Kyozan’s State of Mind | Shoyoroku Case 32

Taken from a teisho by Sensei Michael at One River Zen Center as a weekend retreat drew to a close in September of 2024:

Here we are, turning the corner on the end of sesshin. It’s always a bittersweet moment—these days of deep practice, where we’ve opened up to our true nature, are coming to a close. But what we’ve seen, what we’ve realized, is always right here. It’s just a matter of shifting our gaze to see it clearly.

When we walk away from sesshin, though, the world tends to flood back in. The stories we’ve created about our lives—our likes and dislikes, our opinions and habits—are incredibly seductive. Why? Because we wrote those stories ourselves. We made them, and they fit us so perfectly. So how do we get unstuck from these stories?

There’s a case in the Shōyōroku (Book of Equanimity), case 32, called “Kyōzan’s State of Mind.” It’s subtle, you’ll need to let the case work you, just relax into it. The case goes like this:

Kyōzan asked a monk, “Where were you born?” The monk replied, “Yu Province.” Kyōzan asked, “Do you think of it?” The monk said, “I think of it always.” Kyōzan said, “Subjective thought is your mind. Objective thought is the environment. In that environment, there are mountains, rivers, the great earth, towers and buildings, people and animals. Reflect on the mind that thinks— is there something there or not?” The monk replied, “As for that, I don’t see anything at all.” Kyōzan said, “As a belief, that’s all right. As a person, that’s not at all right.”

The monk asked, “Teacher, do you have any particular instruction?” Kyōzan said, “To say I have something particular or not misses the point. As for your view, it only reaches one mystery. Take your seat, put on your robes, and observe it for yourself.”

At first glance, this might seem like a riddle, but Kyōzan is pointing us toward something beyond thought—beyond our constructed ideas of self and other. He’s telling us to observe directly, to see for ourselves where the mind rests. This case invites us to reflect deeply: where does your attention reside?

Kyōzan’s teacher, Isan, once told him, “When thoughts are exhausted, you’ve arrived at the source.” This is where our true nature is revealed—when all the judgments, all the self-images, and all the ideas dissolve. At that source, there is no separation, no distinction. That’s where we find our true home—not in some idealized version of ourselves, but in the reality of this moment.

Where is your home right now? If you can’t find it where you’re sitting, where else do you expect to find it?

In that place beyond distinctions, the Buddha is born—unceasingly, moment after moment. Buddha means “awakened one,” and this awakening is not something distant. It’s right here. But we have to exhaust our thoughts first. Exhausting thoughts doesn’t mean stopping them; it means not getting swept away by them.

Thoughts are like trains—we see them coming and instinctively jump on board. We ride the train of judgment, the train of “I am this,” or “I should be that.” But in doing so, we miss the solid ground of our lived experience.

Kyōzan’s point is that we’re always generating some image or picture of who we think we are. And as a belief, that’s fine. But if we’re going to be genuine, true people, that’s not going to work at all. We have to step out of the story and into the present moment. When you drop the narrative of who you think you are, you manifest as all there is. You meet suffering with compassion. You are the medicine.

Kyōzan often told his students that in his shop, he had a wide range of goods. “If you want mouse droppings, I’ve got plenty,” he said. “If you want real gold, I’ve got that too.” One student asked, “Can I have the Master’s real gold?” Kyōzan responded, “You can try to bite the head off a flying arrow, but you won’t succeed.” If you try to seize it with your intellect, it goes by too quickly! The student couldn’t answer, so Kyōzan said, “If you’re willing to exchange something, we can make a deal. If you’re not willing to exchange, there’s nothing we can do.”

What are we willing to exchange for real gold? What are we willing to give up to realize our true nature? The one right now who is complete and vast? Will you trade your story? It is used and tired after all! You don’t like it much anyway…

I like Jung’s take on this. In his Red Book, he engages in a dialogue with his soul—a way of addressing what we might call his true nature. In the section “Experiences in the Desert,” Jung’s soul asks him, “Do you believe your thoughts will help you?” Jung’s response is deeply held by the small self: “I would always like to refer to the fact that I’m just a human being, and I’m weak. Sometimes I don’t do my best.”

But his soul responds: “Is that what you think it means to be human?”  I would add: is that what you think it means to embody all that you are? Jung realized that we, from the perspective of our small, constructed self, are totally inadequate at living. He goes on to say that we should grow like a tree—without knowing the law of our growth. No gaining idea, just growth. Just hear the song of your life and join the dance.

What does this mean? It means letting go of those fixed ideas about who you think you should be, and instead, finding your life where it is right now. When you do this, there’s no turning back. You’ve seen something of your true nature, and once you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it.

But here’s the warning: if you don’t continue to practice, those insights will fade. The weeds of delusion will grow back, quickly covering the path you’ve just cleared. You must continue practicing as if your life depends on it—because it does.