Western Buddhism

The western counties saw the emergence of Buddhism somewhere around the 19th and the 20th century. The scholars as well as the colonists of that time are credited with the origin of Buddhism in the West. One of the major incidents in the journey of Buddhism in the West was the establishment of the Pali Text Society. This nineteenth century society was the result of the efforts of T.W. Rhys Davies. Another name worth mentioning in this context is that of Edward Arnold.

His poem, The Light of Asia, brought the teachings of the Buddha to a wider audience. Not to be forgotten is Christmas Humphreys, an English barrister. He was responsible for the creation of 'Buddhist Lodge' in the year 1924. After the Second World War came to its conclusion, Alan Watts played a significant role in the propagation of Zen Buddhist teachings throughout the western countries. In 1976, a British monk named Sangharakshita (Dennis Lockwood) established the 'Friends of Western Buddhism Order' (FWBO).

Till the mid of 20th century, Buddhism in America was mainly practiced by the small Chinese communities, comprising of manual workers. It was only around 1950's that Buddhism started surfacing in the native population of America. In the 1960s, cultural changes started taking place in the country. This served as an excellent help to the spread of Buddhism in America, especially Zen and Tibetan Buddhism. Presently, Buddhism is one of the fasted growing religions in America. Buddhism is also becoming more popular day by day in Australia.

Tibetan Buddhism

Tibetan Buddhism is the body of the Buddhist doctrine and institutions found in Tibet, the Himalayan region, Mongolia, Buryatia, Tuva, Kalmykia (Russia) and northeastern China. It is also known by the name of Vajrayana. In this article, we will provide you with a brief introduction to Tibetan Buddhism…

The union of Buddhism and yoga in Tibet led to the emergence of the Tibetan Buddhism. The yogic method started appearing in Tibet (from India) somewhere around the late eighth century. However, the initial progress of yoga in Tibet was quite slow. It was from 13th century onwards that yoga started gaining pace in the country. By that time, both Hindu yogic and tantric practices had been integrated in Indian Buddhism, along with the classical teachings of Buddha. This method advocated that there were two paths to enlightenment.

The first path is the one that has been explained in the sutras, mainly comprising of morality, concentration, and wisdom. The second path, which gave Tibetan Buddhism its unique features, consisted of tantric methods. In this method, the techniques of Hindu systems of yoga and tantra were integrated with the sutra teachings. The Tantric systems suggest the basic human passions of desire and aversion should be transformed for the purpose of spiritual development. However, it does not advise total renunciation of these basic cravings.

Rather, tantra purifies them into wholesome and helpful forces, which helps a person in attaining enlightenment. For the purpose, a person needs to develop the qualities of self-control and acceptance. The Hinayana as well as the Mahayana Buddhist teachings also find a place in Tibet Buddhism. It is basically an esoteric extension on these themes. Just like the Mahayana Buddhist teachings, Buddhism in Tibet also believes in the Dharma protectors, namely Pantheon of Buddhas, bodhisattvas, and Dharmapala.

Theravada Buddhism

Theravada literally means 'The Way of the Elders'. This term embodies the entire sect in itself, as Theravada Buddhism is based on the original beliefs and practices of the Buddha and the early monastic Elders. Also known as Hinayana Buddhism, it is mainly predominant in southern Asia, especially in Sri Lanka, Myanmar (Burma), Thailand, Cambodia and Laos. Just like Mahayana, Theravada is also based on the Pali Canon, which comprises of an early Indian collection of the Buddha's teachings. Read on this guide further to know more about Theravada Buddhism…

Theravada Buddhists have a sole purpose in life, which is to become an arhat. Arhat is the name given to a saint who has reached nirvana and will not be born again. For this, they follow a rigorous austere existence and renounce the world. As per Theravada or the 'Lesser Vehicle', a layman can never ever achieve nirvana. There are the following four stages through which a Theravada Buddhist can become an arhat:

Sotapanna (Stream-enterer)
Sotapanna is the stage where the person is a convert. To attain this stage, he has to triumph over the false beliefs.

Sakadagamin (Once-returner)
The stage of Sakadagamin is that of being reborn again. It can be achieved by conquering lust, hatred and illusion.

Anagamin (Never-returner)
The stage of being reborn in heaven is known as Anagamin. It is the stage where he becomes an arahant.

Arhat (Worthy one)
The last stage is known as Arhat. Here, the person

Tantric Buddhism

Tantric Buddhism is quite different form a number of other Buddhist forms. Also known as Vajrayana, it is considered as one of the three major 'vehicles' (Yanas) of Buddhism, along with Theravada and Mahayana. Read on further to get a brief introduction to Tantric Buddhism…

Vajrayana Buddhism is based, to a certain extent, on the tantras, tantric techniques written in Indian scriptures. It prescribes the technique of 'use the result as the Path'. It means that a person should try to identify with the enlightened body, speech and mind of a Buddha. The form of Buddha one can best relate to is known as yidam (in Tibetan) or ishtadevata (in Sanskrit). For the purpose of self-identification with a Buddha-form, Buddhist tantric techniques make use of symbolism and visualization.

The Tantric Buddhism symbols can come as quite confusing to the person introduced to it for the first time. Most of these symbols are said to have been taken from the Tibetan Buddhism. Given below are the major symbols used in Tantric Buddhism…

The Vajra
One of the important symbols in Buddhist tantra, Vajra seems to be a combination of a weapon and a scepter. It symbolizes the quality of indestructibility. At the time of tantric rituals, Vajra is usually held in the right hand.

The Bell
Bell stands for insight, emptiness, the female aspect. It symbolizes the sound of the Dharma and is used in the rituals to offer sound. At the time of rituals, it is generally held in the left hand.

Other Tantric Symbols :

• The Mala or a rosary of prayer beads - Used for concentration
• Kapala or skullcup - Represents disengagement and conversion of the world
• The small handdrum and the larger Chod-drum
• Swords - Represents intelligence, knowledge, etc
• Kartika or curved knife - Represents impermanence
• Khatvanga or stick - Represents the magical powers or siddhis of a successful tantric practitioner.
• The hook
• The Phurba or ritual dagger - Represents transformation of negative powers on the path to enlightenment.
• Mallets or Hammers - Crushing strength or power
• Bow and Arrow - Represents single pointed concentration
• A Trident - Represents attainment of the three Kayas (or Buddha bodies)
• An Arrow - Represents longevity and prosperity
• The Lasso - Represents constraint of negative forces

Mahayana Buddhism

Mahayana Buddhism is considered to be one of the two major schools of Buddhism. Also known as the Greater Vehicle, it first surfaced in the first century CE. Literally, Mahayana means Greater Ox-Cart and it serves as a more moderate and comprehensible interpretation of Buddhism. Not only the monks and ascetics, but also the common people may follow the path of Mahayana. Today, the sect is predominant in North Asia and the Far East, including China, Japan, Korea, Tibet and Mongolia. Read on this guide Mahayana Buddhism further to know more about Mahayana Buddhism.

Mahayana Buddhism is based on the Pali Canon and accepts it as a holy scripture. Apart form Pali Canon, there are a number of other Sutras also in Mahayana, written later in Sanskrit. Mahayana Buddhists aim at achieving enlightenment and becoming bodhisattvas. Just like bodhisattvas, they also readily postpone their own nirvana to help the others in attaining the same. According to them, it is possible to achieve enlightenment in one life also and even a layman can realize this goal.

Mahayana Buddhism encourages the reverence of celestial beings, including Buddhas and bodhisattvas. Magical rites, religious rituals, ceremonies and the use of icons, images, etc, form a part of Mahayana Buddhism. There are a number of subdivisions within Mahayana. These include Zen, Nichiren, Dhyana and Pure Land. All these subdivisions agree on the basic belief that a single life is enough to attain nirvana, provided a person has the determination for it. However, ways of attaining this goal are different in each one of them.

Master Sheng Yen’s Death Poem

I just received an email from Dr. Jimmy Yu (Guogu) on behalf of Master Sheng Yen's Dharma Drum Sangha. It includes Master Sheng Yen's last teaching, his death poem:

Busy with nothing, growing old.
Within emptiness, weeping, laughing.
Intrinsically, there is no "I."
Life and death, thus cast aside.

Jimmy Yu has kindly provided additional information about Master Sheng's life and legacy, which you can read below. Jimmy Yu was one of Master Sheng Yen's chief translators. He is currently an assistant professor of religion at Florida State University.

In the upcoming Summer issue of Buddhadharma: The Practitioner's Quarterly, we will publishing a teaching by Master Sheng Yen on the subject of living and dying with dignity.

Here's Jimmy Yu's letter: As you may have already heard, Master Sheng Yen (1930-2009) entered into nirvanic bliss in Taipei on February 3rd, 2009, EST 3 am (Taiwan time: February 3rd, 4 pm) at the age of 79 (this is the correct information). I am sending you this formal email on behalf of Dharma Drum Sangha to thank you for your support and concern.

My monastic name is Guogu and I was one of Master Sheng Yen's chief translators. I have returned to lay life some years ago but still remain close to Master Sheng Yen. The Sangha members still call me by my monastic name. Just so you have a fuller picture of Master Sheng Yen, I'm including some pertinent information for your reference.

Master Sheng Yen was born into a humble farming family in Nantong County, near Xiaoniang Harbor, in Jiangsu Province on January 22, 1930 (December 4 in lunar calendar). As you know, Master Sheng Yen became a monk at age thirteen. He began as a frail novice, yet he was destined to become one of the most influential Buddhist clerics in modern Chinese history and in the renaissance of Western Buddhism. Master Sheng Yen was a Chinese lineage holder of both the Linji and Caodong Chan Buddhist schools, the founder of the Dharma Drum Order of Chan Buddhism, the founder of the Dharma Drum Mountain Center for World Education, the first Chinese cleric who received a Ph.D. degree in Buddhist studies from Rissho University in Japan, a stellar Buddhist scholar of Ming Buddhism and of Master Ouyi Zhixu (1599-1655), and an active advocate of environmental protection.

Master Sheng Yen came to New York in 1976, soon after receiving his Ph.D. He might have confined his activities to the pastoral guidance of the immigrant Chinese community. Instead, he embarked upon the more difficult challenge of teaching Chan to Americans. He overcame many obstacles: language, culture, prejudice, logistics and financial difficulties. Until 2006 when he became ill, he divided his time between New York and Taipei, training generations of Chan practitioners with methods skillfully adapted to the contemporary problems facing his students.

Master Sheng Yen was a dedicated scholar and prolific writer. His collected work, Fagu Chuanji, amounts to close to 200 volumes, covering topics as diverse as Tiantai and Huayan philosophies, vinaya, Buddhist scriptural commentaries, Indo-Tibetan and East Asian Buddhist histories, Chan Buddhist studies, and comparative religions. He also wrote many popular books introducing Buddhist teachings to both beginners and those with a more advanced understanding of Buddhism.

He spoke out for what he called spiritual environmentalism: the essential task of purifying our environment by first purifying our minds. This is more than just philosophy. It is a call for personal commitment coupled with practical goals that will benefit all the peoples of the world. Many in Taiwan and in other countries have responded to this exhortation with great enthusiasm.

Master Sheng Yen was one of the foremost contributors to the vital Humanistic Buddhism of Taiwan that blossomed in the 20th century. He was an exemplary leader of contemporary Chinese Buddhism, combining a deep understanding of Buddhadharma with an equally profound concern for the welfare of all sentient beings. He was a warm, insightful, and inspirational teacher to his many students around the world. All who encountered him were touched by his personal concern and his remarkable ability to communicate difficult ideas simply—always with wit, compassion, and a profound sense of humor. Master Sheng Yen will be deeply missed by Buddhist practitioners, scholars of Chinese Buddhism, and everyone who had the good fortune to meet him. Because of your gracious effort to publish his work, English readers are able to benefit from his teachings. From the depth of our hearts, thank you!

I will leave you with his last teaching, his death poem:

Busy with nothing, growing old.
Within emptiness, weeping, laughing.
Intrinsically, there is no "I."
Life and death, thus cast aside.

Sincerely,
Guogu (Dr. Jimmy Yu, Florida State University)

This entry was created by Tynette Deveaux, posted on February 5, 2009 at 11:33 am.

Death of Master Sheng Yen

On February 3, 2009, 4 PM Taiwan time, the much-revered Chan Master Sheng Yen died on the way from the hospital to Dharma Drum Mountain, the site of the international Buddhist cultural and educational organization he founded. He was 79 years old.

The Shambhala Sun and Buddhadharma have published several of Master Sheng Yen's teachings over the years, and we've greatly appreciated his contribution to the dharma.

If you have a memory to share about Master Sheng Yen, please do share it here by leaving a comment.

The following is a review we published in Buddhadharma of Sheng Yen's final book, Footprints in the Snow (published last year by Doubleday). The reviewer is David Berman, editor-in-chief of Chan Magazine.

A Great Master's Simple Goodbye

In the summer of 1992, I accompanied my kung fu teacher to Orlando for the national Chinese martial arts championships, where we were met by Meredith, a former student who had moved to Florida and had volunteered to host us for the long weekend. Meredith had more interest in spiritual work than in martial practice, and as I had been a meditator since the late sixties our conversation led to her lending me a book, Getting the Buddha Mind by Chan Master Sheng Yen.

I was captivated immediately. It was direct and clear, with none of the esotericism or cultishness I had come to associate with Eastern mysticism come West. It had neither the religiosity of Hinduism nor the opacity of Zen; it had moral spine without being doctrinaire; it was profound but not inaccessible; it taught process; it didn't dangle the carrot of enlightenment. But it also defined progress—it gave me the impression that by walking this path I could actually get somewhere, at a time when my practice had come to seem not useless, but somewhat aimless. It wasn't until I finished the book that I noticed, in the bio on the back cover, that Master Sheng Yen taught at the Chan Meditation Center in Elmhurst, Queens, only a half-hour subway ride from me.

Fast forward to 2008. Master Sheng Yen (from here on I'll refer to him as I address him, Shifu) has been my teacher for fifteen years now, I've been editor-in-chief of his Chan Magazine for nearly a decade, and I've just finished reading his eighteenth book in English, Footprints in the Snow: The Autobiography of a Chinese Buddhist Monk.

Having known Shifu as long as I have, much in this new book was familiar to me. I'd heard and read stories of his childhood in the countryside north of Shanghai: he was born in 1930, the sixth and last child of a peasant family, and he was raised in a three-room thatched hut that his father put up on an acre of rented farmland. They tilled the fields with a borrowed buffalo, fished the Yangzi when they could, took in mending or worked for other landowners when they had to. Shifu was sickly, and slow—he didn't walk until he was three, didn't speak until five, and couldn't learn to tell time. After only a few years of sporadic schooling, he entered Wolf Mountain Monastery at the age of thirteen through the good offices of a well-connected neighbor. His mother agreed because his prospects—of getting an education, of finding a wife, of making a living—were otherwise very poor.

Shifu has spoken often of his first religious experience as a novice at Wolf Mountain, which he recounts in Footprints: "Every morning and evening I did five hundred prostrations to Guanyin… one morning, I felt a force enter through the top of my head… the prostrations became effortless and natural… my mind became clear and bright… " This solved his learning difficulties and gave him lifelong faith in the efficacy of prostration practice for clearing karmic obstruction. He recalls other formative experiences in Footprints that I'd heard before, like his escape from Mao's revolutionary forces as they took Shanghai, and the difficulty of keeping his monastic precepts during his subsequent ten years of compulsory military service in Taiwan. He describes his first experience of "the bottom falling out of the bucket" after a night of meditation with Master Lingyuan, when years of pent-up questions and doubt were dissolved in an instant. He also recounts the rigors of his training under Master Dongchu, known to his terrified students as "the big gun," and the peace and stability he felt during his six-year solitary retreat in the Taiwanese mountains.

Yet despite my acquaintance with the story of my teacher's life, the telling of it here seemed altogether new and fresh to me. The book is thin on descriptive passages, yet faraway places and times come somehow wonderfully alive. The reader is transported to rural China in the thirties, to an ancient monastery surrounded by revolutionary terrors, to the military culture of McCarthy-era Taiwan, to the mean streets of New York in the seventies and the dumpsters in which Shifu found his first American altar and his vegetarian meals. There are no formal flourishes—no cliffhangers at the end of chapters, nor surprise course changes—yet I found myself impelled to read on, eager to know what would happen next. Shifu tells us what he did, where he went, what was there, and what happened without embellishment, but he gives us just enough of the right detail to bring the context to life and ground his story in history.

Most striking of all, the simplicity of the telling stands in dramatic contrast to the enormity of the journey it chronicles. This sickly child of an impoverished family in a devastated region at a desperate time became the carrier of the lineage of both the Caodong and Linji schools of Chan, the holder of master's and doctoral degrees from Rissho University, the spiritual teacher of over 300,000 followers, the author of over ninety books published in nine languages, the founder of the Chan Meditation Center in New York City and the Dharma Drum Mountain World Center for Buddhist Education in Taiwan, and the keynote speaker at the Millennium World Peace Summit of Religious and Spiritual Leaders at the United Nations. It's a journey that seems to traverse centuries and worlds, one that covers far too much ground to be encompassed by only two hundred pages of such unassuming prose. And yet Footprints achieves this, for which tremendous credit must go to the editor, Kenneth Wapner, and to Shifu's translator, Rebecca Li. Translating from Chinese is difficult at best; capturing the author's voice is a great achievement. Footprints in the Snow sounds like Sheng Yen, which contributes greatly to the book's intimacy and power.

So there I was, about halfway through the book on my flight to Seattle, when the following unremarkable passage, from the chapter on his training with Master Dongchu, stopped me in my tracks: "When my old classmate stopped editing Humanity magazine, I took over, writing editorials and essays, handling letters from readers, receiving and sending back manuscripts, and doing copyediting, design, and layout. I learned from scratch. I didn't know anything about using different font styles and sizes."

In 1999, when my old classmate stopped editing Chan Magazine, Shifu asked me to take over, to write the editorials and edit the essays, to handle letters from readers, to receive and send back manuscripts, and to do the copyediting, design, and layout. When I objected that I didn't even know anything about font styles and sizes, he responded that it was no problem, I would learn from scratch.

Shifu skillfully flattered me into accepting the job—for which I'll always be grateful—and never told me that he was confident the job could be done by somebody with no qualifications because that's exactly what he had done. It's a good thing he didn't. Knowing that I was being asked to follow in his footsteps wouldn't have made me more confident, it would have scared me to death. And realizing that he had set me in his footsteps, I felt slightly ashamed—I've managed to learn something about the fonts, but I've missed an awful lot of retreats, let a lot of thoughts wander, squandered lots of opportunities to be more like him.

I know, of course, that regret is worse than useless—it is walking the path backward—but the same feeling of loss returned when I read the final paragraph and realized that in writing this book, Shifu was saying goodbye. It is not widely known, because he never speaks of it, that Master Sheng Yen is gravely ill. He lost a kidney to cancer several years ago and has been dependent on regular dialysis ever since. For much of the last decade, in fact, he has been making arrangements for the survival of his various institutions after he's gone. Still, this is the first time I've known him to speak of his body of work as finished, and I think that, to his many disciples at least, the change of tone will be poignant. It also, in a way, explains the book's modesty: the great corpus is done, and this book is not another opus, it is just the coda. "The important thing is not to fail yourself!" Master Dongchu told him. He did not. Having led the twentieth-century revival of Chinese Buddhism and having introduced Chan to the West, Master Sheng Yen has left us quite a bit more than his footprints in the snow, and, as was always inevitable, the rest will be up to us.

This review first ran in our Fall, 2008 issue of Buddhadharma

Free from Mind, Discrimination and Consciousness

An Interview with Master Sheng Yen by Michael Liebenson Grady

Master Sheng-yen is abbot of the Nung Ch'an monastery in Taiwan and founder of Dharma Drum Mountain, which includes the Ch'an Meditation Center in New York City and Dharma Drum Retreat Center in Pine Brush, New York. The interview was conducted during a ten-day silent illumination retreat led by Master Sheng-yen. The interviewer was Michael Liebenson Grady, a guiding teacher at the Cambridge Insight Meditation Center who has been studying with Master Sheng-yen for the past five years. The translator was Jimmy Yu.

Michael Liebenson Grady: We have heard you make the distinction between buddhadharma and Buddhism. Could you say more about that?

Master Sheng-yen: In buddhadharma, there is only one taste, the taste of liberation. That is the one dharma. Buddhism, on the other hand, is a manifestation of causes and conditions according to the changing environment that the buddhadharma encounters and the disposition of its practitioners. According to varying conditions and changing times, there arises what is known as Buddhism.

Buddhadharma is not only the taste of liberation. It is also the way of the bodhisattva. Moreover, buddhadharma has various levels and types of teachings to respond to the various dispositions of sentient beings. Sometimes this includes a graded path of Buddhism, but all of the gradations, systems and different ways to organize the Buddhist teachings point to liberation.

Furthermore, buddhadharma can be divided into two categories. First, it can be understood through words. Secondly, it can be understood without words or language. According to the various dispositions of sentient beings, they will receive the taste of liberation either through words or through the wordless teaching.

Buddhadharma can also be divided into the dharma of the teachings and the dharma of the mind. The actual recorded words of Shakyamuni are the dharma of the teachings. The essence of the Buddha's teachings is the dharma of the mind, for its whole purpose is to liberate the mind, which includes liberating oneself as well as liberating sentient beings. The Buddha expounded numerous teachings to sentient beings throughout the whole of his life precisely to liberate the mind. He proclaimed the mind dharma, which includes various methods and guiding concepts for practitioners to tread the path of liberation.

One can only achieve liberation through the three seals of dharma, which are: all formations are impermanent; all dharmas are without self; nirvana is quiescent. These seals are not only the means to liberation but liberation itself, which is the full-fledged realization of these three aspects of reality. Shakyamuni Buddha expounded guiding concepts and methods to attain the full realization of these three dharma seals, such as the four noble truths, the eightfold path and the thirty-seven aids to enlightenment. All of these flow out of the three dharma seals. They are of one taste because no matter what approach one takes, as long as the three principles are present, they all return to the taste of liberation.

Taken together, all of the Buddha's teachings constitute the buddhadharma, which spreads to various places in various time periods and to various people depending on their dispositions. This phenomenon dates all the way back to Shakyamuni Buddha's time. Because of the different dispositions of the Buddha's disciples, there were already divisions of his teachings.

The teachings spread first in two main directions, creating the Southern tradition and the Northern tradition. Because of the various civilizations and cultural differences, the indigenous beliefs and religions, and the dispositions of people in these two main regions, all sorts of Buddhist practices developed. We call this phenomenon Buddhism. The varying types of Buddhist practice all adhere to the dharma of liberation, however. If a particular type of Buddhist practice is missing any one of the three dharma seals, it is no longer Buddhism; it is non-Buddhist practice.

Within the Northern tradition, there is a distinction between the Tibetan form of Buddhist practice and the Chinese form of Buddhist practice. The Chinese form of Buddhist practice gave rise to the Korean form and the Japanese form. Within Chinese Buddhist practice itself, there are ten different schools, and Ch'an Buddhism is merely one of these. Then within Ch'an there is a further division into "The Five Houses of Ch'an" and the "Seven Sects of Ch'an." In Japan there are approximately thirty different sects of Zen Buddhism. In Tibetan Buddhism, there is also a variety of schools. There are divisions within the divisions of the dharma.

All of these differences arise out of the dispositions of sentient beings, their time and their place. In other words, the different schools arise from historical changes. Despite these changes, the various schools do not depart from the dharma of liberation. The West will also have its own form of Buddhism; it cannot be characterized particularly as Tibetan or Chinese or from the Southern tradition, because the West has its own civilization, culture and history.

Within all these forms of Buddhism, how would you describe the spirit of Ch'an? What distinguishes it from the others?

First of all, there is no such thing as Ch'an. It is merely the way of liberation, free from fixations. The origin of Ch'an as a school, however, can be dated back to Bodhidharma, who came from India. Bodhidharma was not a dharma master in the sense that he gave discourses on the teachings, like the great arhats Subhuti and Shariputra. Rather, he was a great yogi. He brought with him to China one scripture, the Lankavatara Sutra, which revolves around the teaching of buddhanature, tathagathagarbha. On the basis of this principle, he taught the sudden approach to directly experiencing liberation.

There is a saying in the Lankavatara Sutra itself, which goes something like this: "All the words of the Buddha evolve around the mind as its axis."

This expresses the principle of the mind dharma, and Ch'an is therefore mind dharma—direct experience of one's self-nature, indeed, of one's buddhanature. It is not the dharma of words and language. One experiences this wisdom by directly letting go, relinquishing, putting down self-attachment, self-referentiality, the grasping that hinders us from liberation. Despite the fact that this teaching of directly putting down, letting go of self, can be traced to India, it was only in China that it evolved into the tradition as we know it today. In India the tradition mainly developed around a graded practice of meditation. However, this graded practice, as demonstrated in methods such as the four stages of mindfulness, requires one to have little involvement with the world, such as in the forest tradition. You also need a lot of time, a long process of cultivation.

Chinese society did not allow for this, even among professional practitioners such as the monks and nuns. In India there is a tradition of alms begging. You can beg for your food daily and the whole society will support you. Practitioners can then return to the forest and continue their practice. But in China, alms begging never took root. One had to rely on oneself. There were government-sponsored monasteries, where great and famous accomplished practitioners resided. But ordinary monastics needed to rely on themselves in their daily life. For their own survival in Chinese society, they needed to find means to tread the path of liberation and also to support their daily living. Therefore, Ch'an evolved the idea that everyday living is Ch'an practice. The environment, the historical situation, was such that it forced practitioners to integrate their aspiration and practice toward liberation with all aspects of their life. As a primary example, the Sixth Patriarch, Huineng, achieved enlightenment while working.

The integration of life and practice has very deep roots. In fact, we say that sitting meditation itself cannot bring about enlightenment. Often we hear a Ch'an master say, "Meditation not only is not enlightenment; meditation does not lead to enlightenment." Enlightenment is the actuality of letting go of the self directly. That does not necessarily have anything to do with meditation. One puts down one's self-grasping through various methods.

For example, Wanan became enlightened upon hearing these lines from the Diamond Sutra: "The past mind is unattainable; the future mind is not attainable; the present mind is not attainable."

The meaning of these lines is that one should not be engrossed in the mind of virtue versus non-virtue, the mind of good versus bad. It is precisely these types of grasping mind that prevent us from realizing what is known as "original face," the state before, the state free from attachment, free from kleshas. In Ch'an we also call this the dharma gate of formlessness. In fact, the dharma gate of formlessness was the first approach that Huineng taught to his elder dharma brother, Huiming. Huineng said to him, "Neither think of good nor bad, at this time, what is your original face?" Upon hearing this, Huiming was enlightened.

It is very hard, however, for people to use the direct approach of Ch'an practice and realization, which says, "Nothing can go good; nothing can go evil," where good and evil refer to the grasping mind of good and the grasping mind of evil. Therefore, by the tenth and eleventh century, the Ch'an tradition evolved methods such as the investigation of huato, which is the essential phrase or word in any gong'an (Japanese, koan), and the practice of mozhao, or "silent illumination." The huato method is associated with the Linji tradition and the silent illumination approach with the Caodong tradition.

Although certain schools are associated with certain types of method, we shouldn't be fooled by that. All Linji do not necessarily practice in such and such a way, nor do all Caodong practice in another fixed way. Even within one tradition, the master of the North and the master of the South can be drastically different in their styles of teaching. One hundred Ch'an masters will have one hundred different styles. Even the disciple's style is different from the master's style. So which one is correct? All of them are correct. How should one approach the practice? Approach it based on your own causes and conditions. We can see this in Shakyamuni Buddha's time. He had ten great disciples, and each one had his own particular disposition, particular method of practice or approach to the one taste of liberation. In turn, their disciples gravitated to particular aspects of their teacher and so on, which gave rise to the many-fold manifestations of the dharma and its fluidity.

Perhaps you could tell us how you came to be teaching silent illumination in the West, given that for a long time there weren't any Ch'an teachers teaching silent illumination.

My initial experience of Ch'an was in practicing huato within the Linji tradition. When I was in my twenties, I had many doubts and questions, but there was one question that consumed all of the questions: Why am I like this now? All of my questions eventually returned to this one unresolved problem. Then in my twenty-eighth year, I met my future Linji master. I was fortunate enough that he could point out the way. I was able, during that encounter, to put down all of my burdens. The question was no more.

In my six years of solitary retreat practice, which I entered into a couple of years after that incident, I had no particular method of practice, because I had no more doubts. If one were to characterize my method, one may say I was practicing very simply putting down—putting down discursive thinking, and even putting down the experience of oneness, that the environment and the self are one.

After the retreat, I went to Japan and then the United States. I started teaching Ch'an. Even though I myself do not use the huato method, I thought the method was very good. So in the beginning, I taught it to my students. People seemed to benefit from it. So I searched through the discourse records of the Ch'an masters and the principles of Ch'an to find more ways to benefit my students.

Among the works I looked at were those of Yongjia Xuanjue, who lived in the seventh and eight centuries and was a student of the Sixth Patriarch, Huineng. In The Song of Mind, he talks about not relinquishing delusion nor seeking the truth. In The Song of Shamatha, he says that if one is truly utilizing the mind in practice, there is no such mind to be used. I also looked at the teachings of Dongshan, one of the founders of the Caodong tradition, and those of Shitou Xian, who teaches about the two entrances mentioned by Bodhidharma: entering dharma through principles and entering through phenomena. In each case, the works I looked at were linked by the single strand of letting go, which is the core principle of silent illumination.

When I started to teach my disciples, many of them came from doing practices like the four foundations of mindfulness. Through working with my disciples and understanding how they practiced, in particular the mindfulness of the body and the mindfulness of sensation, I discovered that the principle of silent illumination was also at work there—not exactly the same principle but there was a continuity and a connection. In Japan, I was exposed to shikantaza. Although one cannot say that shikantaza is the same as silent illumination, nor can one say that the four foundations of mindfulness is the practice of silent illumination, there are no contradictions between them. However, I base my teachings of silent illumination on the Ch'an tradition, and specifically on the discourse records of master Hongzhi [1091–1157], who composed the famous Song of Silent Illumination.

Simply put, what is silent illumination?

Master Sheng-yen: In speaking of silent illumination, I should mention its correlation with shamatha-vipashyana. They are of the same family. In the Tiantai tradition, there is the practice of the great shamatha and vipashyana, sometimes translated as "the great cessation" and "the great contemplation." The Tiantai school's teaching of the maha-shamatha-vipashyana includes the progressive practice of the ten stages of shamatha-vipashyana, with the highest stage referred to as the first stage. Those people with strong karmic roots, great affinity, can directly approach the very first stage, called the inconceivable realm. This realm is free from mind, discrimination and consciousness. Mind here refers to the original mind, pure mind. Yes, we have to leave behind pure mind and let go our attachment even to purity. Discrimination refers to our faculty to distinguish between this and that, and it is tainted by grasping. Consciousness refers to that which transmigrates from one life to the next. This state of inconceivability is precisely what is spoken about in the Ch'an tradition as formlessness. To be free from mind, discrimination and consciousness means to leave behind words, language, sentences, phrases and conceptuality.

If one is not successful in attaining this first stage, one would resort to the second stage, and if not successful with the second, then the third and so on, all the way to the tenth stage. Silent illumination as expounded by Ch'an master Hongzhi does not involve stages. However, because I have background and understanding in the Tiantai tradition, when I present silent illumination, I present it in a fashion that has stages, so that it is easily accessible to all types of practitioners.

I recall silent illumination starting with the relaxation of the body and mind.

That is just the very basic foundation, the prerequisite. When I lead a retreat, relaxing the body and the mind must come first, beginning with mindfulness of breath. Eventually, one's awareness expands to the totality of the body. As one proceeds with this practice, the body may start to dissolve. The felt sense of the body will start to be so subtle that it will hardly be perceived. After that, even the body disappears, but the external environment is still present and one's field of awareness expands to include the immediate surroundings of the meditator. Then, the external environment can also be dissolved. The mind's awareness becomes expansive and is not focused on particulars in the external environment. Gradually, the mind becomes unified with the external environment. At this time, this unified self, taking in all things in the environment, is doing the sitting. But even this unification, this stage of oneness, must be let go of, put down. When this oneness—the identity of the external environment with oneself—is put down, the great self is also dropped away. When the self drops away, that is precisely the first stage or the highest stage of Tiantai maha-shamatha-vipashyana, the inconceivable realm.

If one can directly contemplate silent illumination from this formless stage point of view, that is good. However, people usually have to start from the basics and progressively work towards this eventual realization. Silent illumination practice is, in the ultimate sense, a realization of the nonduality of samadhi and prajna, as spoken about in the Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch. In the Tiantai system, this is the simultaneity of shamatha and vipashyana.

In one of Hongzhi's discourses, he said that the essential point of all the Buddhas and lineage masters' realization is that the mind does not encounter things, yet it knows. It does not impose conditions, yet it illuminates. Knowing refers to the complete clarity of mind. There is not a single trace of a particular position or view that one upholds. There is not a single thing that has anything to do with oneself. One does not know things by filtering them through one's sense of self. As for illumination, it is an absolute form of understanding. It has no opposites. Usually we think there is the person and then there is something that the person understands, an opposite. In Hongzhi's teaching we call that opposing conditions. Illumination, an absolute type of understanding, has no object of understanding, no opposing conditions. This is the state of nonduality, in which there is no single condition in opposition to oneself. This is prajna, the wisdom of no self, no subjectivity, no grasping.

How does one jump from the unified state of self and environment I mentioned earlier to this highest state? Through practice. That is, in all situations, do not take some thing as an opposite to oneself, and also do not project your own subjectivity into your involvement with things or people.

In the opening lines of the Song of Silent Illumination, Hongzhi says, "Silently and serenely, all words are forgotten. In clarity and luminosity, all things appear as is."

The first line does not literally mean that the person forgets all words. It is just that in the mind of the practitioner, there is no attachment to labeling and descriptions, false conceptual understanding of the external world. In the full realization of silent illumination, the practitioner does not project what he has learned and accumulated onto the external environment. The second line indicates that the practitioner perceives things as they are, free from concepts. Things exist in and of themselves and this is clearly perceived.

In the stage of silent illumination where self and environment are unified, which I mentioned earlier, it is possible to enter into samadhi, where the existence of time and space cease. The true practitioner of silent illumination will not allow the mind to enter into samadhi, but will rather ground the mind in the reality of the environment, yet maintain continuous clarity. The cessation of time and space is indeed a form of serenity, of silence. But the realization of silent illumination does not refer to the cessation of time and space; it refers to the cessation of self-attachment. Just because self-attachment is gone does not mean that one does not know what is happening outside. One interacts with the external environment—people, things, events, affairs—dealing with them according to what needs to be done, but with no protection of self.

Why shouldn't one enter into samadhi? Because samadhi is not liberation. Since it is not in accordance with the one taste of liberation, it is not the ultimate path. It is not necessarily the Buddhist path, despite the fact that in samadhi, there may be no vexations of the mind. It also is not in accordance with the spirit of Ch'an. Living is Ch'an. It is the dynamic, lively quality of everyday living that reveals the spirit of Ch'an. If a practitioner sits in samadhi all day long, not only is he not in accordance with Ch'an, he will also experience problems in daily life. In both the Linji and Caodong traditions, we have a saying: "The Dao is manifested in everyday life."

In The Diamond Sutra, it says: "Without abiding anywhere, give rise to mind." Without abiding anywhere is silence; give rise to mind is the functioning of wisdom. Silence is the silencing, or ceasing, of self-grasping. Illumination is the functioning of wisdom. The functioning of wisdom can only be demonstrated through interaction with people, affairs and things. Through interaction one witnesses the wonder of wisdom.

What has it been like for you to teach in the West and how do you feel Western practitioners relate to buddhadharma?

From my perspective, human beings are human beings, whether they are in the East or West, the past or the present. When I come to the West, I don't have the idea in mind that I am from the East. The intrinsic nature of all beings is the same. Although cultural backgrounds are different, dharma has only one taste. There is no East or West from that perspective.

I would not claim that the silent illumination I teach is exactly that of Hongzhi. Rather I teach based on my experience and understanding of the practice of silent illumination, in response to people's needs, although I have organized it based on Hongzhi's teachings and those of the lineage masters within Ch'an whom I mentioned earlier. Although I have adapted it, it is not my own creation, because I am teaching based on the spirit of Ch'an. This is living Ch'an and it is how to connect the practice to people's lives.

I am exposed to all the traditions of Buddhism—the Theravada tradition, the Tibetan tradition, the Chinese tradition—and their respective practices, and I incorporate them in my presentation. But all of the teachings I give never depart from the one taste of liberation and the spirit of Ch'an.

As for why I came to the West, you may ask, "Why did Bodhidharma come to the West?" Why was Buddhism brought from India to China? The dharma goes wherever it is needed. Bodhidharma himself was an Indian; he came to China to bring the dharma. So, why do I come? I come for all of you.

There Is No "I" Who Is Sitting

by Master Sheng Yen

When you first practice the Ch'an method of silent illumination, it is very simple. You just sit with the awareness that you are sitting. However, as your practice deepens, the method changes to where there is no method to speak of, even as you continue in the state of silent illumination. The silent aspect is achieved when wandering thoughts no longer trouble you. Illumination comes with being acutely aware of what is happening, even as your mind is silent. As your practice deepens you no longer need to remind yourself to stay on the method. You are just constantly in the state of silent illumination. In this sense, silent illumination becomes a method of no-method.

When you first take up the practice, you still have wandering thoughts, but you are clearly aware of them. The way to deal with them is simply to keep your focus on your awareness that you are sitting. Just stay with that awareness that you are sitting. But isn't this thought that you are sitting itself a wandering thought? Yes, it is. The difference is that this particular wandering thought, "I am sitting," goes in one direction only, has continuity and is constant and consistent in nature. Other wandering thoughts scatter in all sorts of directions, change all the time and have no consistency. They vary widely in nature, content and quality. At first glance they seem to have something to do with you, but on closer examination they are unrelated stuff thrown together like garbage.

On the other hand, when used correctly, silent illumination goes consistently and continuously in the same direction, and effectively lessens and reduces other scattered thoughts. Over time, your mind becomes quieter and clearer. This is certainly not enlightenment, but at least one does not suffer as much from mental burdens, and there is stillness and clarity. The stillness is silence and the clarity is illumination. Yes, this method is still a wandering thought but it is a wandering thought that unifies instead of scatters our mind.

We all want to make progress in our practice. For example, when you set out to journey to a faraway place on foot, every day, you know you are getting closer to your destination. When it comes to practice, it is not always clear from day to day whether you are making progress. Then there is the question of obstacles. Is it possible to make progress in your practice without encountering obstacles? When you climb a stairway, each step up is like an obstacle. You just take the steps one at a time. When you come to a landing, you can look back down and see the progress you have made. Eventually you reach the top. In a similar way, some people may think that every time they go on another retreat, they are attaining a higher level in their practice. Some may even see each day of retreat as progress over the previous day. Then you get to the level of thinking every sitting is progress over the previous one. But making progress in practice is not like climbing stairs.

We practice to lessen vexation and gradually illuminate the mind. But the road to that end, where the environment no longer gives rise to vexation, is marked with obstacles. When you scale a mountain, there is rarely a straight path to the top. More likely, you will encounter twists and turns, rises and dips, objects to get around and over. As you overcome these obstacles, you may get closer, but it is not a straight walk to the summit. As practitioners, we have an ordinary being's body and mind. We can tire mentally and physically. When this happens, it is very difficult to make progress even if you want to keep going forward, making breakthrough after breakthrough.

Therefore, if you are constantly motivated to accumulate positive experiences, the opposite—negative experiences—is likely to happen. Under these conditions, one is likely to feel frustration. This leads to negative feelings and thoughts like, "This is not for me. I'm not the kind of person who can practice well." When you try to move forward you meet an obstacle, or find yourself going in circles, or even going backwards. There comes a temptation to give up and leave practice to others.

We need to remind ourselves that the purpose of practice is gradually to leave behind self-clinging and to illuminate one's mind. Its aim is to slow down and eventually end our struggles to satisfy our cravings and to find complete security. Craving happiness, we make sacrifices to attain it, and this sacrificing causes suffering. The quest for happiness causes our suffering, and to escape suffering we seek happiness. This cycle of happiness and suffering constitutes the ego-centered self.

As for security, we build a wall around ourselves to protect our possessions and our happiness. Over time, this wall gets thicker and thicker, and we lose touch with the self inside the wall, as well as the world outside the wall. This is egocentric. The purpose of practice is to gradually eliminate self-craving and self-protection, so that the ego, the protective wall, slowly fades away until it is eliminated.

The thought of having no self may seem frightening and dangerous, but in fact when you begin practicing you need the self that is already there. Otherwise, you are either in a vegetative state or you just don't know who you are. In the latter case, you would be a fool. So you start practicing by relying on the vexed self. With practice, the vexed self will become a self of compassion and wisdom. It is not that the self disappears, but that it has been transformed.

One practitioner told me that as a result of practice he felt that his self was beginning to disappear, and that scared him. "Everything else can disappear, but I don't want my self to disappear! If I disappear I won't have a girlfriend anymore. I don't think I want to practice anymore." I told him that as he practiced, his mind of vexation would transform into a mind of wisdom and compassion. When that happened, he would be more capable of bringing love to others, to his family and friends. Not a possessive love, but rather a love that comes with offering yourself to others out of compassion. As one loves others in this compassionate, selfless way, what one gets back will make one's life more fulfilling and happier.

So looking at it this way, how do you measure progress in practice? You cannot quantify progress. It's not like getting paid for work by the day, and every day you work, you put the money in the bank and watch your account go up and up. Progress cannot be accumulated and quantified like this. As you practice, concern about your progress is just another wandering thought, like any other wandering thought. As ever, when you become aware of wandering thoughts, just return your focus to the method and they will leave of their own accord. As you eliminate wandering thoughts, you are at the same time letting go of attachment and vexation. As I said, the method itself is a wandering thought, but one that goes in the same direction and is orderly and consistent. So it is different from the scattered thoughts that bring us suffering and vexation.

Using the method, some may sit well in one period and not be bothered by wandering thoughts. It will be a pleasant experience, and right away they will feel better. After this they will say, "Hmmm, I really like this; I'd like to have one more pleasant sitting." So during the next period he or she is waiting for the pleasant experience to return. In fact, the next sitting may not be as good, or may be much worse. This person became attached to the positive experience and, as you remember, attachment is a wandering thought. As a result of anticipation, this person was not focused on the method of practice. When you attach to pleasant experiences, you are setting yourself up for disappointment.

Think of practice as climbing a glass mountain, very slippery and very steep. To make things worse, before climbing that glass mountain, you cover yourself with body lotion, so you are very slippery as well. Now as you try to climb the glass mountain, you go a couple of steps and slip backward. Nevertheless, every time you slip you try again. This is the attitude you should have towards practice. Every time you go forward, you may fall backward, yet you must keep climbing onto the road of practice. Yes, it is really exhausting, but you keep climbing the glass mountain until the mind that has been climbing eventually disappears. When you no longer cling to the thought of climbing the mountain, your mission has been accomplished. Have you reached the summit? No, but that is not important, because the mission has been accomplished. You may think, "If that is the case, I won't even make the effort to climb the mountain at all, since it's so much work." But that is not a correct view, because before trying to climb the glass mountain you have this self-centered ego. Only through the process of climbing can you gradually eliminate self-centered ego.

Of course, climbing the glass mountain is just an analogy. In actual Ch'an practice, there are two approaches we use to dissolve the self-center. The first is the sudden approach, which is an intense, explosive approach where one keeps pounding at the self-center until it breaks apart. This approach uses a huatou (Japanese, koan), such as continuously asking yourself, "What is my original face?" The purpose of huatou practice is to give rise to a sense of doubt which grows bigger and bigger until, when it finally explodes, one realizes sudden enlightenment.

The second method is silent illumination, which slowly calms the mind until it is completely settled. This is a gradual method where one allows wandering thoughts and vexations to slowly dissipate. You can liken this method to a pool of very muddy water. If there is no wind or activity to disturb the pool, the mud will gradually settle to the bottom, allowing the water to become clear. Like the clearing of the pond, silent illumination seeks stillness and clarity. One keeps letting the mind-dust settle until all of it has reached the bottom. Ultimately, there is no mud, no water, and no bottom. This will be when one realizes enlightenment.

In silent illumination you start with being aware that you are sitting. As you focus on being aware of yourself sitting, and the body sensation itself disappears, you should still maintain the thought that you are sitting. While you maintain this thought, be clearly aware of the environment around you. Be aware that the environment is also sitting with you. After that, you even put down the thought of "I am sitting" so that there is no "I" who is sitting. There is just a clarity that you maintain, but the "I" is not there.

If there comes a moment when you ask, Where am I? Is my "self" still there? At this moment you have left your method and are involved with wandering thoughts. Just go back to the method, being acutely aware of yourself sitting.

Master Sheng-yen presented this introduction to the practice of silent illumination at the start of a ten-day intensive retreat at the Dharma Drum Retreat Center in Pine Bush, New York.

Four Steps to Magical Powers

Before you fully embark on the path of the bodhisattvas and buddhas, says Chan master Sheng Yen, you must first practice the four steps to magical powers. What are these steps and what are the magical powers you need?

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The four steps to magical powers are also called by such names as the four steps to the power of ubiquity, the four steps to unlimited power, and the four kinds of samadhi. In Sanskrit they are collectively known as riddhipada, meaning "steps to (magical) power." Its Chinese translation, si ru yi zu, speaks of a mind that can accomplish whatever it wants to. This is a mind that is master of itself, free and at ease.

There is a Chinese saying, "Eight out of nine things that happen to us do not match our expectations." Why does so much of what happens to us not match our expectations? It is because we are usually not the masters of our own mind. We think about things we should not, and we can't bring ourselves to think about things we should. Both habits contribute to our not gaining control of our lives. We don't learn from the past and have no clear plan for the future; therefore, we continue to make mistakes. Constantly faced with problems, our life is filled with adversity. Not being able to control our mind, we let small problems become big problems; not being able to reach our goals, we are ill at ease. However, with correct practice we can gradually eliminate these obstacles and more will happen according to our expectations.

The Four Enhanced Phenomena

The Mahayana path to buddhahood can be likened to a journey of five stages. In the first stage, we gather the provisions we will need for the journey. In terms of the path, this means practicing the four foundations of mindfulness and the four proper exertions.[1] In the second stage, we actually set off on the path to buddhahood. This stage consists of practicing the four steps to magical powers, and it is characterized by the four enhanced phenomena. The third stage is realizing dhyana (jhanain Pali),[2] whereby one directly perceives that the true nature of the self is that of a buddha. This is the stage of the arhat, or saint. The fourth stage is to actualize the bodhisattva path, in which one practices dhyana to realize samadhi and wisdom. This enables one to use skillful means to deliver sentient beings; that is, to help them enter or follow the path. The fifth stage of the journey is complete liberation in buddhahood.

Before talking about the four steps to magical powers, I want to briefly describe the four enhanced phenomena of warmth, summit, forbearance, and supreme in the world. These phenomena grow out of the practice of the four steps and validate that one has planted them as virtuous roots. Warmth means that one's mind is becoming soft and gentle and that the harshness is receding. Summit means that having gotten rid of harshness, one's mind has ascended to the peak, so to speak. Forbearance means that one will not bring harm to oneself or others. Supreme in the worldmeans that one has transcended worldliness and is approaching the stage of an arhat.

At the level of summit, one's mind has become soft and gentle, not just sometimes but at all times. People often mistakenly assume that if one can enter samadhi, one's problems will go away. Another misunderstanding is that having had a glimpse of enlightenment, one no longer has vexations. The truth is that only when wisdom and dhyana arise together are we at a stage where we will not bring vexation to ourselves or others. Until then, though we may be at ease with a joyous mind, we are not yet liberated because we are still attached to the idea of a self. To attain the summit level is not really that high, but it is still very good. It speaks of spiritual power, and it is at this level that we begin to practice the riddhipada, steps to magical power.

Two Kinds of Power

It is possible to generate two kinds of powers through practice. The first is supernatural powers through which one can transcend ordinary physical limitations; for example, the ability to transport oneself to different places and times, to perform alchemy, or to become invisible. If you were invisible, you could take whatever you wanted and not get caught. I guess you could call it magical stealing. One could become rich without working. But if you had such supernatural powers, would you use them that way? I think not. These are not the kinds of powers one would use on the dhyana path.

The second kind of power one can generate is freedom and ease of mind. To attain that state we practice dhyana, which is the reason these practices are also called the four kinds of samadhi. There are differences between the non-Buddhist and the Buddhist practices of samadhi. In non-Buddhist meditation, one's goal is to stop wandering thoughts, to enter samadhi, and to experience freedom from vexation. However, coming out of samadhi, one will again experience wandering thoughts and vexation. So life is good in samadhi but not so good out of it.

The Buddhist approach is different because we first practice the four foundations of mindfulness and the four proper exertions. Through these contemplations we generate wisdom. Whether or not we enter samadhi, we can still use this wisdom to lessen our vexations and reduce conflicts and contradictions within our mind. This is why we begin with the four foundations and four proper exertions.

Buddhism emphasizes the need to practice in order to realize one's own buddhanature. But this does not mean that someone who perceives buddhanature is no longer subject to vexation. After experiencing buddhanature for the first time, one still has habits and propensities that can lead to impure thoughts and impure conduct; greed and aversion may still arise. However, one is at least able to see clearly that one's mind still cannot completely control the arising of vexations. At that point it becomes very important to practice samadhi.

To summarize, in the stages of practice toward enlightenment, we cultivate wisdom through contemplation, and when wisdom arises, we practice samadhi to develop freedom and ease of mind. This is the kind of power we want to develop through the four steps to magical powers, not supernatural powers.

The Four Steps

The first step to magical powers is chanda-riddhipada, concentration of desire; the second is virya-riddhipada, concentration of exertion, or diligence; the third is citta-riddhipada, concentration of mind; and the fourth is mimamsa-riddhipada concentration of inquiry, or investigation.

Chanda: Concentration of Desire

Chanda is the intense desire to attain the supreme and wondrous dhyana. This intense longing will cause one to prepare one's mind accordingly and inspire one to practice hard. Translated into Chinese as "desire," chanda can have a negative as well as a positive meaning. On the one hand it can mean greed, but as a step to concentrative power chanda also denotes a hope or vow. This vow is essential to overcoming the six obstructions to practice: drowsiness, scattered mind, idleness, laziness, forgetfulness (of one's practice), and wrong view. The will to attain the supreme dhyana is the best antidote to laziness. So when you are practicing and begin to feel lazy, please give rise to the aspiration to attain the supreme dhyana.

To develop the power of chanda, one looks at the mind's vexations and contemplates their true nature. Do these vexations have enduring existence? If you contemplate them deeply, you will see that vexatious thoughts are all indeed illusory. Since they are illusory, why be attached to them? You then realize that you suffer because of your attachments to vexations.

So the more we observe the mind and the more we realize that our vexations are illusory, the more we can let them go. In this practice, we remind ourselves that wandering thoughts arise because of our attachments and cause vexations. All of our thoughts, as long as there is attachment, are wandering thoughts. When you see that wandering thoughts are caused by vexation and also cause more vexation, you therefore see that you should not attach to them and will learn to let them go. Gradually the wandering thoughts will subside and your mind will become clearer and more stable, thus enabling dhyana.

Virya: Concentration of Diligence

Concentration of diligence, or exertion, means one is equipped with a strong vow to attain the supreme dhyana, and, therefore, one diligently applies the method of practice. Virya is diligence in dealing with the wandering thoughts that arise, whether they are thoughts of the past, present, or future. As for the present, thoughts come and go ceaselessly, and when we attach to them, they become wandering thoughts. However, thoughts of the past and future are also wandering thoughts, since the past is gone and the future is yet to be. All wandering thoughts, whether they relate to the past, the present, or the future, are illusory, so we just let them go. When we are diligent in letting go of thoughts of the past, not giving rise to thoughts of the future, and stopping thoughts in the present, we eventually enter the single-minded state of nonabiding. This corresponds to the line in the Diamond Sutra that says: "Abiding nowhere, give rise to [awakened] mind."

Citta: Concentration of Mind

Citta is being mindful of your intent to practice. You need to be on guard against laziness, drowsiness, and scattered mind. You need to be aware that these states cause vexation and that they are the reasons we cannot attain liberation. Constantly be aware of their presence, and once aware of them, put them aside right away. Do not struggle with them, as that will make it worse. If you can do this, constantly observing your mind and putting down obstructions, you will be able to attain samadhi, the state of one-thought.

I have spoken of the need to practice dhyana diligently. But what do we use to practice dhyana? We use the mind of the present moment, keeping the mind on the present moment and only on the present moment. This is the mind that gives rise to dhyana, or wisdom.

The mind of ordinary sentient beings is selfish and full of vexation. Nevertheless, it is this same mind that we practice with, and it is the same mind as that of an arhat. However, when we start practicing dhyana, we cannot become pure immediately; we still have wandering thoughts, impure thoughts, and selfish thoughts. In the beginning, the mind is scattered, but when it is continuously on the method, it is on the path to dhyana.

Mimamsa: Concentration of Inquiry

Mimamsa consists of having an inquiring or discriminating mind, ensuring that chanda, virya, and citta are present. With consistent practice, it is possible to enter deep samadhi if desire, diligence, and intent are present along with inquiry. Mimamsa consists of knowing fully the importance of the other riddhis, or steps,and that the four steps to magical powers is an important stage on the path to buddhahood.

Concentration of inquiry also means using wisdom to observe whether our mind is in the proper state. The proper state is summit, where the entire mind is soft and gentle, without harshness. If the mind is selfish and impure, then it is not in the proper state, and we need to correct it right away.

At the level of supreme in the world, one is liberated from samsara as an arhat. Though the mind will no longer give rise to unwholesome activity or vexation, there still remain residual habit energies until one attains buddhahood. In other words, there are still subtle obstructions. When all obstructions have finally been overcome, one has attained buddhahood.

Karma and Supernatural Powers

Only those who have cultivated deep samadhi and who have attained the four dhyanas[3] and eight samadhis[4] have supernatural powers that they can control. One who has mastered real supernatural power can perform otherworldly feats at will. Even so, having these powers does not mean that one is liberated in the Buddhist sense. It may sound appealing, but actually these powers are not always useful and often yield negative results. They are not reliable and are often illusory. For instance, people may use supernatural powers to visit the past or foresee the future or witness things happening elsewhere. They may see concealed objects or read other people's minds. Abilities like these may seem useful, but they mainly serve to give pleasure and pride to the user.

From the perspective of the present, seeing into the future may seem worthwhile. However, the future is really determined by causes and conditions and by causes and consequences; what will or will not happen is determined by karma. Trying to change one's karma with supernatural powers won't work, since that would violate the law of karma.

In both the early Buddhist and Mahayana traditions, there are records of supernatural powers being used. But what did the Buddha do when he was hungry? Did he conjure up a feast or have one catered by a deity? No, he walked around with his alms bowl begging for food. After he attained buddhahood, he walked from village to village spreading the dharma. He didn't fly through the air. He didn't magically erect monasteries but instead relied on laypeople to build them and to sew robes for the sangha. Before entering parinirvana, he received an offering of food that was tainted. You would think that he would have used his supernatural powers to know the food was bad, but instead he ate it and became very sick. So even though the Buddha possessed supernatural powers, he did not use them in self-centered ways.

One of the Buddha's senior disciples, Maudgalyayana, was noted for his magic and clairvoyance. Another one of his disciples, called Color of Lotus, was famous for her supernatural powers. Both of them were ultimately beaten to death by people hostile to Buddhism. You could say that they should have escaped from their attackers because of their supernatural powers. But they couldn't, because having supernatural powers does not change one's karma.

Why We Practice Dhyana

I want to emphasize again that the reason we practice dhyana is not to acquire supernatural powers but to attain liberation. We begin the thirty-seven aids to enlightenment[5] with the four foundations of mindfulness to calm our mind and to become clearly aware of how thoughts rise and fall in our mind. We then practice the four proper exertions along with the four foundations, with an attitude of great diligence. Practicing these contemplations together results in the generation of wisdom. However, without adequate samadhi, this wisdom will not be deep-rooted and firm. At this stage, we need to develop samadhi power for this wisdom to have a secure foundation. To do that, we cultivate dhyana.

I've already described the four enhanced phenomena of warmth, summit, forbearance, and supreme in the world. These phenomena characterize the practice of the four steps. I also described the four steps to magical powers as the second of the five stages to buddhahood. On the foundation of dhyana, we build our practice from which we move forward on the path of the bodhisattvas and buddhas.

A Glimpse of Buddhanature

One of the main methods of dhyana in Chan is investigating huatou.[6] By investigating a huatou, one may make a breakthrough and perceive directly that self-nature is emptiness and that there is no enduring self. This self-nature is also called buddhanature. Seeing one's buddhanature, however, does not mean that one is liberated, nor does it mean that one's practice is completed. Rather, it means that one has gained more faith and confidence in the practice and that one now clearly knows where the path is. This may be likened to traveling on a dark road on a very dark night. All of a sudden there is a bolt of lightning, and for a split second you see the road before you, bright and clear. But seeing the road is not the same as having finished the journey. You still need to travel on to the end. In a similar manner, seeing your self-nature, you may have gained a little bit of wisdom but you still need to practice. The next step is to deepen your samadhi, to cultivate dhyana. So the four steps to magical power is really an analogy for the stages of meditative concentration.

Conclusion

Practicing any one of the concentrations is a great benefit, but the greatest benefit would be to practice all four of the riddhis. Once you have established a firm footing in one of the riddhis, it is easier to move on to the next. When you have mastered the four steps to magical powers, the next stage is to fully embark on the path of the bodhisattvas and buddhas. I have talked a lot about supernatural powers but mainly to make it clear that the attainment of such powers is not the purpose of dhyana. The true magical power of dhyana is in attaining the path of the bodhisattvas and buddhas. That is what is really useful.

© Dharma Drum Publications

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[1] The four proper exertions are the four proper ways to maintain diligence in the practice, which are: to keep unwholesome states not yet arisen from arising; to cease unwholesome states already arisen; to give rise to wholesome states not yet arisen; to continue wholesome states already arisen.

[2] The broad meaning of dhyana (Sanskrit) refers to any meditative practice in Buddhism where the purpose is to train the mind toward enlightenment. The narrow meaning of dhyana refers to progressive meditative states, whose precise meanings depend on the method being practiced. In China, the word dhyana was transliterated to "Chan." "Zen" is the Japanese transliteration of "Chan."

[3] The four dhyanas are 1) freedom from desire and unwholesome thoughts; 2) freedom from discursive thoughts; 3) freedom from blissful states; 4) perfect equanimity and wakefulness.

[4] The so-called nine samadhis describe levels of meditative absorption. The first eight do not entail complete liberation; liberation is achieved only with the ninth samadhi.

[5] The thirty-seven aids to enlightenment are a group of seven sets of practices that, taken together, may be said to comprise the path leading to enlightenment: 1) the four foundations of enlightenment; 2) the four proper exertions; 3) the four steps to magical powers; 4) the five roots; 5) the five powers; 6) the seven factors of enlightenment; 7) the noble eightfold path.

[6] Huatou is the Chan method in which a practitioner investigates a question, such as "What is my original face before birth and death?" By intensively seeking the answer to the huatou, the mind of the practitioner may develop a "great ball of doubt," the resolution of which may result in insight or awakening.

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MASTER SHENG YEN has been instrumental in reviving Chan practice in China and the West. He and is the author of numerous books, including Attaining the Way, and the founder of Dharma Drum Mountain, which includes the Chan Meditation Center in Elmhurst, New York, and the Dharma Drum Retreat Center in Pine Bush, New York.

Into the Depths of Emptiness

In this single talk, the Chan Master Sheng Yen surveys the path to enlightenment, explaining how it progresses and where its pitfalls are. Our intellectual understanding, our temporary realizations, even the exalted state of oneness—all must be dropped to realize the deepest emptiness, the highest truth.

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We can speak of two kinds of emptiness: the emptiness of the dharma of teachings and the emptiness of the dharma of mind. The emptiness of the dharma of teachings can be understood through analysis and logic. The emptiness of the dharma of mind, however, can only be realized through actual experience. There is a real experience of this emptiness of the dharma of mind, but not all so-called experiences of emptiness are genuine.

Many students of Indian or Buddhist philosophy think they fully understand emptiness. Actually, what they understand is merely a part of the emptiness of the dharma of teachings. One can arrive at a shallow understanding of emptiness of the dharma of teachings by analyzing the components of the body and mind, which in Buddhism are called the five skandhas. In Sanskrit, skandha means "aggregate," or "heap." The five skandhas include the material and the mental aggregates; they constitute our life, our being, and what we think of as our "self." They are phenomenal components organized in time and space through causes and conditions.

In arriving at emptiness through analysis, we look at each skandha and see that none contains an inherent self. We see that what we call our self is actually a composite of these five factors, none of which is a self-entity. Also, we find no self outside of the skandhas.

The skandhas fall into three groups. First is the material skandha of form. Then there are three mental skandhas: sensation, perception, and volition. The fifth skandha is a spiritual component, consciousness. When we are born, we have a complete existence consisting of physical, mental, and spiritual components, but after we die only consciousness remains.

To repeat, as we analyze the five skandhas, we conclude that what we call the self is in fact composed of these skandhas, none of which has self-nature. Since all material and mental components are inherently changing, each skandha is itself empty of inherent nature. We conclude that the self, being made up of the five aggregates, is also impermanent and empty.

Can we say that the self that is composed of the five skandhas actually exists? Yes, in a sense we can, but this is not what Buddhism calls real existence. This self that we get at birth comprises physical, mental, and spiritual components, but when we die, only the component of consciousness remains. Consciousness, in and of itself, does not create karma. It does not think; rather, it's just a mental entity. In order to practice, one needs a body. Consciousness alone cannot do spiritual practice, and it cannot attain liberation. Since the self is composed of these five aggregates and is also impermanent, we say that our self is "false," or we can say that it is "provisional." This is also called no-self.

Thus, through analysis, we can view emptiness from two perspectives. First, we see that the self is composed of the five aggregates, and therefore has no inherent self-nature. The second aspect is seeing the emptiness of inherent nature—that everything is without a nature of its own. The emptiness of inherent nature means that not only is the self empty of inherent nature, but each of the five skandhas is also individually empty. To clarify, if something had inherent nature, then it would never change, as it would be an ultimate reality. Therefore, anything that changes is empty of inherent nature.

One time, a Westerner, seeing that I was a monk, came up to me and asked, "Master, what is reality?" My response was, "I don't know." He looked extremely disappointed and forlorn, and said, "Why don't you know this?" To which I replied, "Because there is no thing called reality. So how could I know it?"

The emptiness that is arrived at through logic is a kind of dialectic, but different from Western ideas of dialectic. It is the dialectic of the Madhyamaka philosophy of Buddhism. When we apply this special dialectic, we find that there is no left, no right, no middle, no front, no back, no past, no future, no present, and neither good nor evil. However, this dialectic does not give rise to a passive or negative view of the world; it affirms the existence of causes and conditions, but denies the existence of inherent nature. Things are said to lack inherent nature, because logical analysis shows that this is the case. Therefore, the conclusion is that things are inherently empty.

The viewpoint of the Madhyamaka after such logical analysis is called a position of affirming emptiness. It is not a neutral viewpoint, not a kind of middle between two extremes. Because one cannot affirm any place, one cannot affirm the middle either.

Let's try to make it less abstract. There is a "left" that arises from causes and conditions; there is a "right" that is also made up of causes and conditions, and there is a "middle" that is due to causes and conditions. Everything is just causes and conditions, whether it's to the left, to the right, or to the center. Why do we not take a stand anywhere? Why don't we affirm any position? We don't affirm any position because each place is without inherent nature. The goal of such logic is not to explain things, but to remind us not to cling to things because everything is changing. Everything exists because of causes and conditions, and everything lacks inherent nature.

Emptiness of the Dharma of Mind

Now I will talk about the emptiness of the dharma of mind. I will begin with a story from the Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch, Huineng (Japanese: Eno). When Huineng was still at Huangmei, the monastery of the Fifth Patriarch, Hongren, he worked in the kitchen milling rice. One day, the abbot Hongren, in an effort to find his dharma heir, asked the monks to write a verse expressing their own understanding of dharma. None of the monks were willing to do this except the head monk, Shenxiu, who, when the other monks were asleep, wrote a verse on the wall in the Chan hall. It went like this:

The body is a bodhi tree,
The mind is a bright mirror.
Always diligently polish the mirror,
And do not let dust collect.

"The body is a bodhi tree" means that we use the body as the foundation through which we cultivate enlightenment. The second line, "The mind is a bright mirror," means that the mind is like a mirror that reflects what is in front of it without adding any self-centered view. If you can imagine it, the mind is like a circular mirror that can reflect everything around it, in 360 degrees. The meaning of the third line, "Always diligently polish the mirror," is that we should be diligent in using dharma methods to dissipate or eliminate vexations and wandering thoughts. The fourth line, "And do not let dust collect," means that one should work hard to train the mind so that it does not permit vexations to stain our clear, mirrorlike mind.

So, please, everyone take a guess. Does this poem express a realization of formlessness? Does it demonstrate a true understanding of the dharma of mind? Yes or no? [The participants reply, "No."]

But does this poem express something good? Yes, of course it does. Practitioners need to behave like this. In any case, according to the Platform Sutra, by then Huineng had already realized the dharma of mind after hearing someone quote from the Diamond Sutra. Because he was illiterate, Huineng asked one of the monks to read him Shenxiu's verse on the wall. That night, after hearing Shenxiu's verse, Huineng had someone help him to write the following lines on the wall, next to Shenxiu's verse. Huineng's poem went like this:

Bodhi is originally without a tree,
The mirror is also without a stand.
Originally there is not a single thing.
Where is there a place for dust to collect?

"Originally there is not a single thing" means that there are no real substantial forms called bodhi, buddhanature, or emptiness. Huineng is saying that bodhi is not a substantial thing.

People often think that enlightenment is an experience whereby we can feel a certain thing, or discover exactly what this "thing," enlightenment, is. This is an incorrect view, because enlightenment, or "seeing the nature," is an experience of emptiness. It is the experience of phenomena as being empty and insubstantial.

Most Eastern and Western philosophies and religions believe in a highest, or ultimate, reality to which they give names such as "oneness" or "God." Actually, we enter this oneness when we experience unified mind in meditation. In the West, it may be called oneness, but according to the Chan dharma, we need to put down this unified mind, to let go of it. We do not want to think of this unified mind as the highest, or ultimate, truth.

But how do we get to what is the highest truth? We have to drop everything, and then we will come to the point of formlessness, or nonattachment to all forms. Forms are products of causes and conditions. As such they are changing and nonsubstantial. They still exist; it is just that the enlightened mind does not abide in them.

This idea of formlessness is different from theories that postulate an original substance or an original cause. Buddhadharma, in contrast, advocates the idea that everything arises because of causes and conditions, and is therefore empty, or formless. Now, let's compare the emptiness of the dharma of the teachings with the emptiness that is actualized in the dharma of mind. The emptiness of the dharma of teachings is arrived at through logical deduction or through analysis. In both cases we are using the mind to reach understanding.

However, to actually realize emptiness, we use Chan methods such as silent illumination¹ and huatou². Regardless of which method we use, when our mind reaches a unified state, we should not cling to that state. But we cannot just do this at will; we must continue to apply our method, again and again, until even unified mind disappears of its own accord. What remains is no-mind, or the actual realization of emptiness.

When conditions in our practice mature, and we encounter some kind of acute stimulus—certain sounds, words, or sights—all doubts and questions may suddenly disappear. Or perhaps suddenly we are able to put down our already stabilized mind, and all thoughts instantly disintegrate and shatter. It is as if we have just broken through a silk cocoon in which we have been confined. Not only has the cocoon disappeared, but the silkworm has disappeared. We are free of all burdens. Everything still exists, but there is no self; that is to say, there is no clinging and vexation associated with our self. This emptiness is reached through spiritual practice, and is different from the emptiness reached through analysis or logic.

When seeing the nature, one realizes that all phenomena are insubstantial and that the self has always been nonexistent. At this time, one is able to put down all attachments. However, sooner or later, depending on the person and the depth of the experience, one's self-centeredness and attachments return. Therefore, it is extremely important to continue using methods of practice. For example, when we are practicing huatou at the deeper level called "watching the huatou," we feel at one with the huatou; we have become the huatou. At this level, we may experience things like unified mind, dilution of the sense of self, and even emptiness. If we continue to practice at this level, our realization will deepen.

Regardless of whether or not one can repeat the experience, seeing the nature is extremely valuable. Although one still has self-centeredness, many vexations will have been eliminated. Having experienced putting down one's mind, one also develops a high degree of self-confidence and will never again lose one's spiritual practice. This experience is like suddenly seeing light for the first time. Although the light will fade or disappear, the individual will still know what that light is, because he or she has actually seen it. Something like this happens when one experiences seeing the nature, or emptiness. A shallow experience of enlightenment can be called seeing the nature, while a deeper experience of enlightenment can be called liberation.

There is also the case where someone has some kind of an experience and then mistakenly believes they are enlightened. For instance, while using the method they eventually reach a point where they have no wandering thoughts. It may even seem for a time that there is no sense of self, and they experience a feeling of being in infinite space. In this infinite space, there is no sun, no moon, and no earth—just space. They may think that this is an experience of emptiness, but actually this is just samadhi—a relatively shallow samadhi, one in a series of stages of samadhi.

There are also people who, while practicing meditation or engaging in daily life, have very strong concentration, and suddenly time and space, as well as the method, drop away. These people are using their brain in a very tense way, and suddenly they enter a vast, empty space that could be filled with light, or even without light. They may think that they have experienced emptiness. But actually, this is just a case where the practitioner's mind may have become unstable due to too much tenseness in the practice. It is not an experience of emptiness or enlightenment. So, it is essential that we relax our minds and bodies as we use our method.

We have talked about the experience of emptiness via the dharma of mind, in which one uses a practice method to realize emptiness, or formlessness. By using the practice method, one learns to let go of the self and to realize this emptiness. Are there people who are able to actualize emptiness without using a method? Yes, but they are extremely rare.

What Good Is Enlightenment?

Are you engaged in spiritual practice for yourself or for the sake of others? The idea of practicing for other people might sound very strange. Yet, because we are practicing how to contemplate emptiness, which implies no-self, it would also be strange to be practicing for ourselves. So, are we just wasting time here?

Actually practice is not for the sake of anything. You practice just to practice. These past two days, I have talked a lot about emptiness, about enlightenment, seeing the nature, and such things. I have said that after enlightenment, one realizes no-mind, no-self, and no-form. With all these negations, what can we say is the good of enlightenment?

To answer this, we should remember the line from the Diamond Sutra, "Abiding nowhere, give rise to mind." Abiding nowhere means seeing one's self-nature. It means not clinging to form, allowing the wisdom of no-self to arise. As this wisdom appears, compassion will also appear along with it. This union of wisdom and compassion is called bodhi mind, or bodhicitta—the wisdom of no-self together with nondiscriminating compassion. So bodhi mind is not just limited to wisdom, as some people may think.

We can say that wisdom, or prajna, is not three things: it is not experience, it is not knowledge, and it is not thinking. Rather, wisdom is the attitude of no-self. We can also speak of three things that compassion is not: it is not ordinary sympathy, it is not fixed on any object, and it does not seek goals. Compassion is not the same as love. Through compassion, one helps all sentient beings without discriminating between one and the other, and one impartially gives benefit to all sentient beings. Again, compassion has no fixed recipient, and because it is formless, it has no goal in mind—one is not compassionate in order to get something. Compassion is helping sentient beings in just the right way for each individual.

I want to give you a kind of formula that describes wisdom and compassion. I will give you the basic structure of this formula, but you must fill in the blanks yourself. It goes like this: Wisdom is not (blank), not (blank), and not (blank). Compassion is not (blank), not (blank), and not (blank). Can you fill in the blanks? This is very important, for if you've seen the nature, the three nots of wisdom and the three nots of compassion should arise in your experience of enlightenment. If your experience after seeing the nature is not in accordance with these definitions, your experience has some problems.

Please recite: "Wisdom is not knowledge, wisdom is not experience, and wisdom is not thinking." [Participants recite.]

Wisdom is the attitude of no-self.

And now for compassion. Please recite: "Compassion is not sympathy, compassion has no fixed recipients, and compassion is without a goal." [Participants recite.]

Compassion is impartially benefiting all sentient beings in just the right way.

Many people superstitiously or erroneously believe that after enlightenment, they would have nothing left to do, that practice would be all over with. They think that enlightenment is fantastically wonderful, and they also hope that other people can confirm for them that they have seen the nature. But if at the time of supposed enlightenment, no wisdom or compassion arises, if these qualities of bodhi mind do not arise, then this is not actual enlightenment. It is a false experience. So, if you have such an experience, you can look into it to see if such qualities have arisen. However, I emphasize that you should still consult a qualified teacher who can recognize an enlightenment experience.

I have said that seeing the nature is not the same as enlightenment. After seeing the nature, for several days one will be full of wisdom and compassion, vexations will not arise, and one's self-centeredness will not be so strong. But after some time, vexations will return. However, one's confidence will be quite strong, and one will develop a strong sense of humility. This humility exists because one realizes that one still has a long way to go to achieve liberation, and an even longer journey to buddhahood. So, one will be very humble, and will not be arrogant about this achievement.

From what I have seen, the great practitioners in different spiritual systems are all very humble. They all think that they have insufficient practice and insufficient attainment. Although the Chan masters sometimes used methods such as striking, shouting, and scolding, it was not done out of arrogance. These are methods that, when used in the right way, can give a disciple just the right kind of help.

The great Tibetan lamas I have met, practitioners of high spiritual attainment, are still quite humble. But there are some practitioners who have had a little experience in samadhi, who have not really seen the nature, yet behave arrogantly. This arrogance is a manifestation of their vexations.

Recently I met a great lama, who was the incarnation of Tsongkapa, the great Tibetan teacher. I said to him, "You must be the reincarnation of Tsongkapa, the teacher of the First Dalai Lama. According to belief, this also means you are the avatar of Maitreya Buddha."

He said, "Well, you know, that is what people believe. I am just a practitioner. It is just that Tibetans believe that I am the emanation body of Maitreya and the teacher of the First Dalai Lama."

Then I asked him, "Does this mean you are not actually the reincarnation of Tsongkapa?"

He replied, "That's the belief. I can't deny this belief, either." I said, "Are you Maitreya?" And he said, "Well, I practice the methods of Maitreya."

So, he wouldn't affirm that he actually was Maitreya. He just considered himself a practitioner and one who learned from Maitreya.

It was the same way with the current Dalai Lama. When I asked him, "Everyone believes that you are an emanation body (nirmanakaya) of Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva. Are you Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva?" He said, "I am a little bhikshu who every day makes many prostrations to the Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva."

So, as we look at people with great spiritual achievements, such as the enlightened Chan patriarchs and Chan masters, we can see that most of them were very much like ordinary monks—in fact, more humble than the average monk. They did not go around thinking, "I'm enlightened, so I'm different from everyone else." They saw themselves as the same as other people. The difference is that they viewed the world in a different way. They did not impose labels on the world, such as good and evil, or have thoughts such as, "I like this" or, "I don't like that."

If they saw a sick person, they would try to help the person get treatment; if they saw the hungry, they would try to give food; if there was war, they knew that war was a very cruel thing, and they hoped to avoid war. If a fire broke out, they would try to find a way to extinguish the fire. However, in the midst of all these activities, their minds would not fluctuate.

So, they did not have extremes of love and hatred, and they did not have all kinds of fears, anxieties, jealousies, and doubts. They just did whatever was necessary. This is indicative of their wisdom and compassion, of their bodhi mind, their bodhicitta.

Huineng's verse continues:

Yet this gateway into seeing the nature
Cannot be fully comprehended by the ignorant.

I have talked a lot about emptiness and wisdom and realization, but at the same time, we can also say there is no real gateway to such wisdom, to such knowledge of the dharma, because for the enlightened, the dharma of mind is already present before them. When one realizes wisdom, one sees that there was no gate to go through, since one has always been inside the gate. This is why Chan is sometimes called the gateless gate. As for the foolish, they cannot even see the gate, much less go through it.

For both the wise and the foolish, this gate is really a doctrine or method to give us a direction; it is a dharma gateway into seeing the nature. But once we see the nature, we realize there was no gateway to go through. That is the meaning of Huineng's "gateway."

Some may think that practice is the gateway to seeing one's nature, but practice is actually a direct way to see the nature. We just practice dropping the self and phenomena, and letting go of all forms. In particular, we have to let go of the unified mind. Many people cling to the stage of unified mind. They feel that since they are unified with the universe, they no longer have a self. While they may no longer have the individual self, they have still taken the universe as their self. There is still an existent self that is at one with a limitless universe. At this stage, they are not yet enlightened and need to abandon this state of mind.

In both the huatou and silent illumination methods, our practice may reach the state of unified mind. In huatou, this occurs when the great doubt arises; in silent illumination, it happens when one feels at one with the environment. If it seems like we are speaking of two kinds of unified mind, that is correct. The difference is that in the case of huatou, one is not yet in samadhi; one is still grappling with the great doubt. However, both are states of unified mind.

There are some who consider unified mind to be enlightenment, and I do not wish to dispute that. However, unified mind is not Buddhist enlightenment, because there is still a notion of self; there is still an "I" who feels at one with the huatou, or with the universe. For a practitioner of Chan, unified mind is a stage in the practice, but not yet realization. One needs to go beyond unified mind to where the "self" has been totally left behind, and one experiences no-mind. At this point one may actually realize the dharma of mind. And yes, this can be called enlightenment.

¹ In silent illumination, the practitioner focuses on the act of "just sitting." Silent illumination is similar to the shamatha-vipashyana (insight meditation) of Theravada, as well as to the shikantaza ("just sitting") of Japanese Zen.

² The huatou (Jap., wato; literally, "head of a thought") method is similar in most respects to the gong'an (Jap., koan) practice. The main difference is that rather than meditating on the whole gong'an, the practitioner of huatou continually asks a question that can be taken from a gong'an, or it may be an original question, such as, Who am I? The intent and end result of both gong'an and huatou are otherwise similar.

© Dharma Drum Publications.

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MASTER SHENG YEN is the founder of Dharma Drum Mountain, which includes the Chan Meditation Center in Elmhurst, New York, and Dharma Drum Retreat Center in Pine Bush, New York. This article is based on a talk he gave at a Chan retreat in Moscow, which was organized by Wujimen, a Russian martial arts club.