non-attachment, seems to be the Buddhist model for wisdom. It is often translated into a

kind of self-preservation, not getting too entangled, too attached to anything of anybody

so that we don’t get hurt. An old saying has that there are three kinds of people in the

world: those like the rabbit who skitters across the top of the river to avoid getting wet;

the horse, who wades into the water, but keeps his head out; and the elephant, who walks

right across the bottom, keeping only its trunk above to breathe. The rabbit represents

those who go through life trying to stay un involved; the horse, the intellectual who is

interested in life but tries to stay aloof; and the elephant, the Zen person who jumps right

in, both feet. Or all four feet. The elephant is the symbol of wisdom, and courage, in Zen.

Wisdom can then be distorted into this interpretation that it is to avoid suffering. And it is

usually by following a set of rules that we try to insure that we will. But, as we have seen

when we closely examine the Eightfold Path, the Paramitas and Precepts, we cannot

simply adhere to them; we cannot live up to them in a literal sense. Even if we could,

there would be some situations in which we find that we have no control. Those around

us, including ourselves, eventually encounter circumstances beyond our control.

Wisdom, as the avoidance of suffering, then, may provide a good rule-of-thumb, that is,

to avoid creating more intentional or accidental suffering, which is simply gratuitous. But

the exercise of wisdom in the Buddhist sense would be more the intelligent embrace of

suffering. By intelligent here, we mean in moderation. That is, not self-mortification, not

seeing suffering itself as a good thing — as sometimes in the myth of art and music, that

the artist must suffer to produce great art — but as an inevitable dimension of reality. So

the attempt to avoid it is seen as futile, and the acceptance or embrace of suffering is seen

as wise. This doesn’t mean that we seek it out, or do not act to mitigate it.

Wisdom is often opposed to compassion. This is based on the observation that

compassion, if taken too far, becomes a kind of self-sacrificing crusade of the martyr, to

help all others as much as possible, even to the detriment of one’s own health, sacrificing

one’s life, prosperity and so forth. Of course, this is not likely to become a problem of

any magnitude, in the context of the self-obsessed culture that promoted in the USA.

Nonetheless, wisdom, as the counterbalance to compassion suggests that in transactions

with others, what is the wisest thing, what is the truly compassionate thing, may not be

obvious. In some cases when we attempt to help others, through some sense of

compassion, perhaps misplaced, we may end up instead enabling them in some selfdestructive,

or at least non-productive, pattern of behavior. Or we create a dependency,

like the old saw of teaching a man to fish, rather than providing him with fish.

So wisdom, in the light of compassion, then becomes the exercise of discretion to see, in

a given case, what is truly the compassionate thing to do, what is truly the wise thing to

do. If it were as simple as following a set of rules, such as the Paramitas and Precepts to

the letter, then we would likely live in a very simple and wise, orderly society. And our

personal problems in dealing with it would be much less severe. But because it is not that

simple — again, we make it complicated — we have to exercise judgment, a kind of

refined discrimination, in each situation, in order to determine what is the act of true

compassion, what is the path of wisdom.

This is not exactly the same as situational ethics, usually used in the pejorative sense.

Setting the welfare of others before one’s own, the Bodhisattva vow, is the guiding

principle. But sometimes, in addressing the spiritual welfare of others, compassion can

look like cruelty, as in some of the stories of Ancestral Zen, where masters would beat

their students, shout at them, slam the gate on them. This is called grandmotherly

kindness, in Zen, and is usually only appreciated in hindsight, and from a safe distance.

Let’s bring this back to the personal level, to the practice of zazen. As Master Dogen said

in Fukanzazengi; Principles of Seated Meditation, to paraphrase, zazen is not step-by-step

meditation, but merely the simple and easy practice of a buddha, the realization of

Buddha’s wisdom. So wisdom in Buddhism is not a matter of accumulating knowledge. It

is not a matter of exercising judgment, making the right decision. It is a matter of

realization.

Buddha’s wisdom can be revealed to any and all of us, and is realized primarily through

the practice of zazen, and the effect that it has on our worldview. This must be a kind of

wisdom that is not accessible to analysis; is not a new set of information; and indeed,

must come to us through a direct, physiological, sensory process. Which, as mentioned

before, we can describe perhaps more accurately as unlearning, than as learning.

If we think of it as a subtractive process, rather than an additive process, it might be

clearer as to how it has to progress. Much as the great sculptor Rodin is said to have said,

that he simply chipped away all the stone that was not part of The Thinker, for instance,

thus revealing the sculpture. Rather than adding clay onto an armature to build up a form.

Then we could think of the process that we undergo in zazen as likewise subtractive, in

the sense that we are removing or relinquishing our own mistakes, our own errors, our

own misguided opinions, one-by-one.

Perhaps there is an infinite set, a seemingly insurmountable variety of such ideas,

opinions and ingrained attitudes. But the process of zazen seems to accelerate over time

in a geometric expansion, where one such idea stands for a whole subset of such ideas.

By liberating ourselves from one limited concept, it simultaneously liberates us from the

entire category of that subset of concepts. Here is where the ability of the discriminating

mind to label and group into classifications begins to operate in our favor.

This process might be conceived of as running back the tape, reversing the process of

accumulation — of knowledge, ideas, opinions, of worldview and thoughts — that we

have assimilated over our lifetime. Much like the aged person we spoke of in a prior

segment seems to revert to a kind of infantile state of helplessness through the gradual

loss their memory and other mature abilities, we can unlearn our learned reality.

To revisit the developmental model of mind and brain, we might posit a zero nen level of

mind at conception or preceding birth; first level nen at birth, say; developing second

level nen through learning language, name and form; eventually third level nen through

formal education, piling layer after layer of information, patterns, connections, and

concepts on top of each other much like the folds of the outer cortex of the brain. Perhaps

it is simplest to think of the process of transformation in zazen as reversing that process;

running the tape backward, so that all of those layers, that have been added on over the

years, are now gradually stripped away, like the monkey peeling the onion. Layer after

layer after layer, until what is left — at the center of our mind, denuded of all of these

conceptual ideas and philosophical abstractions — what is left is the naked truth. Which

in Buddhism is pointed at through various terms, such as shunyatta, emptiness, or

tathata, thusness or suchness.

What is then revealed has been there all along. There is no where for it to go, no place to

hide. It cannot be corrupted, as the corrupting influence of the clinging, craving mind has

been overcome and abandoned, and cannot touch this. The fundamental, or primordial

Mind is untainted, untarnished, undistorted by its accretions through learning and

misconceiving of reality based on the flawed self, from the beginning.

If the naked, true self is what is revealed at the end of this process, in all its emptiness,

then we can say this is, finally, wisdom. All wisdom in negotiating daily relationships life

flows from this primary wisdom from confronting this fundamental relationship of self to

self. As Master Dogen instructs, when beginning zazen, set aside all delusive

relationships. Which begs the question, what relationship is not delusive?

In the history of Zen in the East, there is a tradition that people would compose a couplet,

expressing their insight, if and when it came about in their practice. One that I heard of

that struck me and stuck with me, but that I cannot attribute to a source, was attributed to

a businessman who had a profound insight in his office, the same office that he had

occupied time after time, year after year. He was sitting at his desk, when suddenly… His

poem said something like, And there sat the old man, in all his homeliness.

This expression shows that this kind of insight, this revelation, is not such as we may

imagine it to be — mystical, transcendental, entering into a kind of paradise, or trancelike state of Nirvana — but is, in fact, down-to-earth, and homely. Homely means

something familiar, not all that attractive, mundane or commonplace. Not necessarily

unattractive, either, though it is often used in an unkind way. Just ordinary and plain;

nothing special.

So, coming to wisdom in Zen is coming to this point of nothing special. Every day is a

happy day, every day is a good day. As my teacher said, the Zen person is happy with

ordinariness. But it should be understood that this ordinariness is not the same as the

ordinariness of our world when we enter into Zen practice. It is from the perspective

following deep insight. The metaphor is expressed, In the beginning, a mountain is just a

mountain; after some time the mountain is no longer a mountain; and then, the mountain

is once again a mountain. But the latter mountain is not the same expression as the

former mountain. It may be the same mountain, the same existence, but, as Master Dogen

says, mountains are always walking. Everything is always changing, but the change is not

apparent to us. And we are not speaking of long-term, geologic change, as an abstract

concept. We are addressing something immediate. It is not so much the case, in Buddha’s

Wisdom, that the mountain has somehow itself dramatically changed — and certainly not

because of our practice. It is more that for us, the mountain is now, finally, and for the

first time, what it always has been. The mountain, as we perceived it before such insight,

was only an idea of a mountain that we had at one time, and have now stripped away,

with all of our other misconceptions about this world that we inhabit. Including, most

centrally, those ideas and misconceptions we have had about ourselves, and our place in

this world. So here, once again, dawns the mystery. As James Thurber would have it, My

world and welcome to it. It is your world, too. The Zen mountain is the whole world.

Let us close this eighth and final segment on the Paramitas, Prajna Paramita, with the

sutra of the same name, the Heart of Great Perfect Wisdom Sutra; please join:

Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva when deeply practicing Prajna Paramita clearly saw

that all five aggregates are empty and thus relieved all suffering

Shariputra form does not differ from emptiness emptiness does not differ from form

form itself is emptiness emptiness itself form

Sensations perceptions formations and consciousness are also like this

Shariputra all dharmas are marked by emptiness they neither arise nor cease

are neither defiled nor pure neither increase nor decrease

Therefore given emptiness

there is no form no sensation no perception no formation no consciousness

no eyes no ears no nose no tongue no body no mind

no sight no sound no smell no taste no touch no object of mind

no realm of sight no realm of mind consciousness

there is neither ignorance nor extinction of ignorance

neither old age and death nor extinction of old age and death

no suffering no cause no cessation no path no knowledge and no attainment

With nothing to attain a Bodhisattva relies on Prajna Paramita

and thus the mind is without hindrance without hindrance there is no fear

far beyond all inverted views one realizes Nirvana

All Buddhas of past present and future rely on Prajna Paramita

and thereby attain unsurpassed complete perfect enlightenment

Therefore know the Prajna Paramita as the great miraculous mantra

the great bright mantra the supreme mantra the incomparable mantra

which removes all suffering and is true not false

therefore we proclaim the Prajna Paramita mantra the mantra that says

Gate Gate Paragate Parasamgate Bodhi Svaha

This is the sutra chanted in most Zen centers around the world on a daily basis, and is a

testament to the wisdom that Shakyamuni Buddha discovered in meditation. The same

perfection of wisdom is available to us all through this compassionate teaching.

Exploring this series of eight talks has hopefully brought about a mindset that opens our

awareness to this deepest wisdom beyond wisdom, and to the dynamic reality of the

Paramitas as functioning vitally in our daily lives. By combining this study with

meditation, the depth and breadth of the meaning of the Paramitas will eventually become

clear, in a way that is natural to you, if you simply do not give up.

Thank you for listening, and for your patience and attention. And thank you for your

practice. Again, I am Taiun Michael Elliston, Great Cloud, Abbot of the Silent Thunder

Order. You can find more information about our programs, and submit any questions or

comments, at www.aszc.org.

© 2010 Zenkai Taiun Michael Joseph Elliston

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