UnMind 55. Actualizing the Fundamental Point Duet 1: Genjokoan I

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All things do exist.
On the other hand, they don’t.
Truth is in-between.

This is the fascicle Master Dogen reputedly designated as the first for his master work, Shobogenzo, which I understand is a common term, meaning something like “true eye of the Dharma treasury,” used in China for collections of Dharma teachings. Bendowa, which means something like a “talk concerning the Way,” from which this section recited in liturgy is excerpted, titled Genjokoan, roughly meaning the “actualization of the fundamental point,” i.e. of Zen. Scholars and historians can provide greater clarity on the provenance and historicity of these various teachings. Naturally, there is more dependable documentation, the closer we get to present times. But, owing to Zen’s emphasis on direct experience, I think that these scholarly aspects of Zen teachings, while important, are not of primary concern for us. The main issue, as I see it, is whether they mean anything to you, in terms of your own practice of zazen. The whole point of Buddhism is to wake up, ourselves.

As all things are buddha-dharma, there is delusion and realization, practice, and birth and death; and there are buddhas and sentient beings.
As the myriad things are without an abiding self, there is no delusion, no realization, no buddha, no sentient being, no birth and death.
The Buddha way is basically leaping clear of the many and the one; thus there are birth and death, delusion and realization, sentient beings and buddhas.
Yet in attachment, blossoms fall; and in aversion, weeds spread.

So there you have it. First, the relative: Yes, of course, all these things really do exist, in their own way. Then secondly, the absolute: On the other hand, and upon closer examination, they do not exactly exist, as there is no there, there; nothing that truly holds together, for long. But no worries, no need to get bogged down in either extreme, Zen’s third way: things do exist in the relative sense, specifically by means of their absolute impermanence. Both things can be true at once. Fourthly, however — and this is akin to the fall from grace — the very things to which we foolish human beings attach continue falling; and the very things that drive us crazy flourish like mad, no matter how much we try to prevent either. Flowers, after all, are weeds we do want; while weeds are flowers we do not want.

To carry yourself forward and experience [the] myriad things is delusion; that myriad things come forth and experience themselves is awakening.
Those who have great realization of delusion are buddhas; those who are greatly deluded about realization are sentient beings.
Further there are those who continue realizing beyond realization; [those] who are in delusion throughout delusion
When buddhas are truly buddhas they do not necessarily notice that they are buddhas. However, they are actualized buddhas, who go on actualizing buddhas.

The classic expression, “the myriad things” — meaning all things in existence, from the smallest particle to the largest astronomical cluster — is likely the way we should take Dogen’s meaning. Making definitive statements about “myriad things” without the “the” does not necessarily include all things — there could be exceptions. That all the myriad things “come forth and experience themselves” is similar to Buddha’s declaration that all things of the universe were enlightened simultaneously, including himself. What Buddhas realize is delusion; that is, they see the delusion built into awareness. Confusion about this is shared by all sentient beings. Anyone who recovers their buddha-nature is no longer a mere sentient being, but nonetheless, still a sentient being. Buddha means “awake,” so it must be possible to be more awake than usual. This seems pretty obvious. Awakeness, or awareness, like intelligence, must exist on a sliding scale, a spectrum, like everything else. We don’t necessarily notice what we actually are, whether Buddha or not. We can have weird ideas about it, of course.

When you see forms or hear sounds fully engaging body-and-mind, you grasp things directly; unlike things and their reflections in the mirror, and unlike the moon and its reflection in the water, when one side is illumined, the other side is dark.

Seeing forms and hearing sounds represent the whole sensorium, feeling feelings, smelling scents, tasting flavors, thinking concepts all included. This direct grasping of things, however, is not the same as grasping buddhadharma. Both sides are illumined, like reflections, both the item and its reflection are equally illuminated; otherwise, we would not see them. When we see things reflected in the Zen mirror, however, the “other side,” the side we do not see, is dark. The tree that we see clearly in the daylight does not know that it is a tree. From inside the tree, all is dark, though it follows the sun.

To study the Buddha way is to study the self;
To study the self is to forget the self;
To forget the self is to be actualized by [the] myriad things;
When actualized by myriad things, your body and mind, as well as the bodies and minds of others, drop away.
No trace of realization remains, and this no-trace continues endlessly.

Here is the most-quoted stanza of the piece, which I refer to as Dogen’s four transitions. Studying the Buddha way, ironically, begins with studying the self, which seems counter to Buddhism’s emphasis on selflessness. Eventually we transition to forgetting the self, which necessarily involves engaging with the myriad things; they actually actualize us, not the other way ‘round. This reflects Master Tozan’s follow-up to the precious mirror, in which form and reflection behold each other: “You are not it, but in truth it is you.” Curiouser and curiouser. So far so good. But turns out that this forgetting is total. The self, which most of us identify as body and mind, drops away. And as if that is not enough of a whiplash, the bodies and minds of others do so, as well. Twilight Zone. No trace of this realization is to be found anywhere, and that condition is permanent. So what would be the point, if it all gets lost in the ether?

When you first seek Dharma,
you imagine you are far away from its environs.
But Dharma is already correctly transmitted: you are immediately your original self.

We approach studying the Buddha Way much like we do any other subject, imagining that somewhere in the literature, or maybe in the foreign lands of origin, we will find the true source. Certainly not in the self, with which we are way too familiar. But Master Dogen assures us that your happiness lies right under your eyes, back in your own back yard. We are already Dharma-holders; we just do not know it. Dogen’s use of the term “immediate” I think is special, meaning intimate in time and space.

When you ride in a boat and watch the shore, you might assume that the shore is moving.
But when you keep your eyes closely on the boat, you can see that the boat moves.
Similarly, if you examine [the] myriad things with a confused body and mind, you might suppose that your mind and nature are permanent.
[But] When you practice intimately and return to where you are, it will be clear that nothing at all has unchanging self.

One of the things I most admire about Dogen is his ability to draw on everyday yet revealing experiences that we all have in common, to illustrate his point. I grew up on a farm near a lake, where we would go fishing and boating, so remember this disorienting event clearly, from many times in a moving boat. It is a matter of where we direct our attention. If you pay attention, you can detect this same, seeming contradiction, when moving from sitting to walking meditation. As you move through the room, it flows through you. The totality of movement sums to zero, one meaning of “mokurai.”

A quick editorial note: all punctuation and bracketed insertions are mine, meant to enhance understanding of the text, for instance reinforcing the point about differentiating “myriad things” from “the myriad things.” I think this bears repetition. “Confusion” here means the kind of disorientation that may develop from our misinterpretation of sensory phenomena, amongst the most insidious of which is the impression that our mind and nature are permanent. This is the Atman of Hinduism, the “soul” of most theistic belief systems. It is non-threatening to recognize that the universe, with all its infinite beings may be impermanent, but when the pointing finger turns in our direction, we cringe. Again, if our practice becomes truly intimate, we will see that our “self” is included in this all-inclusive embrace.

Firewood becomes ash, and it does not become firewood again.
Yet do not suppose that the ash is future and the firewood past.
You should understand that firewood abides in the phenomenal expression of firewood,
which fully includes past and future, and is independent of past and future.
Ash abides in the phenomenal expression of ash, which fully includes future and past.
Just as firewood does not become firewood again, after it is ash, you do not return to birth after death.
This being so, it is an established way in buddha-dharma to deny that birth turns into death.
Accordingly, birth is understood as no-birth.
It is an unshakable teaching in Buddha’s discourse that death does not turn into birth.
Accordingly, death is understood as no-death.
Birth is an expression complete this moment.
Death is an expression complete this moment.
They are like winter and spring: You do not call winter the beginning of spring, nor summer the end of spring.

Another poetic analogy derived from the familiar, day-in and day-out reality of living in a time before coal was discovered. When warmth, cooking, metallurgy, et cetera, depended upon the wood-fired hearth. We make a logical, linear connection between the firewood and the ash, with the primal element of fire being the agent of change. In modern times, some would argue that this demonstrates the “arrow of time”: You cannot unburn the firewood. Others would argue that it only demonstrates the irreversibility of natural processes, revealing nothing about the nature of time. Master Dogen points out that in all instances, exemplified by the firewood in one case, the ash in another, the Three Times of Buddhism — past, future and present — are always and only coexistent. Matsuoka Roshi referred to this as the “eternal moment.” Firewood has past, present and future, whether it is burned or not; as does ash.

Suddenly, another vintage Dogen whiplash: just as ash does not revert to firewood, you do not revert to an earlier state, birth, after dying. That got real personal, real quick. Dogen’s assertion lobbies against popular conceptions of reincarnation. Rebirth, as taught by Buddha, does not make this claim: the one that dies is not the one reborn. Note that both birth and death are “expressions,” but not attributed to anything or anyone. One may say expressions of life itself, I suppose. Death is not opposed to life, but to birth. And both are inflection-points in the continuum of life. Neither somehow magically turns into the other. Thus, and this may be a logical leap, birth is no-birth, or non-birth as another translation has it, and death is non-death. Just as there is thinking, not thinking, and non-thinking, Dogen’s coinage. Each is complete in the moment, just like firewood, and ash. Or the seasons. Nowadays, of course, we refer to the annual fire season, hurricane season, or drought, flooding and virus seasons. Pump enough pollution into the atmosphere, and it’s “so long” to seasonality. Or “hello” to the end-times.

Next time we will continue with Master Dogen’s comments upon the nature of enlightenment itself. Stay tuned.