PRAJNA 25 (posting)
 
Commentary by Gendo

 “Prajna,” is an ancient Sanskrit word generally translated as “wisdom,”  something we often regard as the understanding of elders, of people who have endured life experience.
 
I recently crossed the White River on a bridge crowded with teenage boys, who struggled to climb the railing midway and jump some twenty feet into a deep portion of the river.  Two older men stood by the shore, encouraging what I came to understand as a rite of passage.
 
Probably safe, though terrifying.  But possibly (as at Dartmouth recently) fatal;  the innocence of youth meeting the fear of death.  Involving boys more often than girls?  Yet girls are led by their own bodies, by menarche, by the prospect of childbirth, to their own rite of passage.  Of course rites of passage exist in many cultures.  And, what comes to mind, is that rites of passage have something to do with wisdom, with an embrace of life beyond the comforts of childhood.
 
I am reminded of this rather strange statement by the Zen teacher I studied with, and by whom I was ordained as a lay monk: “I have been telling you over and over what it means to be born.  The way a child first appears is to receive both plus and minus in equal amounts.  But what will this born child eat?  Just to say it simply, and perhaps extremely, mother and father are what the child eats in order to grow.”  (Birth Teisho, Joshu Sasaki, 2000)
 
Growth, of course, is not just physical growth, but also the growth we call wisdom, or understanding, growth from the standpoint of consciousness.  And how does that consciousness develop?  We begin life as babies free of self-consciousness, laugh and crying, eating and sleeping.  And gradually, through the efforts of our parents and teachers, we learn to distinguish one thing from another, mother from father, friend from stranger, cat from dog.  
 
It is the nature of consciousness to discrimiinate one thing from another, a principle  Buddhism calls “dependent origination.”   We start out viewing the world from the arms of our mother, first aware of this other called father; and from the arms of father, become aware of  mother!  Even before such words, observation becomes body sensation, sensation becomes the sensibility to act, to crawl from one to the other.  The child is born between parents that compares one to the other,  and develops awareness called ‘self.’
 
Throughout life consciousness develops, the child eats, consuming 'other' (like food) to establish new life, new identity; a new start;  at each stage  held in the arms of a new mother, a new father: ‘my’ family compared to other families, ‘my’ town compared to other towns, ‘my’ school compared to others; ‘my’ country, ‘my’ ethnic group, my politics.  The list, the child,  grows endlessly.
 
Mother, father and self are constantly arising and disappearing together.  Every moment begins, like life itself, with a moment free of separate identity, that breaks apart into background (mother) and object (father), viewed from the standpoint of self and its interests.  One becomes three.  And three becomes a new ‘one.’  
 
Wisdom is insight.   Separate identities arise, yet they are impermanent, and they are, at the same time, unitary.  You can’t have one without the other.  Buddhism calls that insight the “middle way,” the wisdom not to get stuck in our preferences, to embrace an ever changing world of new possiblities.
 



 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 



 

Commentary by Gendo
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“As to performing the six paramitas and vast numbers of similar practices, or gaining merits as countless as the sands of the Ganges, since you are fundamentally complete in every respect, you should not try to supplement that perfection by such meaningless practices. 
Huang Po
 
Ancient Zen teacher Huang Po, says performing good deeds with intention of becoming a Buddha is a waste of time.   Not that meditation or ‘good deeds’ are the problem.   Rather, it’s about effort.  Who’s trying to do what to whom?  Meditation is paying attention to what is already here.  To notice what our own body and mind, what experience teaches us.  Is all this Zen stuff really necessary?  No!  It’s only because we lose our way, that practice is established.
 
It is, of course, by our senses that we engage the world of our experience.  All experience begins with raw sensory perception, empty of distinctions (form).   Then feeling arises, feeling that leads to a perception, to an intention, and to consciousness of an object and of the “self” that observes it.  That sequence of events,  called  “skandhas”,  describes how wrapt, selfless attention, empty of separate identity, breaks apart and becomes “self” and “other.”
 
The transition from wrapt attention to “I am here” and “it is there,”  is, in most cases, instantaneous.  It’s our human nature to a focus on self and other, from the standpoint of self-interest and self-protection.  But, sooner or later, self protection fails.  Change (shit) happens, and we suffer.
 
Once in while, a powerful moment of wrapt attention lingers, and we say, “It took my breath away;” a moment expansive , joyful, without fear, empty of self- consciousness.  Then the question arises, “How do I  get back there?”
 
But it turns out that “I” can’t get there.  Because, in that moment of selfless absoption,  “I “ wasn’t there!  Something like letting go of “I”  has to happen.  Like trying to remember something, and the harder you try, the further you get from it.  But stop trying, do something else entirely, and all of a sudden, you remember!
 
Like breathing.  Forget it and it just happens.  Breath is poetry for how consciousness works, how the discriminating self arises, and how self disappears in a moment when mind is at peace.
 
Breath has two dimensions, explained in my Zen training as expansion and contraction.  Outbreath is expansion, releasing what was held inside, expanding until it can expand no more.  Then, for a moment, outbreath and inbreath rest together.   Then contraction, in-breath, wakes up, drawing in all of outside, until it can contract no more.  For a moment, it rests together with out-breath. Then expansion wakes again and seeks its home.
 
Inbreath and outbreath constantly function relative to each other, like countless other opposites:  day and night, male and female, life and death to name a few. All are distinct, opposite activities, generalized as expansion and contraction;  and, at the same time, each is constantly changing and together are one whole: you can’t have one without the other. 
 
Between moments of rest, expansion and contraction separate,  one active, the other quietly in the background.  When expansion and contraction separate, space opens up between them.  From this space discriminating consciousness is born, the self is born  that discriminates between expansion and contraction, discriminates one thing from another from the standpoint of its preferences.   
 
When expansion and contraction rest together, they are one unity. Then the space between them disappears, then the consciousness that is self disappears.
 
But of course, inbreath and outbreath, expansion and contraction,  are always one unity, one activity.  You can’t have one without the other.  This is the case when they meet and come to rest together.  It is also the case when they separate, giving rise to the self that disitnguishes one from the other.  One becomes three.  Three becomes one. 
 
We have lived experience of an “I am” self.  Look carefully and we find that ‘self’ is constantly being born and disappearing in moments empty of self.  And, as breath demonstrates, even in moments of discriminating awareness,  inbreath, outbreath and self remain one whole.  Rather than another “I am” project, something to be achieved, precepts are the reminder of who we already are, where this “I am” self comes from in the first place.

Summer Solistice, 2024, includes the full moon - maximum sun, maximum moon!  These moments of solistice, both expansion and contraction, get our attention - especially December’s contracting sun, as in Christmas, Buddha’s birth, Hannukah and others.
 
There are many teachings, Buddhist and otherwise, surrounding such moments.   But, of course, it comes down to experience, yours and mine.  Contraction and expansion, the interplay of opposing activities, are happening all the time:  day and night, in-breath and out-breath, male and female, life and death  Consciousness itself is made possible by the contrast of one to another.   And, like day and night, together they compose one dynamic whole.   
 
But it seems human nature to get caught up in one side or the other of such dualities according to our preferences.  Change happens, inevitably, contraction and expansion happen, and we suffer. 
 
Mind is like a house with closets where we have hidden troubles we try to ignore in hopes that they will go away.  We all do this.  But, of course, they do not go away.  In subtle ways, they continue to influence our moods, our interactions, even our health.  In fact,  trying to avoid and suppress them only reinforces the disturbance!  The question arises, “How do I quiet my mind!”
 
Sometimes something wonderful happens, a startling sight or sound, an expansive moment of wonder and joy.  Afterwards we think, how can I get back to that moment.   But try as we might, we cannot get there.  Try to recreate the situation and it isn’t the same.  The question arises, “How to get there?”
  
In both cases, the irony is that “I” can’t get there.  “I” can’t quiet the mind.  On reflection, in those moments of joyful abandon, “I “ wasn’t there in the first place!  Apparently, something like letting go of “I”  is necessary.  But that is hard, scary even.  What does that letting go look like, what sort of “diligence” is required to get there?   
 
Because of such questions, practices, like Zen, like the spiritual quests of all cultures, become established.,  Zen is discipline to study the world of our experience, how our minds work, how consciousness works; the study of expansion and contraction, just what’s happening.  
 
Breath demonstrates that expansion and contraction naturally seek their homes, seek completion, where both rest.  Outbreath expands, releasing what was held inside, expanding until it can expand no more, when, for a moment, outbreath and inbreath rest together.   Then in-breath wakes up, drawing in air, contracting outside until it can contract no more. For a moment, it rests together with out-breath. Then expansion wakes again and seeks its home.
 
Between brief moments of rest, expansion and contraction separate.  One is active, the other quietly in the background.  Zen tradition explains that when expansion and contraction separate, space opens up between them.  It is in this space that the consciousness emerges that that discriminates between expansion and contraction.  And the one who discriminates is, of course, the self.
 
When expansion and contraction rest together, they are one unity. Then the space between them disappears, the consciousness that is self disappears. 
 
Breath is poetry for understanding how consciousness works, how the posture of a discriminating self arises, and also how moments rest and peace of mind are moments free of the preoccupations of self identity, free of object fixation and discursive thought. 
 
Breath is poetry for “Buddha nature,” embracing the big picture, both expansion and contraction, both their completion and their separation.   Or, as is said, awakeniing, to “unity, diversity and impermanence.” *
 
In the words of Nisargadatta:
“When I look inside and see that I am nothing, that is wisdom.  When I look outside and see that I am everything, that is love.  My life turns between these two.”  
 
* Joshu Sasaki’s interpretation of “dharmakaya, sambhokakaya, nirmanakaya
 
 
 
 
 
 

Commentary by Gendo

TEXT:  “Your present thoughts and actions are the product of you past thoughts and actions.  Likewise, your present thoughts and actions will produce your future karma.  What can give a new direction to the mind and its karma is your present thoughts and actions.  Through the repeated practice of samadhi, the old trend of the mind is slowly changed.  This is “redeeming your karmic debt.”  (Katsuki Sekida)
 
“Karma” is a word vaguely associated with such ideas as ‘reincarnation,’ past and future lives, ideas rational Western minds struggle with or joke about (“your kama hit my dogma!”).  But maybe it helps to recognize that we have stories equally mysterious in our Westeern culture, as in “A  Christmas  Carol” where Scrooge contends with “the ghost of Christmas past.”  Then there are such phantasms as the overweight Santa who presumably squeezes down our chimneys, not to mention the the “God” mystery worshipped in churches everywhere. 
 
I suggest that God, Ghosts and Karma personify an aspect of human experience beyond our default assumptions of reality as material presence.   Like the stone that sits on my dresser, the reincarnation of a memorable walk on a beach. 
 
My Zen teacher spoke of Karma as “the activity of impermanence.” The image that comes to mind is a river.  A river flows on in a constant state of impermanence, which is not an issue until you try to plant your feet midstream.  Then you end up fighting against the current.  Then Karma becomes an issue.  People speak (as in our text today) of creating or producing karma.   But impermanence is already here.  It is our standing in opposition to impermanence that creates conflict, that creates karma as a matter of awareness. 
 
In other words,  to make an object of some thing, to seize on some situation or thought,  to fixate what is, fundamentally, impermanent, is to plant our feet in opposition to the rushing tide of karma, of impermanence  Then past action leads to present and future conflict; what we might call  “karmic debt.”   
 
I suggest  “repentance” begins with paying attention to “karmic debt,” noticing the stance taken, the feet planted in the past, that has led to conflict.  And, of course, it is this noticing that is the first step to doing something about it, noticing that is the discipline of a Zen practice.
 
And what can be done about “karmic debt,” about those fixations.  Sekida says, “What can give new direction to the mind and its karma is your present thoughts and actions…This is redeeming your karmic debt.” 
 
The notion of doing something about fixations of mind, about “karma,” rises up quite naturally.  Not because of something you have read or what someone has said.   Something inside us greets fixation with the question: “How do I quiet my mind?”  In other words,  we already have an inkling of something different.  Otherwise the question wouldn’t rise up in the first place!
 
Isn’t it often the case that we try to change the fixations of our minds by trying to force them away, by supressing them, only to discover that our minds just get busier than before?  What have we done?  And who is trying to do what to whom?  I’m trying to quiet my mind?  The same one that fixated the situation in the first place is trying a new fixation?   Isn’t this just replacing one “karmic debt” with a new one?

So what are those “present thoughts and actions”  that “redeem your karmic debt?” Sekida suggests that “doing something” about kamic debt involves what he refers to as  “the repeated practice of samadhi.”  What does this mean?
 
Samadhi is an ancient Sanskrit word for that rapt attention in which distinctions of “self” and “other” have disappeared.  Like that instant before you have separated from and objectified the experience with words: “Oh, what a beautiful sunset.”  Samadhi is a return to that source from which the problem of fixation arises in the first place, the source where impermanence is just happening, before we have stood up against it. 
 
As Joko Beck says in her book,  “Everyday Zen”:  “…what we have to do in Zen is … to pay attention to this very moment, the totality of what is happening right now.”
 
The totality of now includes both our likes and our dislikes, both the singing bird and the silence, both day and night, like in-breath and out-breath, each happening in relation to the other.  It is a moment of gratitude, gratitude owed to dualism, to the parents, who give birth to this consciousness, this self; a self, which, despite our fears, is not alone.
 
The conclusion of a year is a moment of samadhi, a moment reckoning the entirety of the earth’s journey around the sun, both Winter darkness and Summer sun; reckoning the self aggrandizing of our past, the temptation to return there in the future, redeeming “karmic debt,” in the oneness of this present moment, in generosity and compassion.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

I take the first teaching of Zen to be what we discover for ourselves when we sit quietly and still:  our own busy minds.  The second teaching is what wells up inside, this question: "How do I quiet my mind?"  Third, is finding that we can’t avoid or suppress our minds, our suffering, without adding to the turmoil.  This, after all, is the first ‘noble truth.’   It doesn’t work to hide from difficulty.  Finally, to go through difficulty is to discover the relative nature of all objects of attention, coming and going, like breath.  And like breath, this ‘coming and going’  is ordinary, just what we do; like walking, one foot after another,  on a path.     

Gendo