Let the Dust Settle | Shōyōroku Case 33

I think it’s very strange sometimes—we’re so seldom observant of how words are used. How much energy we put into saying things no one is ready to hear… things no one wants to hear.

Maybe even stranger is how often we speak without any real intention to connect. We just aim to be right, to relieve some inner pressure from our own thoughts and feelings, or to push an idea we’ve grown attached to.

But unless someone sincerely wants to hear, they won’t. And unless we truly want to communicate—not to win, not to perform, not even to teach—our words won’t land anywhere useful. They just stir up more dust. They’re made of dust. And they return to dust.

And when that dust is already flying—when there’s heat, tension, pride that’s been bruised—then trying to communicate from some elevated platform of spiritual certainty is worse than useless. You’re speaking from the lofty realm of ideas, but the actual conversation—the ground it needs to take place on—is right here: in the grit and grind of this moment, and how we all interconnect.

In a way, you're not speaking into your life. You're speaking past it.

And that opens the great question: how do we let the dust settle?

There’s a case in the Shōyōroku, Case 33—Sanshō’s Golden Carp. And at first, it doesn’t resonate like some of the other cases. It can catch us off guard. But I think you’ll find it’s pointing to something very profound:

Sanshō says to Seppō, “A golden carp passes through the nets. I wonder what he has for food.”

Seppō replies, “I’ll wait until you get out of the net, then I’ll tell you.”

Sanshō presses: “A teacher of 1,500 monks doesn’t even know what we’re talking about?”

And Seppō answers, “For this old monk, as head of the temple, affairs do multiply.”

When Sanshō says, “A golden carp passes through the nets,” it’s not really a question. It’s a little performance. He’s saying, “I’ve slipped past all the traps of the Dharma—all the kōans you’ve laid out for me. I’m beyond your nets now. So what are you going to feed someone like me—someone with nothing left to learn?”

But Seppō responds, “I’ll wait until you get out of the net, then I’ll tell you.”

In other words, you think you’re free? You’re tangled up in yourself. I’m not feeding that.

Seppō isn’t flattered, and he’s certainly not impressed. He sees right through the polish, the presentation.

Now, you might expect Sanshō to take a step back and reflect on that response. But he doesn’t. He doubles down. “A teacher of 1,500 monks? You don’t even know what we’re talking about?”

This isn’t how you’re supposed to treat your teacher—not traditionally, and not even respectfully. There’s a subtext here: “You’re not as deep as people think. Your reputation is overblown. I’ve passed you.”

So how does Seppō respond?

He says, “For this old monk, as head of the temple, affairs do multiply.”

On the surface, it’s a shrug. “I’ve got things to do.”

But if you’re listening closely, you’ll hear a subtle blade turning. Seppō is cutting the performance off at the knees. He erases the stage, the spotlight. He even reverses the whole notion of there being a debate. He just refuses to engage in something that holds no real potential for awakening. It’s not dismissive—it’s clear.

This is a deep point in practice.

When we show up as students with some shine, some realization, or even just something genuine, we’re vulnerable to getting caught in it. We start needing to be seen, needing to be affirmed.

But that’s not what we feed.

We don’t starve it out of cruelty. We starve it out of clarity. Because there’s no safety in being “beyond” if it’s just an idea of beyond.

In real realization, there’s no food for the ego. And frankly, this practice isn’t easy to digest. It’s hard to let it soak through your body and speech and daily life. It’s easier to wear it like a badge. It’s easier to show it off, to use it to insulate ourselves from vulnerability.

But that’s the trap.

That’s the net we get caught in: wanting to know how to act in every situation, wanting to be right, to be good, to be admired.

Zen doesn’t offer that kind of prescription. There’s no map. No rules. Just this moment and how you meet it.

That’s what we call skillful means.

And skillful means aren’t formulaic. There’s no barrel in this bullfighting ring. It’s not safe. There’s nowhere to hide. You’ve got to be quick on your feet. You’ve got to be alive. You’ve got to engage with what’s actually in front of you—not what’s in your head, but what’s here. And not just with your head, but with head and heart aligned.

Now, Seppō could’ve taken the high road and corrected Sanshō with words or posture. He could’ve laid bare exactly where Sanshō was getting stuck. But he didn’t.

He just said, “I’m busy.”

And that might have been the most compassionate thing he could’ve done. He didn’t take the bait. He didn’t engage in the kōan drama. He simply stopped the game completely.

He didn’t escalate.
He didn’t try to finish him off.
He let the dust settle.

He left Sanshō alone to face himself.

And with Sanshō… all of us.

In the end, that’s where it all points.

The golden carp isn’t some prize fish gliding through the waters of awakening.

The golden carp is you.

It’s me. It’s every single one of us, trying to wriggle through the nets of delusion and identity and pride. Sometimes we may think we’ve made it through. But when you think that—just wait. The hook’s still in your mouth. It’s going to pull.

And Seppō shows us what it means not to feed that. He doesn’t reward the performance. He just keeps to what’s real: I have things to do right in front of me.

So the question becomes: if there’s no safe place to rest, no recognition coming, no applause for your great insight—can you still practice?

I’d argue you can only really begin to practice when you’ve reached that point.

When you live from clarity, humility, and warmth.

And when you do that—without chasing some lofty ideal of where you're going—then you can be that golden carp.

Then you can swim freely, with nothing to prove.