“Monks, form is impermanent.  What is impermanent is suffering.  What is suffering is nonself.  What is nonself should be seen as it really is, ‘This is not mine, this I am not, this is not my self.’ (Pali Canon, 2300 or so years old.)
 
“When subject and object are facing one another, opposing one another, we can say that this is a condition within the condition of the origin.  Neither one of the activities are harming the other.  Neither one of the activities have any thought of good or evil.  There is no good and there is not evil in this situation.  It’s a completely will-less activity.  The true condition of meeting is a beautiful condition, but if, when meeting takes place, thinking arises, such as, “I wonder where this guy comes from.  I don’t really like the look of him,” that sort of thinking makes it not the true meeting.”  (Joshu Sasaki, Feb., 1997)
 
 Commentary by Gendo
                                       
I want to say two things.  One is impermanence.  The other is goblins.  Impermanence is the goblin.  Death is the goblin.  The teaching of Halloween, an ancient teaching that is also the Buddhist teaching, the teaching of waking up to the reality of our situation, is that goblins come. Suffering comes.  And when the goblins come, greet them that at the door.  Treat them honorably.  They are our teachers.  They are us. 
 
Goblins are the face of what is tricky and dangerous, threatening to me.  Yet Goblins are immaterial.  They are not of “this world.”   Buddhism, this ancient tradition called “awakening,”  is,  like Halloween,  waking up to recognize the goblin at your door as yourself;  the scary skeleton at the door as your own.  
 
Sasaki says, you and the goblin are of one origin;  an origin divided into subject and object, into life and death. Halloween (older than Buddhism) is this moment in the dying of the year, the dying of the plants that grow and sustain life, when, it is said, the veil that separates the living from the dead thins, and the dead walk among us.
   
Impossible! we say.  From the standpoint of the world of material form, that is impossible.  But goblins are not of this world of material form.  And the awakening of Buddhism is that what is ultimately true lacks material form.  In a culture deeply tied to technology and the daily news, that is indeed scary.  
 
But all the time the dead are walking with us.  In the fullness of life, the dead are with us.  Like the patient who said, “Cancer gave me my life.”   Life becomes precious in the light of death.  Death derives its meaning from a life lived. 
 
Life and death are impermanent, and it is that impermance that makes their distinction as object possible.  Each arises in contrast to the other, in dynamic relationship that includes both.  Implicit in the material form of life and the form that is death, is a relationship that is ungraspable, that is immaterial.  Therefore it is said in the Heart Sutra, “form is emptiness, emptiness is form.”
 
 “…subject and object facing one another … within the condition of the origin,”  speaks of an origin that is emptiness, empty of separate identity;   a meeting that is genuine because it is willess,  without judgment of good or evil.   When someone steps into the situation with their preferences, ‘I like this one, I don’t like that one,”  then the origin is lost sight of, and the object nature of each becomes the focus of attention.
 
In that moment a goblin knocks at the door. “Trick or treat!”  Which will it be?  Hide in the dark of your preferences?  Or turn on the porch light and open the door? 
 
The inevitability of impermance asserting itself was in ancient times called Karma.  Karma, the activity of impermanence, will find us even if we hide in the dark.  The willless activty of impermanence inevitably makes itself known.  Ignore the goblin and they will soap your windows. 
 
Greet the goblin and something beautiful occurs.  Behind the mask is the kid next door, a kid like your own, like the kid you are.

                                                                                                                    Commentary by Gendo

 “Followers of the way, as I see it we are not different from Shakyamuni Buddha.  What do we lack for our manifold activities today?  The six rays’ divine light never ceases to shine.  See it this way and you’ll be a person who has nothing to do lifelong. “
(Linji, Chapter X)
 
“…Bahiya, you should train yourself thus:  In reference to the seen, there will be only the seen.  In reference to the heard, only the heard.  In reference to the sensed, only the sensed.  In reference to the cognized, only the cognized.  That is how you should train yourself.  When for you there will be only the seen in reference to the seen, only the heard in reference to the heard, only the sensed in reference to the sensed, only the cognized in reference to the cognized, then, Bahiya, there is no you in terms of that.  When there is no you in terms of that, there is no you there.  When there is no you there, you are neither here nor yonder nor between the two.  This, just this, is the end of suffering…”  (Bahiya Sutra – Buddha’s advice to Bahiya)
 
 
Here are words to consider from the standpoint of our own experience, to find their meaning not merely in reverence for some ancient text, but to put them to the test of what we know for ourselves.  In this project, I offer the perspective of my own study with a Zen teacher.
 
Rinzai speaks of the “six rays’ divine light’ that ‘never ceases to shine.”  In Rinzai’s time and culture, the senses were regarded as six: the five we identify (taste, touch smell, hearing and sight) with the addition of ‘mind’ whose response to the world of external stimulation is thought, or cognition.
 
What is the  ‘divine light’?  Other translators have used in place of ‘divine’, the words ‘miraculous’ or ‘wonderful.’  ‘Light’ I take to mean something revealed, like an object in darkness ‘brought to light.’
 
What is this wonderful revelation of the senses?  The second text offers another perspective.  It is presented in the form of a dialog between the historical person, the Buddha, and the person Bahiya, who approaches him for instruction while the Buddha is busy begging for alms.   “Not now, Bahiya,” the Buddha says.  Bahiya is persistant and after three attempts, the Buddha finally agrees to give him the ‘cheat sheet’ version of the teaching. 
 
What the Buddha offers is ‘training’ to sense only the sensed.  And then it is said, when one senses only the sensed, a further aspect of that experience is that “there is no you in terms of that.”  And repeated: “no you there;”  no you “here or yonder or between the two.”  And, finally, “this …is the end of suffering.”
 
No you and no suffering, I suggest, is the same something wonderful beyond rational understanding, that Rinzai speaks of.  Both are a kind of poetry for what defies description:  like the first glimpse of morning sunrise, like the sudden song of a bird, like the sound of a ringing bell.  In other words, before the self that judges and analysizes, has entered, and taken a step back to stand apart and attach words to describe what has happened. 
 
That moment of experience free of self-conscious thought is an inspired moment free of comparison, one thing with another.  It is a moment free of suffering because suffering is always known in relationship to something else.  Disappointment always stands in relation to some preference, some other condition in contrast to the present moment.
 
But each of the six senses has its moments of unselfconscious sensation, a moment of nonjudgemental, pristine awareness.  Buddhism is training to notice such moments, to notice the deep seated desire to experience nonjudgmental engagement, a desire that keeps us running around looking for the perfect solution, never found because it is already here.  Stop the busy-ness, says Rinzai, and know in this moment the selflessness that we experience as ‘true,’ and the fullness we experience as ‘love.’
 

                                                                                                                   Commentary by Gendo
"Delusion has no location;  fixation is delusion.  Purity has no form; if you define a pure form as meditation, the act of entertaining this view will obstruct your own original nature, and you will be subject to bondage  by purity." (Platform Sutra, Chapter 5)
 
Meditation is making your own effort, not some pure thing to be acquired.  Zen teachers over the centuries point out that it is not enough to read about something, to read or hear the beautiful words someone else produces.  It is necessary to recognize a truth in terms of one’s own experience in order to make it your truth.
 
I think Buddhism appeals to an American culture that emphasizes individual effort.  We uphold the ideal that anyone who works hard can “get ahead;” and the ideal that it is necessary to question authority, questions blind faith, and know a thing for oneself.  “Meditation”  has become popular in this country along with other forms of ‘self-help,’ like physical fitness and a healthy diet.  Zen practice seems to fit those ideals. 
 
But there is also a difference.  Zen points out that to fixate the ‘self’ and its goals is a delusion that “obstructs your own original nature.”

Picture, for a moment,  two levels of mind, corresponding, more or less, to Western concepts of consciousness and the sub-conscious mind.  The first level is the world of language and culture.  It is the world of discriminating awareness, where there are differences of opinion and argument.  It is the world of identity: personal, family, religious, political – the many ways we characterize ourselves and world around us.   
 
The second level is a layer that feels older and is non-verbal in nature;  a foundation that underlies the self that declares “I am” and expresses its various opinions.  This foundation is the realm of ‘raw sensation,’  the sensory awareness that precedes thought; a realm we associate with earliest childhood and deepest experience.  Every moment of consciousness is born from a place of raw sensation, quickly interpreted and labeled by the thinking mind.
 
The discipline of meditation is training to pay attention to that realm of experience preceding thought and word;  a layer that becomes hidden beneath the overlay of language and identity and is inaccessible to the intellect.  Why bother?  Because we ignore this part of our nature at our peril.  Because sooner or later intellectual explanations and social expectations are not enough.  Because we suffer and wonder why. 
 
Various guard rails and road signs are erected as reminders of this fundamental aspect of our humanity.   Ethical norms are such warnings, sometimes experienced as imposed standards, as ‘bondage.’  But, from the standpoint of Zen, the true meaning of such discipline is found in the roots of our own experience, like the hidden roots of a tree that account for the appearance of branches and leaves
 
If words and social identity are the leaves, meditation is training to experience the roots.  By roots, leaves are connected with each other and with the ground that nourishes all that grows and gathers all that dies.  Leaf activity is dependent on root activity.  On the other hand, roots find expression in leaves.  Both roots and leaves make the tree.
 
The so-called “three treasures” of Buddhism are about touching the roots of ‘self’.   As connection it is called Sangha, as shared purpose it is called Dharma; as shared identity it is called Buddha, the awakened self.
 
 
 
 
 
 

​                                                                                                                               Commentary by  Gendo

"As our insight into the fundamental equality of everything deepens, we develop the ability to manifest as we truly are. This manifesting is called the “path of compassion.” (Joshu Sasaki )
 
From the perspective of Zen, fundamental equality is knowing the “other” as none other than myself; a proposition echoed in the Christian idea of “loving your neighbor as you love yourself.”  Zen teaches that compassion is not simply an aspiration.  It is who we are.
 
Thirteenth century Zen teacher Dogen said:  “To study Zen is to study the self.  To study the self is to forget the self.  To forget the self is to be illuminated by all things.  To be illuminated by all things is to remove the barrier between self and other:” in other words, compassion.
 
On examination, ‘self’ is hard to pin down. This head, this hand, this foot are “mine,” they are “me.”  But who is observing this?  “I am” of course.  And yet this “I am” cannot be observed without an observer self that stands apart, an observer that can never be observed!   Even the self we call “tree,” means different things to different people, depending on where you live,.  And tree changes; grows, drops its leaves and collapses in old age.  There are other things that happen in and around the tree, like animals that dropped the seeds that grew there, the mushrooms that help nourish the tree, the water and sunshine that give it life.  Are they not also “tree?”
 
Buddhism concludes that consciousness of ’self’ is an act of discrimination; one thing distinguished from an infinity of interrelated possibilities, possibilities that are ultimately empty of separate identity.  The whole picture of any object includes that emptiness from which it is born and to which it returns.  We are born from unconsciousness, identifying self and other by the efforts of our parents and teachers, by the desire to live and thrive.  And, with death, we return to unconsciousness, empty of self and other. 
 
On examination, this life cycle is reproduced in every moment of awareness.  Every instant of consciousness begins with raw sensory awareness empty of identity, empty of self and other, transformed by discriminating mind into separate name and form, “me” here, ”it” there.  And just as quickly, some new experience takes its place.
 
“Buddha” means “waking up,” waking to the dynamic nature of experience, of our experience, also called the ‘Tathagata,’ meaning, ‘thus come, thus gone.’  You and I,  and all the selves that comprise our world, are coming into being, and returning to emptiness over and over again, an activity of fundamental equality experienced as compassion.

Halloween - a paramita
 
The trees
Have lost their leaves,
Frost has killed the garden.
Gather potatoes
Onions and carrots,
Stash and horde because
Who knows what lies ahead.  
 
Now the dead rise up
And remind us
Of their fate.
Specters of Sawain
At the door
The goblin,
The skeleton,
The politician
Avoid them
Hide in darkness
And they will
Play their tricks
 
Tricks are averted
By one measure
Give of yourself
And death transforms
Into something ordinary
Like the kid next door.
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

“Good friends, people of the world originally have the knowledge of bodhi and prajna within them, but they cannot realize it themselves because of the wandering of the conditioned mind…” ( Huineng, Platform Sutra, chapter 2)
 
 “Prajna,”  an ancient Sanskrit word meaning insight or wisdom, is one of the so-called “paramitas” in Buddhism, (generosity, ethics, inclusiveness, resolve, meditation, wisdom), practices that help us  ‘cross over’ the turbulent river of birth and death.  ‘Paramita,’ another Sanskrit word, means ‘perfection’ or ‘having reached the other shore.’   Prajna’  is the row boat, but it is also the far shore itself. 
 
There is something wonderful about that far shore.  You know it’s there and want to get there. But there is difficulty – it is far away, beyond clear sight and knowing – and rivers can be dangerous.  At first thought, I can’t get there from here – no boat, no wings.  Something else is required. 
 
It’s like being young and believing you can solve everything yourself, but around middle age (or older) waking up and realizing , ‘I might not live forever.”  All of a sudden life and death are a problem “I” am not going to solve.   We start looking for help.  Maybe Zen practice will get me there! 
 
But Huineng says you already have the knowledge of prajna!  It is only due to the “conditioned mind” that you can’t get there!  In other words, the “I” that cannot solve life and death is a condition of mind,  a concept that,  whatever its usefulness,  is limited. 
 
Of course, you have not always had an “I am” self.  We were not born with that state of mind.  And, we might reflect, that we will not die with it, either.  At some point, we will have to let go of everything that “I am.”  If “I am” is all there is, then this is a disturbing prospect to say the least. 
 
But Huineng suggests you already know something larger than that ‘I am’ self.   When you ‘throw yourself’ into whatever you do, where have you gone?  And what is left behind?  Is there not, in such moments, a kind of freedom and energy, focus and attention - wisdom, even - appropriate to the task at hand?
 
We assume “I” to be something objective, something concrete, this body, this identity, this physical reality.  But sometimes we say “I forgot myself,” or “I was beside myself” or “I’m dying to do that!”   From the standpoint of awareness, “self” is a fleeting experience.
 
Though born without self-awareness, we are urged by our parents to develop the language and knowledge to function in society.  But we reach a stage of maturity where we long for the innocence of childhood, and search for a way to reconcile our social selves and that original lack of self-consciousness.  
 
Zen is practice to notice that this history is present in every moment.  Every instant of sensory connection moves from raw, unselfconscious sensation to the perception, volition and consciousness that defines the social self and its relationship to the world.
 
Prajna (wisdom) is fullness of mind,  the wisdom that embraces both the coming and going  of an ‘I am’ self.  It is not to be sought after, because it is already here, if only we resolve to examine our own experience.

Commentary by Gendo

Commentary by Gendo ​(as offered, more or less, at the UUChurch in Norwich, VT)

Text: “The person who distrusts himself has no touchstone for reality, because that touchstone can only be oneself.  Such a person interposes between himself and reality nothing less than a labyrinth of attitudes.  And these attitudes, furthermore, though the person is usually unaware of it (is unaware of so much!), are historical and public attitudes.  They do not relate to the present anymore than they relate to the person.”  (James Baldwin, "Letter From a Region of my Mind" - 1962)

It is tempting, in a time of threat (and there are so many threats), to withdraw to the safety of our separate identities:  my mask versus your germs, my politics versus yours, my racial identity versus yours, my zendo versus your church.  But separate identity only yields more threats: the people who don’t wear masks, the people who hold contrary opinions, the people who look different than I and my friends, the people who worship strange gods or none at all.
 
Courage is wearing a mask, not in fear of others, but in solidarity with all in preventing the spread of disease.  Courage is recognizing that my neighbors, whatever our differences, are moved by the same desire to live life well that inspires me.  Courage is paradox: affirmation and sacrifice, an act of true, which is to say, selfless, love.
 
The story is told of a young man named Huineng, who lived  in ancient China over 1300 years ago, an illiterate “Southerner and aborigine,”  who heard a Zen monk reciting a Buddhist text; and was moved to change his life, arranged for the care of his widowed mother and took off for a monastery in the North.  
 
There, he said to the teacher:  “…I want to be a buddha (awakened one).”    The teacher tested him: “You are a Southerner and an aborigine, how can you be a buddha?”  Huineng replied, “As an aborigine, my social status is not the same as yours, but what difference is there in our buddha (awakened)-nature?” The teacher recognized Huineng’s determination and ability, but was fearful of how the monks would treat this aborigine, and sent him to work in a back building, pounding rice and chopping wood;  while the monks practiced diligently in the meditation hall.  
 
Long story short,  when it came time to pick a successor, the teacher tested the monks and chose the aborigine above all others, gave him the bowl and robe that signified transmission of authority, but warned him to flee under cover of darkness.   The monks, alarmed that Huineng had stolen what was rightfully theirs, chased after him.  One of the monks, formerly an army general,  caught up with Huineng and cornered him.  But Huineng placed the bowl and robe on a rock and said, “This robe represents faith; is it appropriate to struggle over it.?”  The monk tried to pick up the robe and bowl, but could not.  
 
Humiliated, he asked Huineng instead for his teaching and was profoundly awakened by his words.  He returned to his fellow monks and told them Huineng was not to be found there and diverted them elsewhere.  Huineng took refuge in the woods and lived with a group of hunters for fifteen years before he emerged, was properly ordained and recognized as the sixth patriarch of Zen in China; known to this day as a foundational teacher of the tradition and author of the “Platform Sutra.” 
 
Sometimes courage means letting go of the negative identity of a social outcast.  Sometimes courage means letting go of pride and assumptions of privilege.  Either way, courage is letting go of fixed assumptions about who I am and what the world is.  It’s noticing self-absorption (maybe someone else has pointed it out) and letting go with trust in something greater: trust that love only becomes true when it is selfless.
 
Lately, I spend a lot of time walking down the road near my house.  Have you ever noticed that if you walk in a hang-dog posture, eyes on the ground, how your mind becomes lost in anxious thought?  Then if you lift your eyes, take in the surrounding lansdscape, suddenly there is a kind of freedom and expansiveness.   It’s as if suddenty and mysteriously, you have touched a source of courage and connection.  Where did that come from?  In the Judeo-Christian Old Testament thay say God’s help comes from the hills.  In Buddhism we talk about waking up to our true nature.  Whatever words we chose, may we know the courage to throw ourselves into the mess and beauty of the world and love truly.