Mountains, Rivers, and the True Will | Shōyōroku 100
This talk was given live at One River Zen in Ottawa, IL by Abbot Sensei Michael Brunner on November 1, 2025
Good morning, everyone. You know, when we live our lives in the realm of the karmic self, we often find ourselves pushed and pulled—pushed and pulled by longing, and sometimes by aversion. There’s this endless turning of “I want” and “I don’t want.” And in that push and pull, we keep trying to find a way forward. But when every movement of the heart leans toward either desire or resistance, how do we know what direction is true?
This isn’t a new question. There’s a kōan all about it—you probably figured that out by now. It appears in the Book of Equanimity or Shōyōroku, and it’s the 100th case, the capstone case. It’s called Rōya’s Mountains and Rivers:
A monk asked, “If the original state is clean and pure, then why do rivers, mountains, and the great earth arise?”
Master Rōya replied, “If the original state is clean and pure, how does it suddenly produce rivers, mountains, and the earth?”
Subtle indeed, right? He asks a question and replies with what looks almost like the same question. When we ease into kōans, we need to recognize that there are conceptual pointers that are trying to point beyond conceptual understanding. So if we at least know where they’re trying to shift our gaze or attention to—or if we have some inkling of that—then we can begin to feel into the case. In a single turn, the whole question dissolves.
The monk is seeking purity beyond his idea of the world. And Rōya, he’s showing purity as the very essence of our lived experience itself—as the world itself—as openness, wonder, and curiosity. When we’re in that place, then original nature and self-nature aren’t two.
When I read this, I was starting to think about a voice from a very different time and place. Some of you know who Aleister Crowley is—he was a British occultist who wrote a book called The Book of the Law. You may be thinking, “Where is he going with this?” Not common fodder for a Zen talk, right? Crowley claimed to have received a divine revelation in Cairo, and from that came the famous dictum:
“Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.”
Crowley’s Law of Thelema was meant, in his words, to reveal the “true will”—the deepest current of one’s being in harmony with the cosmos. But as it enters human ears, through our karmically constructed self, it tends to become a license for self-gratification, for personal supremacy, for the enthronement of the isolated or constructed self. In a way, this is self-nature mistaking itself for original nature. It’s the mountain proclaiming, “I made myself.” It’s the small “I” mistaking its own preferences for some sort of cosmic necessity.
When we live from that place, we call our cravings—or the satisfaction of our cravings—freedom. We confuse compulsion with authenticity. We build altars to our appetites and call it spiritual. Stripped of nuance, Crowley’s law becomes the pinnacle of the egoic self—the self echoing its own voice until it believes it hears the universe, until it believes in itself. And that’s what happens when self-nature severs itself from its own ground—when form forgets the source that gives it life.
Then I think of another voice that often echoes. Some of you know that I had training, many years ago, as a Christian minister—though I don’t claim that identity or hold any (Christian) ordination today. But I remember John the Baptist, in the Gospel of John, chapter three. His disciples come to him saying that Jesus is now baptizing more people than he is. And John replies:
“A person can receive only what is given them from heaven. I am not the Messiah; I am the friend of the bridegroom. The joy of the friend is made complete when he hears the bridegroom’s voice.” And then he says a simple and profound statement: “He must increase; I must decrease.”
John is again motioning toward original nature—not as denial, not as shame, but as realization and embodiment. John, in this sense, is not being erased; he’s realizing the source that animates him. By doing that, he’s able to step outside the construct he calls “John.” He understands that the light shining through him was never his own to begin with. From the perspective of the constructed self, the small self yields to the great. You can see it as the river returning to the sea.
But even in that analogy, there’s a danger. We can mistake disappearance or self-negation for holiness, or confuse vast emptiness for truth. A kind of nihilism where we’ve cleared the field, pushed everything outside conscious awareness. We have a little spotlight where everything looks clean and pure—but of course, it’s all still there; we’ve just chosen not to see it.
If we cling to self-negation as tightly as we once clung to the self, we’re in the same conundrum. Both are forms of pride—one loud, one humble. Rōya’s answer cuts through both extremes. He’s not siding with Crowley’s self-proclamation or with John’s self-erasure. He’s pointing directly to the place before either impulse arises. That’s the critical thing. That’s where wisdom resides.
Original nature, which is clear, pure, and unbounded, isn’t somewhere else. It’s not untouched by the world. It’s the very life that we live as it manifests itself—mountains, rivers, thoughts, breath unfolding as itself, before any notion of mountains, rivers, thoughts, or breath. It’s a subtle distinction, but profound.
If I say it’s a mountain—if I know it as a mountain—I’ve already lost touch with it. The state of wonder that connects us has been broken. When we come into this place and act from realization, all conceptual ideations become transparent. They don’t disappear; we simply see through them. We recognize that when we breathe, the very universe is breathing; when we act, the Dharma itself acts.
I think this is what Crowley was reaching for when he spoke of the “true will,” though his “I” never really let go of center. And it’s what John embodied when he stepped aside so a greater light could move through him. But what Rōya is showing us is that these aren’t two directions—they’re one turning. The pure state suddenly producing mountains and rivers.
We live in this turning every day. Each moment an “I” is created or conjured, and then we’re pulled between “I must assert” and “I must surrender.” It’s a tug-of-war that comes from conceptual grasping and our desperate need to know and label. Zen doesn’t choose a side; it reveals the ground before choice.
When self-nature returns to its source, it doesn’t vanish—it becomes a pure expression of that source. When form forgets itself, it bursts forth. When mountains forget mountains, mountains appear. Mountains and rivers aren’t metaphors for duality—they’re the living body of the undivided.
So when you find yourself torn between “I will” and “I will not,” remember Rōya’s clarion call: “If the original state is clear and pure, how does it suddenly produce mountains and rivers?” Sit with that. It places you in a state of wonder, a place of not-knowing. This very breath, this very body, this very voice—pure state expressing itself. Nothing needs to be improved or erased.
When we practice in this way, the imperative of this moment comes forward. Then we can truly step into our lives and be actualized by what arises. Rather than shadow-boxing with the demons of our small self, we manifest as compassion. We engage our life in a way that heals, uplifts, and mends rather than divides.
Recorded live at One River Zen, Ottawa, Illinois.
