Original subtitles

Nan-in, a Japanese master during the Meiji era, received a university

professor who came to inquire about Zen.

Nan-in served tea.

He poured his visitor's cup full, then kept on pouring.

The professor watched the overflow until he no longer could restrain himself.

It is over full, no more will go in.

Like this cup, Nan-in said.

You were full of your own opinions and speculations.

How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup?

Gudo was the emperor's teacher of his time.

Nevertheless, he used to travel alone as a wandering mendicant.

Once when he was on his way to Edo, the cultural and political center of the

shogunate, he approached a little village named Takenaka.

It was evening and a heavy rain was falling.

Gudo was thoroughly wet. His straw sandals were in pieces.

At a farmhouse near the village, he noticed four or five pairs of sandals in

the window and decided to buy some dry ones.

The woman who offered him the sandals, seeing how wet he was, invited him to

remain for the night in her home.

Gudo accepted, thanking her.

He entered and recited a sutra before the family shrine.

He then was introduced to the woman's mother and to her children.

Observing that the entire family was depressed, Kudo asked what was wrong.

My husband is a gambler and a drunkard, the housewife told him.

When he happens to win, he drinks and becomes abusive.

When he loses, he borrows money from others.

Sometimes when he becomes thoroughly drunk, he does not come home at all.

What can I do?

I will help him, said Gudo.

Here is some money.

Get me a gallon of fine wine and something good to eat.

Then you may retire. I will meditate before the shrine.

When the man of the house returned about midnight, quite drunk, he bellowed, Hey,

wife, I'm home.

Have you something for me to eat?

I have something for you, said Gudo.

I happened to be caught in the rain, and your wife kindly asked me to remain here

for the night.

In return, I have bought some wine and fish, so you might as well have them.

The man was delighted.

He drank the wine at once and laid himself down on the floor.

Gudo sat in meditation beside him.

In the morning when the husband awoke, he had forgotten about the previous

night.

Who are you? Where do you come from? he asked Gudo, who still was meditating.

I am Gudo of Kyoto.

and I am going on to Edo, replied the Zen master.

The man was utterly ashamed.

He apologized profusely to the teacher of his emperor.

Gudo smiled.

Everything in this life is impermanent, he explained.

Life is very brief.

If you keep on gambling and drinking, you will have no time left to accomplish

anything else, and you'll cause your family to suffer too.

The perception of the husband awoke as if from a dream.

You are right, he declared. How can I ever repay you for this wonderful

teaching? Let me see you off and carry your things a little way.

If you wish, assented Gudo.

The two started out.

After they had gone three miles, Gudo told him to return.

Just another five miles, he begged Gudo. They continue on.

You may return now, suggested Gudo.

Another ten miles, the man replied.

Return now, said Gudo when the ten miles had been passed.

I'm going to follow you all the rest of my life, declared the man.

Modern Zen teachers in Japan spring from the lineage of a famous master who was

the successor of Gudo.

His name was Munan, the man who never turned back.

The Zen master Hakuin was praised by his neighbors as one living a pure life.

A beautiful Japanese girl whose parents owned a food store lived near him.

Suddenly, without any warning, her parents discovered she was with child.

This made her parents angry.

She would not confess who the man was, but after much harassment, at last named

Hakuin.

In great anger the parents went to the master.

Is that so?

was all he would say.

After the child was born it was brought to Hakuin. By this time he had lost his

reputation which did not trouble him.

But he took very good care of the child.

He obtained milk from his neighbors and everything else the little one needed.

A year later the girl mother could stand it no longer.

She told her parents the truth.

that the real father of the child was a young man who worked in the fish market.

The mother and father of the girl at once went to Hakuin to ask his

forgiveness, to apologize at length and to get the child back again.

Hakuin was willing.

In yielding the child, all he said was, Is that so?

The Master Bangke's talks were attended not only by Zen students, but by persons

of all ranks and sects. He never quoted sutras nor indulged in scholastic

dissertations. Instead, his words were spoken directly from his heart to the

hearts of his listeners.

His large audiences angered a priest of the Nichiren sect because the adherents

had left to hear about Zen.

The self-centered Nichiren priest came to the temple determined to debate with

Banke.

A Zen teacher, he called out. Wait a minute.

Whoever respects you will obey what you say.

But a man like myself does not respect you.

Can you make me obey you?

Come up beside me and I will show you, said Banke.

Proudly, the priest pushed his way through the crowd to the teacher.

Banke smiled. Come over to my left side.

The priest obeyed.

No, said Banke, we may talk better if you are on the right side. Step over

here. The priest proudly stepped over to the right.

You see, observed Banke, you are obeying me, and I think you are a very gentle

person. Now sit down and listen.

Twenty monks and one nun who was named Ishun were practicing meditation with a

certain Zen master.

Yishun was very pretty, even though her head was shaved and her dress plain.

Several monks secretly fell in love with her.

One of them wrote her a love letter, insisting upon a private meeting.

Yishun did not reply.

The following day the master gave a lecture to the group, and when it was

over, Yishun arose.

Addressing the one who had written her, she said, If you really love me so much,

come and embrace me now.

There was an old woman in China who had supported a monk for over 20 years.

She had built a little hut for him and fed him while he was meditating.

Finally, she wondered just what progress he had made in all this time.

To find out, she obtained the help of a girl rich in desire.

Go and embrace him, she told her, and then ask him suddenly, What now?

The girl called upon the monk.

and without much ado caressed him, asking him what he was going to do about

it.

An old tree grows on a cold rock in winter, replied the monk somewhat

poetically. Nowhere is there any warmth.

The girl returned and related what he had said.

To think I fed that fellow for twenty years, exclaimed the old woman in anger.

He showed no consideration for your need, no disposition to explain your

condition.

He need not have responded to passion, but at least he should have evidenced

some compassion.

She at once went to the hut of the monk and burned it down.

In the early days of the Meiji era, there lived a well-known wrestler called

Onami. Great waves.

Onami was immensely strong and knew the art of wrestling.

In his private bouts he defeated even his teacher, but in public he was so

bashful that his own pupils threw him.

Onami felt he should go to a Zen master for help.

Hakuju, a wandering teacher, was stopping in a little temple nearby, so

Onami went to see him and told him of his great trouble.

Great waves is your name, the teacher advised.

So stay in this temple tonight.

Imagine that you are those billows.

You are no longer a wrestler who is afraid.

You are those huge waves sweeping everything before them, swallowing all

in their path.

Do this, and you will be the greatest wrestler in the land.

The teacher retired.

Onami sat in meditation, trying to imagine himself as waves.

He thought of many different things.

Then gradually he turned more and more to the feeling of the waves.

As the night advanced, the waves became larger and larger.

They swept away the flowers in their vases.

Even the Buddha in the shrine was inundated.

Before dawn, the temple was nothing but the ebb and flow of an immense sea.

In the morning, the teacher found Onami meditating, a faint smile on his face.

He patted the wrestler's shoulder.

Now nothing can disturb you, he said.

You are those waves.

You will sweep everything before you.

The same day, Onami entered the wrestling contest and won.

After that, no one in Japan was able to defeat him.

Ryokan, a Zen master, lived the simplest kind of life in a little hut at the foot

of a mountain.

One evening, a thief visited the hut.

only to discover there was nothing in it to steal.

Ryokan returned and caught him.

You may have come a long way to visit me, he told the prowler, and you should

not return empty-handed.

Please take my clothes as a gift.

The thief was bewildered. He took the clothes and slunk away.

Ryokan sat naked watching the moon.

Poor fellow, he mused.

I wish I could give him this beautiful moon.

The Zen master Ho Shin lived in China many years.

Then he returned to the northeastern part of Japan where he taught his

disciples.

When he was getting very old, he told them a story he had heard in China. This

is the story.

One year, on the 25th of December,

Tokufu, who was very old, said to his disciples, I'm not going to be alive

next year, so you fellows should treat me well this year.

The pupils thought he was joking, but since he was a great-hearted teacher,

each of them in turn treated him to a feast on succeeding days of the

departing year.

On the eve of the new year, Tokufu concluded, You have been good to me.

I shall leave you tomorrow afternoon when the snow has stopped.

The disciples laughed, thinking he was aging and talking nonsense, since the

night was clear and without snow.

But at midnight, snow began to fall, and the next day they did not find their

teacher about.

They went to the meditation hall.

There he had passed on.

Hoshin, who related this story, told his disciples,

It is not necessary for a Zen master to predict his passing.

But if he really wishes to do so, he can.

Can you, someone asked.

Yes, answered Hoshin.

I will show you what I can do seven days from now.

None of the disciples believed him, and most of them had even forgotten the

conversation when Hoshin called them together.

Seven days ago, he remarked, I said I was going to leave you.

It is customary to write a farewell poem, but I am neither a poet nor

calligrapher.

Let one of you inscribe my last words.

His followers thought he was joking, but one of them started to write.

Are you ready, Hoshin asked.

Yes, sir, replied the writer.

Then Hoshin dictated, I came from brilliancy and return to brilliancy.

What is this?

The poem was one line short of the customary four, so the disciple said,

Master, we are one line short.

Ho Shin, with the roar of a conquering lion, shouted, Ka!

and was gone.

The exquisite Shunkei, whose other name was Susu, was compelled to marry against

her wishes when she was quite young.

Later, after this marriage had ended, she attended the university where she

studied philosophy.

To see Shunkei was to fall in love with her.

Moreover, wherever she went, she herself fell in love with others.

Love was with her at the university, and afterwards, when philosophy did not

satisfy her and she visited a temple to learn about Zen, the Zen students fell

in love with her.

Shunkei's whole life was saturated with love.

At last in Kyoto she became a real student of Zen.

Her brothers in the sub-temple of Kenin praised her sincerity.

One of them proved to be a congenial spirit and assisted her in the mastery

of Zen.

The abbot of Kenin, Mokurai, Silent Thunder, was severe.

He kept the precepts himself and expected his priests to do so.

In modern Japan, whatever zeal these priests have lost for Buddhism, they

seem to have gained for taking wives.

Mokure used to take a broom and chase the women away when he found them in any

of his temples.

But the more wives he swept out, the more seemed to come back.

In this particular temple, the wife of the head priest became jealous of

Shunkei's earnestness and beauty.

Hearing the students praise her serious Zen made this wife squirm and itch.

Finally, she spread a rumor about Shunkei and the young man who was her

friend.

As a consequence, he was expelled.

and Shunkei was removed from the temple.

I may have made the mistake of love, thought Shunkei, but the priest's wife

shall not remain in the temple either if my friend is to be treated so unjustly.

Shunkei the same night with a can of kerosene set fire to the 500-year-old

temple and burned it to the ground.

In the morning she found herself in the hands of the police.

A young lawyer became interested in her and endeavored to make her sentence

lighter.

Do not help me, she told him.

I might decide to do something else which would only imprison me again.

At last a sentence of seven years was completed and Shunkei was released from

the prison where the sixty-year-old warden also had become enamored of her.

But now everyone looked upon her as a jailbird.

No one would associate with her.

Even the Zen people who were supposed to believe in enlightenment in this life

and with this body shunned her.

Zen Shunke found was one thing, and the followers of Zen quite another.

Her relatives would have nothing to do with her.

She grew sick, poor, and weak.

She met a Shinsu priest who taught her the name of the Buddha of Love, and in

this Shunke found some solace and peace of mind.

She passed away when she was still exquisitely beautiful and hardly thirty

years old.

She wrote her own story in a futile endeavor to support herself, and some of

it she told to a woman writer, so it reached the Japanese people.

Those who rejected Shunkei, those who slandered and hated her, now read of her

life with tears of remorse.

In Tokyo in the Meiji era, there lived two prominent teachers of opposite

characteristics.

One, Unshou, an instructor in Shingon, kept Buddha's precepts scrupulously.

He never drank intoxicants, nor did he eat after eleven o'clock in the morning.

The other teacher, Tanzan, a professor of philosophy at the Imperial

University, never observed the precepts. When he felt like eating, he ate, and

when he felt like sleeping in the daytime, he slept.

One day Unshou visited Tanzan, who was drinking wine at the time, not even a

drop of which is supposed to touch the tongue of a Buddhist.

Hello, brother, Tanzan greeted him.

Won't you have a drink?

I never drink, exclaimed Unshou solemnly.

For one who does not drink is not even human, said Tanzan.

Do you mean to call me inhuman just because I do not indulge in intoxicating

liquids, exclaimed Unshou in anger?

Then if I am not human, what am I?

A Buddha, answered Tanzan.

Shoun became a teacher of Soto Zen.

When he was still a student, his father passed away, leaving him to care for his

old mother.

Whenever Shoun went to a meditation hall, he always took his mother with

him. Since she accompanied him when he visited monasteries, he could not live

with the monks.

So he would build a little house and care for her there.

He would copy sutras, Buddhist verses, and in this manner receive a few coins

for food.

When Shon brought fish for his mother, people would scoff at him for a monk is

not supposed to eat fish.

But Shon did not mind.

His mother, however, was hurt to see others laugh at her son.

Finally she told Shouwen, I think I will become a nun. I can be a vegetarian too.

She did, and they studied together.

Shouwen was fond of music and was a master of the harp, which his mother

also played.

On full moon nights they used to play together.

One night a young lady passed by their house and heard music.

Deeply touched, she invited Shouwen to visit her the next evening and play.

He accepted the invitation.

A few days later he met the young lady on the street and thanked her for her

hospitality.

Others laughed at him. He had visited the house of a woman of the streets.

One day Shon left for a distant temple to deliver a lecture.

A few months afterwards he returned home to find his mother dead.

Friends had not known where to reach him, so the funeral was then in

progress.

Shoan walked up and hit the coffin with his staff.

Mother, your son has returned, he said.

I'm glad to see you've returned, son, he answered for his mother.

Yes, I'm glad too, Shoan responded.

Then he announced to the people about him, The funeral ceremony is over. You

may bury the body.

When Shoan was old, he knew his end was approaching.

He asked his disciples to gather around him in the morning.

telling them he was going to pass on at noon.

Burning incense before the picture of his mother and his old teacher, he wrote

a poem.

For fifty-six years I lived as best I could, making my way in this world.

Now the rain has ended, the clouds are clearing, the blue sky has a full moon.

His disciples gathered about him, reciting a sutra.

and Shon passed on during the invocation.

A university student, while visiting Ghassan, asked him, Have you ever read

the Christian Bible?

No, read it to me, said Ghassan.

The student opened the Bible and read from St. Matthew.

And why take ye thought for raiment?

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow.

They toil not, neither do they spin, and yet I say unto you that even Solomon in

all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

Take therefore no thought for the morrow, for the morrow shall take

thought for the things of itself.

Ghassan said, Whoever uttered those words I consider an enlightened man.

The student continued reading, Ask, and it shall be given you.

Seek, and ye shall find.

Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.

For everyone that asketh, receiveth, and he that seeketh, findeth.

And to him that knocketh, it shall be opened.

Ghassan remarked, That is excellent.

Whoever said that is not far from Buddhahood.

Buddha told a parable in a sutra.

A man traveling across a field encountered a tiger.

He fled the tiger after him.

Coming to a precipice, he caught hold of the root of a wild vine and swung

himself down over the edge.

The tiger sniffed at him from above.

Trembling, the man looked down to where, far below, another tiger was waiting to

eat him.

Only the vine sustained him.

Two mice, one white, and one black, little by little, started to

gnaw away the vine.

The man saw a luscious strawberry near him.

Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other.

How sweet it tasted!

When one goes to Obaku Temple in Kyoto, He sees carved over the gate the words,

The First Principle.

The letters are unusually large, and those who appreciate calligraphy always

admire them as being a masterpiece.

They were drawn by Kosen two hundred years ago.

When the master drew them, he did so on paper from which workmen made the larger

carving in wood.

As Kosen sketched the letters, a bold pupil was with him.

who had made several gallons of ink for the calligraphy and who never failed to

criticize his master's work.

That is not good, he told Kosen after the first effort.

How was that one?

Poor, worse than before, pronounced the pupil.

Kosen patiently wrote one sheet after another until eighty-four first

principles had accumulated, still without the approval of the pupil.

Then when the young man stepped outside for a few moments, Kosen thought, now is

my chance to escape his keen eye, and he wrote hurriedly with a mind free from

distraction, the first principle.

A masterpiece, pronounced the pupil.

Jiyun, a Shingon master, was a well-known Sanskrit scholar of the

Tokugawa era.

When he was young, he used to deliver lectures to his brother's students.

His mother heard about this and wrote him a letter.

Son, I do not think you became a devotee of the Buddha because you desired to

turn into a walking dictionary for others.

There is no end to information and commentation, glory and honor.

I wish you would stop this lecture business.

Shut yourself up in a little temple in a remote part of the mountain.

Devote your time to meditation and in this way attain true realization.

The master of Kenin Temple was Mokurai, Silent Thunder.

He had a little protege named Toyo who was only 12 years old.

Toyo saw the older disciples visit the master's room each morning and evening

to receive instructions in Sanzen.

or personal guidance, in which they were given koans to stop mind-wandering.

Toyo wished to do a sanzen also.

Wait a while, said Mokurai. You're too young.

But the child insisted, so the teacher finally consented.

In the evening, little Toyo went at the proper time to the threshold of

Mokurai's sanzen room.

He struck the gong to announce his presence.

bowed respectfully three times outside the door, and went to sit before the

master in respectful silence.

You can hear the sound of two hands when they clap together, said Mokurai.

Now show me the sound of one hand.

Toyo bowed and went to his room to consider this problem.

From his window he could hear the music of the geishas.

Ah, I have it, he proclaimed.

The next evening, when his teacher asked him to illustrate the sound of one hand,

Toyo began to play the music of the geishas.

No, no, no, said Mokurai, that will never do. That is not the sound of one

hand. You've not got it at all.

Thinking that such music might interrupt, Toyo moved his abode to a

quiet place.

He meditated again.

What can the sound of one hand be?

He happened to hear some water dripping. I have it, imagined Toyo.

When he next appeared before his teacher, Toyo imitated dripping water.

What is that? asked Mokurai.

That is the sound of dripping water, but not the sound of one hand.

Try again.

In vain, Toyo meditated to hear the sound of one hand.

He heard the sighing of the wind, but the sound was rejected.

He heard the cry of an owl. This also was refused.

The sound of one hand was not the locusts.

For more than ten times Toyo visited Mokurai with different sounds. All were

wrong. For almost a year he pondered what the sound of one hand might be.

At last little Toyo entered true meditation and transcended all sounds.

I could collect no more, he explained later.

So I reached the soundless sound.

Toyo had realized the sound of one hand.

Soyen Shaku, the first Zen teacher to come to America, said, My heart burns

like fire, but my eyes are as cold as dead ashes.

He made the following rules which he practiced every day of his life.

In the morning before dressing, light incense and meditate.

Retire at a regular hour.

Partake of food at regular intervals.

Eat with moderation and never to the point of satisfaction.

Receive a guest with the same attitude you have when alone.

When alone, maintain the same attitude you have in receiving guests.

Watch what you say.

and whatever you say, practice it.

When an opportunity comes, do not let it pass by, yet always think twice before

acting.

Do not regret the past, look to the future.

Have the fearless attitude of a hero and the loving heart of a child.

Upon retiring, sleep as if you had entered your last sleep.

Upon awakening, leave your bed behind you instantly, as if you had cast away a

pair of old shoes.

When Aishun, the Zen nun, was past sixty and about to leave this world, she asked

some monks to pile up wood in the yard.

Seating herself firmly in the center of the funeral pyre, she had it set fire

around the edges.

Oh, none, shouted one monk. Is it hot in there?

Such a matter would concern only a stupid person like yourself, answered

Aishun. The flames arose and she passed away.

A farmer requested a Tendai priest to recite sutras for his wife who had died.

After the recitation was over, the farmer asked,

Do you think my wife will gain merit from this?

Not only your wife, but all sentient beings will benefit from the recitation

of sutras, answered the priest.

If you say all sentient beings will benefit, said the farmer, my wife may be

very weak and others will take advantage of her, getting the benefits she should

have. So please, recite sutras just for her.

The priest explained that it was the desire of a Buddhist to offer blessings

and wish merit for every living being.

That is a fine teaching, concluded the farmer, but please make one exception.

I have a neighbor who is rough and mean to me.

Just exclude him from all those sentient beings.

Suiwo, the disciple of Hakuin, was a good teacher.

During one summer seclusion period, a pupil came to him from a southern island

of Japan.

Suiwo gave him a problem.

Hear the sound of one hand.

The pupil remained three years but could not pass this test.

One night he came in tears to Suiwo.

I must return south in shame and embarrassment, he said, for I cannot

solve my problem.

Wait one week more and meditate constantly, advised Suiwo.

Still no enlightenment came to the pupil.

Try for another week, said Sui Wo.

The pupil obeyed but in vain.

Still another week, yet this was of no avail.

In despair the student begged to be released, but Sui Wo requested another

meditation of five days.

They were without result.

Then he said, meditate for three days longer.

Then if you fail to attain enlightenment, you had better kill

yourself.

On the second day, the pupil was enlightened.

Provided he makes and wins an argument about Buddhism with those who live

there, any wandering monk can remain in a Zen temple.

If he is defeated, he has to move on.

In a temple in the northern part of Japan, two brother monks were dwelling

together.

The elder one was learned, but the younger one was stupid and had but one

eye.

A wandering monk came and asked for lodging, properly challenging them to a

debate about the sublime teaching.

The elder brother, tired that day from much studying, told the younger one to

take his place.

Go and request the dialogue in silence, he cautioned.

So the young monk and the stranger went to the shrine and sat down.

Shortly afterwards, the traveler rose and went into the elder brother and

said, Your young brother is a wonderful fellow. He defeated me.

Relate the dialogue to me, said the elder one.

Well, explained the traveler, first I held up one finger, representing Buddha,

the enlightened one.

So he held up two fingers, signifying Buddha and his teaching.

I held up three fingers, representing Buddha, his teaching, and his followers

living the harmonious life.

Then he shook his clenched fist in my face, indicating that all three come

from one realization.

Thus he won, and so I have no right to remain here.

With this the traveler left.

Where's that fellow? asked the younger one, running into his elder brother.

I understand you won the debate.

Won nothing. I'm going to beat him up.

Tell me the subject of the debate, asked the elder one.

Why, the minute he saw me, he held up one finger, insulting me by insinuating

that I have only one eye.

Since he was a stranger, I thought I would be polite to him, so I held up two

fingers, congratulating him that he has two eyes.

Then the impolite wretch held up three fingers, suggesting that between us we

only have three eyes.

So I got mad and started to punch him, but he ran out and that ended it.

After Banque had passed away, a blind man who lived near the Master's temple

told a friend, Since I am blind, I cannot watch a person's face, so I must

judge his character by the sound of his voice.

Ordinarily, when I hear someone congratulate another upon his happiness

or success, I also hear a secret tone of envy.

When condolence is expressed for the misfortune of another, I hear pleasure

and satisfaction.

as if the one condoling was really glad there was something left to gain in his

own world.

In all my experience, however, Banke's voice was always sincere.

Whenever he expressed happiness, I heard nothing but happiness, and whenever he

expressed sorrow, sorrow was all I heard.

Keichu, the great Zen teacher of the Meiji era, was the head of Tofuku, a

cathedral in Kyoto.

One day the governor of Kyoto called upon him for the first time.

His attendant presented the card of the governor, which read, Kitagaki, governor

of Kyoto.

I have no business with such a fellow, said Keichu to his attendant.

Tell him to get out of here.

The attendant carried the card back with apologies.

That was my error, said the governor, and with a pencil he scratched out the

words, Governor of Kyoto.

Ask your teacher again.

Oh, is that Kitagaki? exclaimed the teacher when he saw the card.

I want to see that fellow.

When Banzan was walking through a market, he overheard a conversation

between a butcher and his customer.

Give me the best piece of meat you have, said the customer.

Everything in my shop is the best, replied the butcher.

You cannot find here any piece of meat that is not the best.

At these words, Banzan became enlightened.

Mokusenhiki was living in a temple in the province of Tamba.

One of his adherents complained of the stinginess of his wife.

Moccasin visited the adherent's wife and showed her his clenched fist before her

face.

What do you mean by that? asked the surprised woman.

Suppose my fists were always like that. What would you call it? he asked.

Deformed, replied the woman.

Then he opened his hand flat in her face and asked, Suppose it were always like

that. What then?

Another kind of deformity, said the wife.

If you understand that much, finished Mokusen, you are a good wife.

Then he left.

After his visit, this wife helped her husband to distribute as well as to

save.

Mokugen was never known to smile until his last day on earth.

When his time came to pass away, he said to his faithful ones, You have studied

under me for more than ten years.

Show me your real interpretation of Zen.

Whoever expresses this most clearly shall be my successor and receive my

robe and bowl.

Everyone watched Mokugen's severe face, but no one answered.

Encho, a disciple who had been with his teacher for a long time, moved near the

bedside.

He pushed forward the medicine cup a few inches.

This was his answer to the command.

The teacher's face became even more severe.

Is that all you understand, he asked.

Encho reached out and moved the cup back again.

A beautiful smile broke over the features of Mokugen.

You rascal, he told Encho.

You have worked with me ten years and have not yet seen my whole body.

Take the robe and bowl.

They belong to you.

Zen students are with their masters at least ten years before they presume to

teach others.

Nan-in was visited by Tenno, who, having passed his apprenticeship, had become a

teacher.

The day happened to be rainy, so Tenno wore wooden clogs and carried an

umbrella.

After greeting him, Nan-In remarked, I suppose you left your wooden clogs in

the vestibule.

I want to know if your umbrella is on the right or left side of the clogs.

Tenno, confused, had no instant answer.

He realized that he was unable to carry his Zen every minute.

He became Nan-In's pupil, and he studied six more years to accomplish his every

-minute Zen.

Subhuti was Buddha's disciple.

He was able to understand the potency of emptiness, the viewpoint that nothing

exists except in its relationship of subjectivity and objectivity.

One day Subhuti, in a mood of sublime emptiness, was sitting under a tree.

Flowers began to fall about him.

We are praising you for your discourse on emptiness, the gods whispered to him.

But I have not spoken of emptiness, said Subhuti.

You have not spoken of emptiness.

We have not heard emptiness, responded the gods.

This is the true emptiness.

And blossoms showered upon Subhuti as rain.

Gisho was ordained as a nun when she was ten years old.

She received training just as the little boys did.

When she reached the age of sixteen, she traveled from one Zen master to another,

studying with them all.

She remained three years with Unzan, six years with Kuke, but was unable to

obtain a clear vision.

At last she went to the master Inzan.

Inzan showed her no distinction at all on account of her sex.

He scolded her like a thunderstorm.

He cuffed her to awaken her inner nature.

Gisho remained with Inzan thirteen years, and then she found that which she

was seeking.

In her honor, Inzan wrote a poem.

This nun studied thirteen years under my guidance.

In the evening she considered the deepest koans.

In the morning she was wrapped in other koans.

The Chinese nun Tetsuma surpassed all before her.

And since Mujaku, none has been so genuine as this Gisho.

Yet there are many more gates for her to pass through.

She should receive still more blows from my iron fist.

After Gisho was enlightened, she went to the province of Banshu, started her own

Zen temple, and taught two hundred other nuns until she passed away one year in

the month of August.

The master Soyen Shaku passed from this world when he was 61 years of age.

Fulfilling his life's work, he left a great teaching, far richer than that of

most Zen masters.

His pupils used to sleep in the daytime during midsummer, and while he

overlooked this, he himself never wasted a minute.

When he was but 12 years old, he was already studying Tendai philosophical

speculation.

One summer day, the air had been so sultry, that little Soyen stretched his

legs and went to sleep while his teacher was away.

Three hours passed.

When suddenly waking, he heard his master enter, but it was too late.

There he lay, sprawled across the doorway.

I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, his teacher whispered, stepping

carefully over Soyen's body, as if it were that of some distinguished guest.

After this, Soyen never slept again in the afternoon.

Our schoolmaster used to take a nap every afternoon, related a disciple of

Soyen Shaku.

We children asked him why he did it, and he told us, I go to dreamland to meet

the old sages just as Confucius did.

When Confucius slept, He would dream of ancient sages and later tell his

followers about them.

It was extremely hot one day, so some of us took a nap.

Our schoolmaster scolded us.

We went to Dreamland to meet the ancient sages, the same as Confucius did, we

explained.

What was the message from those sages, our schoolmaster demanded.

One of us replied, We went to Dreamland and met the sages and asked them if our

schoolmaster came there every afternoon, but they said they had never seen any

such fellow.

Joshu began the study of Zen when he was 60 years old and continued until he was

80 when he realized Zen.

He taught from the age of 80 until he was 120.

A student once asked him, If I haven't anything in my mind, what shall I do?

Joshu replied, Throw it out.

But if I haven't anything, how can I throw it out? continued the questioner.

Well, said Joshu, then carry it out.

When Mamiya, who later became a well-known preacher, went to a teacher

for personal guidance, he was asked to explain the sound of one hand.

Mamiya concentrated upon what the sound of one hand might be.

You're not working hard enough, his teacher told him. You are too attached

to food, wealth, things, and that sound.

It would be better if you died. That would solve the problem.

The next time Mamiya appeared before his teacher, he was again asked what he had

to show regarding the sound of one hand.

Mamiya at once fell over as if he were dead.

You're dead all right, observed the teacher, but how about that sound?

I haven't solved that yet, replied Mamiya, looking up.

Dead men do not speak, said the teacher. Get out.

Tosui was a well-known Zen teacher of his time.

He had lived in several temples and taught in various provinces.

The last temple he visited accumulated so many adherents that Tosui told them

he was going to quit the lecture business entirely.

He advised them to disperse and to go wherever they desired.

After that, no one could find any trace of him.

Three years later, one of his disciples discovered him living with some beggars

under a bridge in Kyoto.

He at once implored Tosui to teach him.

If you can do as I do for even a couple of days, I might, Tosui replied.

So the former disciple dressed as a beggar and spent a day with Tosui.

The following day, one of the beggars died.

Tosui and his pupil carried the body off at midnight and buried it on a

mountainside.

After that, they returned to their shelter under the bridge.

Tosui slept soundly the remainder of the night, but the disciple could not sleep.

When morning came, Tosui said, We do not have to beg food today.

Our dead friend has left some over there.

But the disciple was unable to eat a single bite of it.

I have said you could not do as I, concluded Tosui.

Get out of here and do not bother me again.

When Banke held his seclusion weeks of meditation, Pupils from many parts of

Japan came to attend.

During one of these gatherings, a pupil was caught stealing.

The matter was reported to Banke with the request that the culprit be

expelled.

Banke ignored the case.

Later, the pupil was caught in a similar act, and again Banke disregarded the

matter.

This angered the other pupils who drew up a petition asking for the dismissal

of the thief.

stating that otherwise they would leave in the body.

When Banke had read the petition, he called everyone before him.

You are wise brothers, he told them.

You know what is right and what is not right.

You may go somewhere else to study if you wish, but this poor brother does not

even know right from wrong.

Who will teach him if I do not?

I'm going to keep him here even if all the rest of you leave.

A torrent of tears cleansed the face of the brother who had stolen.

All desire to steal had vanished.

During the Kamakura period, Shinkan studied Tendai six years and then

studied Zen seven years.

Then he went to China and contemplated Zen for thirteen years more.

When he returned to Japan, many desired to interview him and asked, obscure

questions. But when Shinkan received visitors, which was infrequently, he

seldom answered their questions.

One day, a fifty-year-old student of enlightenment said to Shinkan, I have

studied the Tendai school of thought since I was a little boy, but one thing

in it I cannot understand.

Tendai claims that even the grass and trees will become enlightened. To me,

this seems very strange.

Of what use is it to discuss how grass and trees become enlightened, asked

Shinkan. The question is how you yourself can become so.

Did you ever consider that?

I never thought of it in that way, marveled the old man.

Then go home and think it over, finished Shinkan.

The Buddhist nun known as Ryōnen was born in 1797.

She was a granddaughter of the famous Japanese warrior Shingen.

Her poetical genius and alluring beauty were such that at 17 she was serving the

Empress as one of the ladies of the court.

Even at such a youthful age, fame awaited her.

The beloved Empress died suddenly, and Ryōnen's hopeful dreams vanished.

She became acutely aware of the impermanency of life in this world.

It was then that she desired to study Zen.

Her relatives disagreed, however, and practically forced her into marriage.

With a promise that she might become a nun after she had born three children,

Rionan assented.

Before she was twenty-five, she had accomplished this condition.

Then her husband and relatives could no longer dissuade her from her desire.

She shaved her head, took the name of Ryōnen, which means to realize clearly,

and started on her pilgrimage.

She came to the city of Edo and asked Tetsugyu to accept her as a disciple.

At one glance, the master rejected her because she was too beautiful.

Ryōnen then went on to another master, Hakuo.

Hakuo refused her for the same reason, saying that her beauty would only make

trouble.

Ryōnen obtained a hot iron and placed it against her face.

In a few moments, her beauty had vanished forever.

Hakko then accepted her as a disciple.

Commemorating this occasion, Ryōnen wrote a poem on the back of a little

mirror.

In the service of my empress, I burned incense to perfume my exquisite clothes.

Now, as a homeless mendicant, I burn my face to enter a Zen temple.

When Rhionon was about to pass from this world, she wrote another poem.

Sixty-six times these eyes beheld the changing scene of autumn.

I have said enough about moonlight.

Ask no more.

Only listen to the voice of pines and cedars when no wind stirs.

The cook monk, Daidyo, at Bankai's monastery decided that he would take

good care of his old teacher's health and give him only fresh miso, a paste of

soybeans mixed with wheat and yeast that often ferments.

Bankai, noticing that he was being served better miso than his pupils,

asked, Who is the cook today?

Daidyo was sent before him.

Bankai learned that according to his age and position, He should eat only fresh

miso. So he said to the cook, Then you think I shouldn't eat at all?

With this he entered his room and locked the door.

Dario, sitting outside the door, asked his teacher's pardon.

Banque would not answer.

For seven days Dario sat outside and Banque within.

Finally, in desperation, an adherent called loudly to Banque.

You may be all right, old teacher, but this young disciple here has to eat. He

cannot go without food forever.

At that Banke opened the door. He was smiling.

He told Dario, I insist on eating the same food as the least of my followers.

When you become the teacher, I do not want you to forget this.

a philosophical school of Buddhism, came to the Zen abode of Ghassan as a pupil.

When he was departing a few years later, Ghassan warned him, Studying the truth

speculatively is useful as a way of collecting preaching material.

But remember that unless you meditate constantly, your light of truth may go

out.

While Seisetsu was the master of Engaku in Kamakura, he required larger quarters

since those in which he was teaching were overcrowded.

Umezu Seibi, a merchant of Edo, decided to donate 500 pieces of gold called ryo

toward the construction of a more commodious school.

This money he brought to the teacher.

Seisetsu said, All right, I will take it.

Umezu gave Seisetsu the sack of gold, but he was dissatisfied with the

attitude of the teacher.

One might live a whole year on three ryo, and the merchant had not even been

thanked for five hundred.

In that sack are five hundred ryo, hinted Umezu.

You told me that before, replied Seisetsu.

Even if I am a wealthy merchant, five hundred ryo is a lot of money, said

Umezu.

Do you want me to thank you for it? asked Seisetsu.

You ought to, replied Umezu.

Why should I? inquired Seisetsu. The giver should be thankful.

Taiko, a warrior who lived in Japan before the Tokugawa era, studied Chan no

Yu, tea etiquette, with Sen no Rikyu.

a teacher of that aesthetical expression of calmness and contentment.

Taiko's attendant warrior, Keito, interpreted his superior's enthusiasm

for tea etiquette as negligence of state affairs, so he decided to kill Sen no

Rikyu.

He pretended to make a social call upon the tea master and was invited to drink

tea.

The master, who was well skilled in his art, saw at a glance the warrior's

intention.

So he invited Kato to leave his sword outside before entering the room for the

ceremony, explaining that Chan-no-yu represents peacefulness itself.

Kato would not listen to this.

I am a warrior, he said.

I always have my sword with me.

Chan-no-yu or no Chan-no-yu, I have my sword.

Very well.

Bring your sword in and have some tea, consented Sen-no-ri-kyu.

The kettle was boiling on the charcoal fire.

Suddenly, Senno Rikyu tipped it over.

Hissing steam arose, filling the room with smoke and ashes.

The startled warrior ran outside.

The tea master apologized.

It was my mistake.

Come back in and have some tea.

I have your sword here, covered with ashes, and will clean it and give it to

you.

In this predicament, the warrior realized he could not very well kill the

tea master.

So he gave up the idea.

Just before Ninakawa passed away, the Zen master Ikkyu visited him.

Shall I lead you on, Ikkyu asked.

Ninakawa replied, I came here alone and I go alone.

What help could you be to me?

Ikkyu answered, If you think you really come and go.

That is your delusion.

Let me show you the path on which there is no coming and no going.

With his words, Ikkyu had revealed the path so clearly that Ninakawa smiled and

passed away.

A soldier named Nobushigi came to Hakuin and asked, Is there really a paradise

and a hell?

Who are you? inquired Hakuin.

I am a samurai, the warrior replied.

You, a soldier?

exclaimed Hakuin.

What kind of ruler would have you as his guard? Your face looks like that of a

beggar.

Nobushige became so angry that he began to draw his sword, but Hakuin continued.

So you have a sword.

Your weapon is probably much too dull to cut off my head.

As Nobushige drew his sword, Hakuin remarked, Here open the gates of hell.

At these words, the samurai, perceiving the master's discipline, sheathed his

sword and bowed.

Here open the gates of paradise, said Hakuin.

A merchant bearing fifty rolls of cotton goods on his shoulders stopped to rest

from the heat of the day beneath a shelter where a large stone Buddha was

standing.

There he fell asleep, and when he awoke, his goods had disappeared.

He immediately reported the matter to the police.

A judge named Ooka opened court to investigate.

That stone Buddha must have stolen the goods, concluded the judge.

He is supposed to care for the welfare of the people, but he has failed to

perform his holy duty.

Arrest him.

The police arrested the stone Buddha and carried it into court.

A noisy crowd followed the statue, curious to learn what kind of sentence

the judge was about to impose.

When Ooka appeared on the bench, he rebuked the boisterous audience.

What right have you people to appear before the court laughing and joking in

this manner?

You are in contempt of court and subject to a fine and imprisonment.

The people hastened to apologize.

I shall have to impose a fine on you, said the judge.

But I will remit it, provided each one of you brings one roll of cotton goods

to the courts within three days.

Anyone failing to do this will be arrested.

One of the rolls of cloth which the people brought was quickly recognized by

the merchant as his own, and thus the thief was easily discovered.

The merchant recovered his goods, and the cotton rolls were returned to the

people.

Once a division of the Japanese army was engaged in a sham battle, and some of

the officers found it necessary to make their headquarters in Ghassan's temple.

Ghassan told his cook, Let the officers have only the same simple fare we eat.

This made the army men angry as they were used to very deferential treatment.

One came to Ghassan and said, Who do you think we are?

We are soldiers, sacrificing our lives for our country.

Why don't you treat us accordingly?

Ghassan answered sternly. Who do you think we are?

We are soldiers of humanity, aiming to save all sentient beings.

Zenkai, the son of a samurai, journeyed to Edo and there became the retainer of

a high official.

He fell in love with the official's wife and was discovered.

In self-defense, he slew the official. Then he ran away with the wife.

Both of them later became thieves, but the woman was so greedy that Zenkai grew

disgusted.

Finally leaving her, he journeyed far away to the province of Buzhen, where he

became a wandering mendicant.

To atone for his past, Zenkai resolved to accomplish some good deed in his

lifetime.

Knowing of a dangerous road over a cliff that had caused the death and injury of

many persons, he resolved to cut a tunnel through the mountain there.

Begging food in the daytime,

Zenkai worked at night digging his tunnel.

When thirty years had gone by, the tunnel was 2,280 feet long,

20 feet high, and 30 feet wide.

Two years before the work was completed, the son of the official he had slain,

who was a skillful swordsman, found Zenkai out and came to kill him in

revenge.

I will give you my life willingly, said Zenkai.

Only let me finish this work.

On the day it is completed, then you may kill me.

So the son awaited the day.

Several months passed and Zenkai kept on digging.

The son grew tired of doing nothing and began to help with the digging.

After he had helped for more than a year, he came to admire Zenkai's strong

will and character.

At last the tunnel was completed and the people could use it to travel in safety.

Now cut off my head, said Zenkai. My work is done.

How can I cut off my own teacher's head?

asked the younger man with tears in his eyes.

A great Japanese warrior named Nobunaga decided to attack the enemy, although he

had only one-tenth the number of men the opposition commanded.

He knew that he would win, but his soldiers were in doubt.

On the way he stopped at a Shinto shrine and told his men, After I visit the

shrine I will toss a coin.

If heads comes, we will win.

If tails, we will lose.

Destiny holds us in her hand.

Nobunaga entered the shrine and offered a silent prayer.

He came forth and tossed a coin.

Heads appeared.

His soldiers were so eager to fight that they won their battle easily.

No one can change the hand of destiny, his attendant told him after the battle.

Indeed not, said Nobunaga, showing a coin which had been doubled.

with heads facing either way.

Ghassan instructed his adherents one day.

Those who speak against killing and who desire to spare the lives of all

conscious beings are right.

It is good to protect even animals and insects.

But what about those persons who kill time?

What about those who are destroying wealth and those who destroy political

economy?

We should not overlook them.

Furthermore, what of the one who preaches without enlightenment?

He is killing Buddhism.

A young wife fell sick and was about to die.

I love you so much, she told her husband.

I do not want to leave you.

Do not go from me to any other woman.

If you do, I will return as a ghost and cause you endless trouble.

Soon the wife passed away.

The husband respected her last wish for the first three months, but then he met

another woman and fell in love with her.

They became engaged to be married.

Immediately after the engagement, a ghost appeared every night to the man,

blaming him for not keeping his promise.

The ghost was clever, too.

She told him exactly what had transpired between himself and his new sweetheart.

Whenever he gave his fiancée a present, the ghost would describe it in detail.

She would even repeat conversations, and it so annoyed the man that he could not

sleep.

Someone advised him to take his problem to a Zen master who lived close to the

village. At length, in despair, the poor man went to him for help.

Your former wife became a ghost and knows everything you do, commented the

master.

Whatever you do or say, whatever you give your beloved, she knows.

She must be a very wise ghost.

Really, you should admire such a ghost.

The next time she appears, bargain with her.

Tell her that she knows so much you can hide nothing from her, and that if she

will answer you one question, you promise to break your engagement and

remain single.

What is the question I must ask her? inquired the man.

The master replied, Take a large handful of soybeans and ask her exactly how many

beans you hold in your hand.

If she cannot tell you, you will know she is only a figment of your

imagination and will trouble you no longer.

The next night when the ghost appeared, the man flattered her and told her that

she knew everything.

Indeed, replied the ghost, and I know you went to see that Zen master today.

And since you know so much, demanded the man, tell me how many beans I hold in

this hand.

There was no longer any ghost to answer the question.

Yamaoka Teshu was a tutor of the emperor.

He was also a master of fencing and a profound student of Zen.

His home was the abode of vagabonds.

He had but one suit of clothes, for they kept him always poor.

The emperor, observing how worn his garments were, gave Yamaoka some money

to buy new ones.

The next time Yamaoka appeared, he wore the same old outfit.

What became of the new clothes, Yamaoka asked the emperor.

I provided clothes for the children of your majesty, explained Yamaoka.

In modern times, a great deal of nonsense is talked about masters and

disciples and about the inheritance of a master's teaching by favored pupils,

entitling them to pass the truth on to their adherents.

Of course Zen should be imparted in this way from heart to heart, and in the past

it was really accomplished.

Silence and humility reigned rather than profession and assertion.

The one who received such a teaching kept the matter hidden even after twenty

years.

Not until another discovered through his own need that a real master was at hand

was it learned that the teaching had been imparted, and even then the

occasion arose quite naturally.

and the teaching made its way in its own right.

Under no circumstance did the teacher even claim, I am the successor of so-and

-so.

Such a claim would prove quite the contrary.

The Zen master Munan had only one successor.

His name was Shouju.

After Shouju had completed his study of Zen, Munan called him into his room.

I'm getting old, he said.

And as far as I know, Shouju, you are the only one who will carry on this

teaching.

Here's a book.

It has been passed down from master to master for seven generations.

I also have added many points according to my understanding.

The book is very valuable, and I'm giving it to you to represent your

successorship.

If the book is such an important thing, you had better keep it, Shouju replied.

I received your Zen without writing, and I'm satisfied with it as it is.

I know that, said Munon.

Even so, this work has been carried from master to master for seven generations,

so you may keep it as a symbol of having received the teaching.

Here.

The two happened to be talking before a brazier.

The instant Shouju felt the book in his hands, he thrust it into the flaming

coals. He had no lust for possessions.

Monan, who never had been angry before, yelled, What are you doing?

Shouju shouted back, What are you saying?

After Kakua visited the emperor, he disappeared and no one knew what became

of him.

He was the first Japanese to study Zen in China.

But since he showed nothing of it, save one note, he is not remembered for

having brought Zen into his country.

Kakua visited China and accepted the true teaching.

He did not travel while he was there.

Meditating constantly, he lived on a remote part of a mountain.

Whenever people found him and asked him to preach, he would say a few words and

then move to another part of the mountain where he could be found less

easily.

The emperor heard about Kakua when he returned to Japan and asked him to

preach Zen for his edification and that of his subjects.

Kakua stood before the emperor in silence.

He then produced a flute from the folds of his robe and blew one short note.

Bowing politely, he disappeared.

Circumstances arose one day which delayed preparation of the dinner of

Osoto Zen Master Fugai and his followers.

In haste, the cook went to the garden with his curved knife and cut off the

tops of green vegetables, chopped them together, and made soup, unaware that in

his haste he had included part of a snake in the vegetables.

The followers of Fugai thought they never had tasted such a good soup.

But when the master himself found the snake's head in his bowl, he summoned

the cook.

What is this? he demanded, holding up the head of the snake.

Oh, thank you, master, replied the cook, taking the morsel and eating it quickly.

Sozon, a Chinese Zen master, was asked by a student, What is the most valuable

thing in the world?

The master replied, The head of a dead cat.

Why is the head of a dead cat the most valuable thing in the world? inquired

the student.

Sozan replied, Because no one can name its price.

The pupils of the Tendai school used to study meditation before Zen entered

Japan.

Four of them, who were intimate friends, promised one another to observe seven

days of silence.

On the first day all were silent. Their meditation had begun auspiciously.

But when night came and the oil lamps were growing dim, one of the pupils

could not help exclaiming to a servant, Fix those lamps.

The second pupil was surprised to hear the first one talk.

We're not supposed to say a word, he remarked.

You two are stupid. Why did you talk? asked the third.

I am the only one who has not talked, concluded the fourth pupil.

Zen pupils take a vow that even if they are killed by their teacher, they intend

to learn Zen.

Usually they cut a finger and seal their resolution with blood.

In time, the vow has become a mere formality.

and for this reason, the pupil who died by the hand of Aikido was made to appear

a martyr.

Aikido had become a severe teacher.

His pupils feared him.

One of them on duty striking the gong to tell the time of day missed his beats

when his eye was attracted by a beautiful girl passing the temple gate.

At that moment, Aikido, who was directly behind him, hit him with a stick, and

the shock happened to kill him.

The pupil's guardian, hearing of the accident, went directly to Aikido.

Knowing that he was not to blame, he praised the master for his severe

teaching.

Aikido's attitude was just the same as if the pupil were still alive.

After this took place, he was able to produce under his guidance more than ten

enlightened successors, a very unusual number.

Ryokan devoted his life to the study of Zen.

One day he heard that his nephew, despite the admonitions of relatives,

was spending his money on a courtesan.

Inasmuch as the nephew had taken Ryokan's place in managing the family

estate and the property was in danger of being dissipated, the relatives asked

Ryokan to do something about it.

Ryokan had to travel a long way to visit his nephew, whom he had not seen for

many years.

The nephew seemed pleased to meet his uncle again and invited him to remain

overnight.

All night, Ryokan sat in meditation.

As he was departing in the morning, he said to the young man, I must be getting

old. My hand shakes so, will you help me tie the string of my straw sandal?

The nephew helped him willingly.

Thank you, finished Ryokan.

You see...

A man becomes older and feebler day by day.

Take good care of yourself.

Then Ryokan left, never mentioning a word about the courtesan or the

complaints of the relatives.

But from that morning on, the dissipations of the nephew ended.

A Zen student came to Bangke and complained.

Master, I have an ungovernable temper.

How can I cure it?

You have something very strange, replied Banke.

Let me see what you have.

Just now I cannot show it to you, replied the other.

When can you show it to me? asked Banke.

It arises unexpectedly, replied the student.

Then concluded Banke, it must not be your own true nature.

If it were, you could show it to me at any time.

When you were born, you did not have it, and your parents did not give it to you.

Think that over.

Hogan, a Chinese Zen teacher, lived alone in a small temple in the country.

One day, four traveling monks appeared and asked if they might make a fire in

his yard to warm themselves.

While they were building the fire, Hogan heard them arguing about subjectivity

and objectivity.

He joined them and said, There is a big stone.

Do you consider it to be inside or outside your mind?

One of the monks replied, From the Buddhist viewpoint, everything is an

objectification of mind, so I would say that the stone is inside my mind.

Your head must feel very heavy, observed Hogan.

if you were carrying around a stone like that in your mind.

A rich man asked Sengai to write something for the continued prosperity

of his family so that it might be treasured from generation to generation.

Sengai obtained a large sheet of paper and wrote, Father dies, son dies,

grandson dies.

The rich man became angry. I asked you to write something for the happiness of

my family. Why do you make such a joke as this?

No joke is intended, explained Sengai.

If before you yourself die, your son should die, this would grieve you

greatly. If your grandson should pass away before your son, both of you would

be brokenhearted.

If your family, generation after generation, passes away in the order I

have named, It will be the natural course of life.

I call this real prosperity.

A woman of Nagasaki named Kame was one of the few makers of incense burners in

Japan.

Such a burner is a work of art to be used only in a tea room or before a

family shrine.

Kame, whose father before her had been such an artist, was fond of drinking.

She also smoked and associated with men most of the time.

Whenever she made a little money, she gave a feast, inviting artists, poets,

carpenters, workers, men of many vocations and avocations.

In their association, she evolved her designs.

Kame was exceedingly slow in creating, but when her work was finished, it was

always a masterpiece.

Her burners were treasured in homes whose womenfolk never drank, smoked, or

associated freely with men.

The mayor of Nagasaki once requested Kame to design an incense burner for

him. She delayed doing so until almost half a year had passed.

At that time, the mayor, who had been promoted to office in a distant city,

visited her.

He urged Kame to begin work on his burner.

At last, receiving the inspiration, Kame made the incense burner.

After it was completed, she placed it upon a table.

She looked at it long and carefully.

She smoked and drank before it as if it were her own company.

All day she observed it.

At last, picking up a hammer, Kame smashed it to bits.

She saw it was not the perfect creation her mind demanded.

When Bankei was preaching at Ryomon Temple, a Shinshu priest, who believed

in salvation through the repetition of the name of the Buddha of Love, was

jealous of his large audience and wanted to debate with him.

Banke was in the midst of a talk when the priest appeared, but the fellow made

such a disturbance that Banke stopped his discourse and asked about the noise.

The founder of our sect, boasted the priest, had such miraculous powers that

he held a brush in his hand on one bank of the river.

His attendant held up a paper on the other bank, and the teacher wrote the

holy name of Amida through the air.

Can you do such a wonderful thing?

Banke replied lightly.

Perhaps your fox can perform that trick, but that is not the manner of Zen.

My miracle is that when I feel hungry, I eat, and when I feel thirsty, I drink.

Yamaoka Teshu, as a young student of Zen, visited one master after another.

He called upon Dokuon of Shokoku.

Desiring to show his attainment, he said, The mind, Buddha, and sentient

beings, after all, do not exist.

The true nature of phenomena is emptiness.

There is no realization, no delusion, no sage, no mediocrity.

There is no giving and nothing to be received.

Dokuan, who was smoking quietly, said nothing.

Suddenly he whacked Yamaoka with his bamboo pipe.

This made the youth quite angry.

If nothing exists, inquired Dokuan, where did this anger come from?

Hyaku-jo, the Chinese Zen master, used to labor with his pupils even at the age

of 80, trimming the gardens, cleaning the grounds, and pruning the trees.

The pupils felt sorry to see the old teacher working so hard, but they knew

he would not listen to their advice to stop, so they hid away his tools.

That day the master did not eat.

The next day he did not eat, nor the next.

He may be angry because we have hidden his tools, the pupils surmised. We had

better put them back.

The day they did, the teacher worked and ate the same as before.

In the evening, he instructed them.

No work, no food.

E.Q., the Zen master, was very clever even as a boy.

His teacher had a precious teacup, a rare antique.

Ikkyu happened to break this cup and was greatly perplexed.

Hearing the footsteps of his teacher, he held the pieces of the cup behind him.

When the master appeared, Ikkyu asked, Why do people have to die?

This is natural, explained the older man.

Everything has to die and has just so long to live.

Ikkyu, producing the shattered cup, added, It was time for your cup to die.

A Zen master named Ketan lived in the latter part of the Tokugawa era.

He used to say, There are three kinds of disciples.

Those who impart Zen to others, those who maintain the temples and shrines,

and then there are the rice bags and the clothes hangers.

Ghassan expressed the same idea.

When he was studying under Tekesui, his teacher was very severe.

Sometimes he even beat him.

Other pupils would not stand this kind of teaching and quit.

Ghassan remained, saying, A poor disciple utilizes a teacher's influence.

A fair disciple admires a teacher's kindness.

A good disciple grows strong under a teacher's discipline.

Zen teachers train their young pupils to express themselves.

Two Zen temples each had a child protege.

One child, going to obtain vegetables each morning, would meet the other on

the way.

Where are you going? asked the one.

I'm going wherever my feet go, the other responded.

This reply puzzled the first child who went to his teacher for help.

Tomorrow morning, the teacher told him, when you meet that little fellow.

Ask him the same question.

He'll give you the same answer, and then you ask him, Suppose you have no feet,

then where are you going? That'll fix him.

The children met again the following morning.

Where are you going? asked the first child.

I'm going wherever the wind blows, answered the other.

This again nonplussed the youngster who took his defeat to his teacher.

Ask him where he's going if there's no wind, suggested the teacher.

The next day the children met a third time.

Where are you going? asked the first child.

I'm going to market to buy vegetables, the other replied.

Tong Gan had studied with Seng Gai since childhood.

When he was twenty he wanted to leave his teacher and visit others for

comparative study.

but Sengai would not permit this.

Every time Tangen suggested it, Sengai would give him a rap on the head.

Finally, Tangen asked an elder brother to coax permission from Sengai.

This the brother did and then reported to Tangen.

It is arranged.

I have fixed it for you to start on your pilgrimage at once.

Tangen went to Sengai to thank him for his permission.

The master answered by giving him another rap.

When Tongan related this to his elder brother, the other said, What is the

matter?

Sengai has no business giving permission and then changing his mind. I'll tell

him so.

And off he went to see the teacher.

I did not cancel my permission, said Sengai.

I just wish to give him one last smack over the head, for when he returns he

will be enlightened and I will not be able to reprimand him again.

Matajuro Yagyo was the son of a famous swordsman.

His father, believing that his son's work was too mediocre to anticipate

mastership, disowned him.

So Matajuro went to Mount Futara and there found the famous swordsman Banzo.

But Banzo confirmed the father's judgment.

You wish to learn swordsmanship under my guidance, asked Banzo. You cannot

fulfill the requirements.

But if I work hard, how many years will it take me to become a master, persisted

the youth.

The rest of your life, replied Banzo.

I cannot wait that long, explained Matajoro.

I am willing to pass through any hardship, if only you will teach me.

If I become your devoted servant, how long might it be?

Oh, maybe ten years, Banzo relented.

My father's getting old, and soon I must take care of him, continued Matajoro.

If I work far more intensely, how long would it take me?

Oh, maybe thirty years, said Bonzo.

Well, why is that, asked Mother Judo. First you say ten, and now thirty years.

I will undergo any hardship to master this art in the shortest time.

Well, said Bonzo, in that case, you will have to remain with me for seventy

years. A man in such a hurry as you are to get results seldom learns quickly.

Very well, declared the youth, understanding at last that he was being

rebuked for impatience.

I agree.

Matajoro was told never to speak of fencing and never to touch a sword.

He cooked for his master, washed the dishes, made his bed, cleaned the yard,

cared for the garden, all without a word of swordsmanship.

Three years passed.

Still Matajoro labored on.

Thinking of his future, he was sad.

He had not even begun to learn the art to which he had devoted his life.

But one day, Banjo crept up behind him and gave him a terrific blow with a

wooden sword.

The following day, when Matajoro was cooking rice, Banjo again sprang upon

him unexpectedly.

After that day and night, Matajoro had to defend himself from unexpected

thrusts. Not a moment passed in any day that he did not have to think of the

taste of Banjo's sword.

He learned so rapidly, he brought smiles to the face of his master.

Matajuro became the greatest swordsman in the land.

Encho was a famous storyteller.

His tales of love stirred the hearts of his listeners.

When he narrated a story of war, it was as if the listeners themselves were on

the field of battle.

One day Encho... met Yamaoka Teshu, a layman who had almost embraced

masterhood in Zen.

I understand, said Yamaoka, you are the best storyteller in our land, and that

you make people cry or laugh at will.

Tell me my favorite story of the Peach Boy.

When I was a little tot, I used to sleep beside my mother, and she often related

this legend.

In the middle of the story, I would fall asleep.

Tell it to me, just as my mother did.

Enshou dared not attempt to do this. He requested time to study.

Several months later he went to Yamaoka and said, Please give me the opportunity

to tell you the story.

Some other day, answered Yamaoka.

Enshou was keenly disappointed.

He studied further and tried again.

Yamaoka rejected him many times.

When Enshou would start to talk, Yamaoka would stop him, saying, You're not yet

like my mother.

It took Enshou five years to be able to tell Yamaoka the legend as his mother

had told it to him.

In this way, Yamaoka imparted Zen to Enshou.

Many pupils were studying meditation under the Zen master, Sengai.

One of them used to arise at night, climb over the temple wall, and go to

town on a pleasure jaunt.

Sengai, inspecting the dormitory quarters, found this pupil missing one

night and also discovered the high stool he had used to scale the wall.

Sengai removed the stool and stood there in its place.

When the wanderer returned, not knowing that Sengai was the stool, he put his

feet on the master's head and jumped down into the grounds.

Discovering what he had done, he was aghast.

Sengai said, It is very chilly in the early morning.

Do be careful not to catch cold yourself.

The pupil never went out at night again.

Basui wrote the following letter to one of his disciples who was about to die.

The essence of your mind is not born, so it will never die.

It is not an existence which is perishable.

It is not an emptiness which is a mere void.

It has neither color nor form.

It enjoys no pleasures and suffers no pain.

I know you are very ill.

Like a good Zen student, you are facing that sickness squarely.

You may not know exactly who is suffering.

But question yourself.

What is the essence of this mind?

Think only of this.

You will need no more.

Covet nothing.

Your end, which is endless, is as a snowflake dissolving in the pure air.

A Zen master named Isan asked a young student to bring him a pail of water to

cool his bath.

The student brought the water, and after cooling the bath, threw onto the ground

the little that was left over.

You dunce, the master scolded him.

Why didn't you give the rest of the water to the plants?

What right have you to waste even a drop of water in this temple?

The young student attained Zen in that instant.

He changed his name.

to tekisui, which means a drop of water.

Tosui was the Zen master who left the formalism of temples to live under a

bridge with beggars.

When he was getting very old, a friend helped him to earn his living without

begging.

He showed Tosui how to collect rice and manufacture vinegar from it, and Tosui

did this until he passed away.

While Tosui was making vinegar, one of the beggars gave him a picture of the

Buddha.

Tosui hung it on the wall of his hut and put a sign beside it. The sign read, Mr.

Amida Buddha, this little room is quite narrow.

I can let you remain as a transient, but don't think I'm asking you to help me to

be reborn in your paradise.

Shoichi was a one-eyed teacher of Zen, sparkling with enlightenment.

He taught his disciples in Tofuku Temple.

Day and night the whole temple stood in silence.

There was no sound at all.

Even the reciting of sutras was abolished by the teacher.

His pupils had nothing to do but meditate.

When the master passed away, an old neighbor heard the ringing of bells.

and the recitation of sutras.

Then she knew Shoichi had gone.

Buddha said, I consider the positions of kings and rulers

as that of dust motes.

I observe treasures of gold and gems as so many bricks and pebbles.

I look upon the finest silken robes as tattered rags.

I see myriad worlds of the universe as small seeds of fruit and the greatest

lake in India as a drop of oil on my foot.

I perceive the teachings of the world to be the illusion of magicians.

I discern the highest conception of emancipation.

as a golden brocade in a dream, and view the holy path of the illuminated ones

as flowers appearing in one's eyes.

I see meditation as a pillar of a mountain, nirvana as a nightmare of

daytime.

I look upon the judgment of right and wrong as the serpentine dance of a

dragon, and the rise and fall of beliefs

as but traces left by the four seasons.