Baso’s White and Black | Shōyōroku 6

Delivered by Sensei Michael Brunner the last day of the 2025 Ango Opening Sesshin at One River Zen in Ottawa, IL

As sesshin draws to a close, there’s always some longing for it to go on a little longer, for us to stay in this stillness. Yet, at the same time, there’s an excitement about re-entering the world, for lack of a better term. It’s important that, as we go back out, we don’t simply pick up where we left off—that we don’t get trapped again in the ways of thinking that keep us deluded, that keep us apart or separate from our lived experience.

So, on this last day of sesshin, I asked at breakfast what we wanted to talk about—and of course, someone had to suggest Case 6 of the Shōyōroku, Baso’s “White and Black,” which is a notoriously challenging case. Having reflected for a little while about it, let’s have a talk.

Attention! A monk asked Baso, “Your reverence, abandoning the four propositions and wiping out the hundred negations, please point out to me directly the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming from the West.” Baso said, “I don’t feel like explaining to you today. Go ask Chizo.”

The monk then went to ask Chizo, and Chizo said, “Why don’t you ask the master?” The monk said, “The master told me to ask you.” Rubbing his head with his hand, Chizo said, “I’ve got a headache today. Go and ask Brother Kai.” The monk asked Kai, and Kai said, “Ever since I have been here, I don’t know.” The monk returned and told Baso what had happened, and Baso said, “Chizo’s head is white, Kai’s head is black.”

Baso’s teaching was so powerful that he helped more than 133 people awaken as Dharma successors. I don’t know how you’d even keep track of that many names, let alone where each one stood in their study and practice. Chizo and Kai—Seidō Chizo and Hyakujo Ekai—were among them, both successors of Master Baso. So, the good news is that everyone in this story went on to mastery and to training students of their own.

The preface to this case begins, “When the mouth cannot be opened, the tongueless person knows how to speak.” Even if we can’t find the words, life keeps flowing—within you and without you. The universe gestures; its silence, its timing, all reveal the vast mind of our original nature. The question is never what we are speaking—it’s where we are abiding.

The monk asks Baso for direct meaning—not explanations, not philosophy, not doctrine. He begins by saying, “Abandoning the four propositions and wiping out the hundred negations.” Those are philosophical frameworks pointing to the intrinsic emptiness of all speech and communication—no yes or no, no both or neither, no conceptual foothold at all.

He says, “Show me directly the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming from the West.” Baso replies, “I don’t feel like explaining to you today. Go ask Chizo.” No grand sermon. No opulent gesture. Just a reflection of what is. Maybe he’s tired; maybe it’s the end of sesshin. He’s not avoiding the question—he’s embodying the answer. It’s right there to be seen.

Bodhidharma’s coming from the West isn’t something that requires an explanation—it’s always speaking clearly. If we just listen, if we turn our attention away from the words to where they are pointing—into the field of embodied awareness—then there’s nowhere else to look. There are no other questions that require an answer. Baso doesn’t give meaning; he gives movement. He’s gently shifting the monk’s gaze. But the monk doesn’t yet see that, and so he goes to Chizo.

He asks Chizo the same question. Chizo replies, “Why don’t you ask the master?” The monk insists, “The master told me to ask you.” Ah—the master. Always present, always available to consult, always right at hand. But the monk misunderstands which “master” is being pointed to. How often do we do that? How often do we go looking outside for answers?

Chizo rubs his head and says, “I’ve got a headache. Go ask Brother Kai.” We might laugh at that, but look what’s happening. The question keeps moving, keeps seeking an answer that isn’t in words but in living interaction—living Dharma between teacher and student. The headache is not an excuse; the headache is the teaching. Sometimes the truth does actually hurt.

So the monk goes to Kai, who listens and gestures even more plainly: “Ever since I’ve been here, I don’t know.” The monk could simply walk into that. Everything is laid bare right there. But instead, he continues to seek meaning in words, missing the meaning that is always implicit in this infinite moment.

He returns to Baso, still searching for meaning. Baso says, “Chizo’s head is white, Kai’s head is black.” This is the expository gesture that leaves truth bare—the way of pointing beyond those hundred negations. What is right here? What is wrong? The moment we collapse into one, the other comes forward. Together they reveal the whole field.

It’s easy for us to seek allegory. The mind wants to interpret koans as riddles. We could say Baso is describing two kinds of mind—one clear, one obscure; one transparent, one thick with clouds. But both are functioning, both respond perfectly to conditions. White and black are not opposites here; they are interdependent expressions of one continuous body—the Dharmakaya, the body of reality itself. If you cling to either side of meaning, you miss the reality that’s expressed plainly.

You won’t find the Dharma hidden in some abstruse doctrine or eloquent explanation. You’ll find it lived—in the gestures born of communion with your original nature. It’s embodied in timing; it’s spoken without words.

So what is Baso ultimately teaching? That true understanding has nothing to do with what we say—it’s about how we respond. When we are grounded in the heart of things—open, observant, sincere—the response that arises will always be appropriate, always compassionate, even if it looks like refusal or ignorance. If we cling to ideas, we miss the living point. When we’re observantly open, we see beyond the words. We know how to act. That’s the whole body of Zen.

In Nonviolent Communication, there’s a teaching that everything we say can be heard as either please or thank you. Every expression—soft or harsh, kind or angry—is either a request or an offering of gratitude. It’s all an attempt to meet life, to get our needs met, or to celebrate life.

When someone lashes out, we may hear profanity and anger, but beneath it is always, “Please. Please see me. Please help me.” And when someone praises us, it’s not really about us—it’s “Thank you for this connection. Thank you for being here.”

Every sound in the human field—from crying and laughing to silence—can be heard this way: please or thank you. But don’t cling to those words either.

If we hear the monk’s question that way, it’s a please—a drawing near, an act of intimacy: “Please show me directly the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming from the West. Please show me what this is all about.” And Baso’s entire response is a thank you. “Thank you for asking so directly. Thank you for your sincerity. Thank you for showing up here, right now.”

The whole exchange becomes a living dialogue—white and black, plea and gratitude, master and novice, teacher and student, clarity and unknowing—all part of one compassionate field. When we stop clinging to explanations, we begin living the meaning of Bodhidharma’s journey.

Bodhidharma didn’t just come from the West and arrive—he’s still walking. He’s still thinking. He’s still sitting, right now. That walking continues through our polite refusals, through our headaches—maybe especially through our headaches—and in our state of observant wonder and not-knowing.

Every moment we meet the world with that wonder, we meet it directly, without defense. The Dharma is being transmitted right there. Chizo’s head is white. Kai’s head is black. The cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon, little boy blue and the man in the moon—all preaching the same Dharma. You just have to look beyond the words to see it.

All that’s left is for us to listen—not to the words, but to join the dance with our whole being.