Right Here–Now What? Hekiganroku Case 23

So it's wonderful to be back with all of you after vacation. Had a lot of relaxation, got a lot of sleep. Chased David around, he had a wonderful vacation. I thought often of each of you while I was gone and all of your Dharma brothers and sisters. I heard you got some visits from your Dharma aunts Sensei Beth and Sensei Mary. That's great! And Dharma grandma Roshi Diane was here too. So lots of family was able to step in. Thanks to Genpō for giving the talk last Saturday, and thanks to Hōzō for keeping the ship righted and making sure Zoom was on all the time.

It is difficult sometimes to be a Teacher. There's so much wonder, there's so much beauty in this practice. But, you know, the moment you try to communicate it, you can struggle. And so there's this great leap that has to happen in your students from realization to actualization. But using words to try to gesture people into that gap can be a challenge, yeah? It can be very hard because we desperately want to retreat back into the idealized notion of self, notion of practice, or maybe even enlightenment. And that's often what gets us stuck. And so I spent a lot of time thinking about that while I was off on vacation. And what kept coming to mind was Case 23 of the Hekigan-roku. It's known as "Hofuku’s Summit of Mystic Peak":

Once Hofuku and Chōkei were wandering in the mountains, and Hofuku pointed with his hand and said, "Hey. Right here is the summit of Mystic Peak. Right here." Chōkei looked at him and said, "So it is. What a pity."

Setchō added a word to the case saying, "Today, what is the purpose of traveling the mountains together with these fellows?" He also said, "Hundreds of thousands of years hence, I don't say there are none—just that they will be few." Later, this dialogue between Hofuku and Chōkei was quoted to Chōkei. They came back and told him that. Chōkei said, "If it hadn't been for Mr. Sun—or Setchō—then you would have seen skulls covering the fields."

It's an interesting case—a way of drawing us in deeper and moving past some notion of practice or notion of enlightenment towards actualization. Some of these characters are shaded by the vast cloak of time. We know something of Chōkei. He lived during the Tang to early Five Dynasties period, so we're talking about the late ninth to early tenth century in China. He's a Dharma heir of Isan Reiyū, someone we see often in the Zen annals.You'll all remember him as the one kicking over a water jug in the fortieth case of the Mumonkan. Isan is a foundational figure in the Igyō school of Zen, which blends sharp inquiry and direct pointing with poetic metaphor and often a little bit of subtle humor, as is certainly captured in that case. So his Dharma heir Chōkei, based on Isan's wonderful, subtle way of teaching, becomes himself very subtle and adds an element of using poetry and natural imagery or ironic expression to provoke realization—to provoke looking past the words and the intellect to hit the true heart of the matter. And of course, he was known as someone who emphasized nonattachment—to form, to understanding, even to the tradition itself. We often hear the adage that Zen is like a finger pointing to the moon. Just don’t mistake the finger for the moon. Chōkei’s style is always compassionate, but also sharp and cutting. He's attempting here to disrupt conceptual clinging with just a few words to turn the bull.

He’s walking with Hofuku—a contemporary and perhaps a peer. We don’t know too much about him. We do know that his later title was Osho, so he became a Dharma teacher as well. But both of them show deep insight and the ability to disrupt conceptual clinging.

Setchō—the third figure in the case—is the compiler of the Blue Cliff Record. Some of you may know him by the name Hsueh Tou in Chinese translations. We've wandered with him many times before, so we don’t need to say too much more about him here.

So we’re taking a long, great walk with these two great students of the Way. While walking, Hofuku points with his hand and says, “Right here is the summit of Mystic Peak.” The word used here is Myōhōchō—myō means marvelous, hō means peak, and chō means top. So we’re talking about beyond beyond—the very pinnacle, the rarefied place of practice. And it’s often used in Zen as a potent metaphor for complete realization, anuttara-samyak-sambodhi. It’s a pointer to suchness, to the heart of the Way being right here, not elsewhere.

But those are just ideas.

Suchness in the sense that you can taste it, feel it, interact with it. And as a matter of fact, until you do those things, you haven’t appreciated it. It seems like a very astute observation, doesn’t it? I think so—at first blush.

But then Chōkei responds, “Indeed it is. What a pity.”

What an interesting sleight of hand! He’s giving with one hand and cutting with the other. It’s an ironic reflection on the nature of realization: if you say you see it, you don’t. If you say you’ve captured it, you’ve already missed it.

You’ve often heard me tell the story of the man who stands on the beach looking out at the beautiful waves while he’s away from his beloved wife. He feels the salt air, hears the crash of the waves, and says, “I’m going to bring some of this home.” So he grabs a jar, captures the best part, and brings it back. But all he brings her is a jar of smelly saltwater.

We have a tendency to try and conceptualize such a moment as awakening. But any attempt to view awakening from a vantage point other than suchness is lost.

This is it. This is it.

The koan goes on: Setchō added a word, saying, “Today, what is the purpose of traveling the mountains together with these fellows?”

So what is it?

Why do we go through all the karmic conundrums of koans to clarify something that can never be clarified through conceptual expression? Why bother with all the reading? With all the bowing? Can it be clarified at all?

Let me be clear—this is not a dismissive call to idleness, but rather a profound challenge. Can you actually walk with the ancients? Can you see past the poetry to what it’s pointing to? Ultimately, can you embody it? Not just in the context of some poem, but in the context of the life you have. Not the one you wish you had, but the one you are living right now. That’s what I’m looking for. Ultimately, I don’t need you to act out the koan. I’m asking you to show up for your life—to embody it here.

We may think this is a call to what I sometimes refer to as “aimless spontaneity”—as though there’s nothing to intend and no one to do any intending, and therefore no intention to be manifested. But the case clearly points to the futility of any idea of awakening as a goal or a target. And yet I would also suggest that this is really a call to pull your head out of the dreamy world of your thoughts. Cherish your time. Cherish what is coming up. The only way to do this is by cultivating great intention—and placing your attention with that intention. A great intention. You should sit with this until your intention is truly clear. Truly clear. Then act.

It’s true, ultimately, that all of us are one gem. But we resemble facets—and each of those facets reflects the light a little differently. So how do you manifest the great perfection of wisdom that’s beyond knowing? Who are you? This isn’t easy. I promise. As Setchō says, “Hundreds of thousands of years hence, I don’t say there are none—just that there will be few.”

There are more supposed practitioners of Zen now, because it has spread to so many continents—and yet very little real practice. Many people doing dances and prances with robes on, but very few people showing up for their life. Very few cherish their lives enough to spend them with intention and to recognize the wonder of what’s at hand.

All of us, of course, have very special circumstances and reasons why we're unique. We think the practice doesn’t work for us the way it worked for the ancients.

We think, “I’m special. I’m a different case.”

Well—yes. In one regard, you are. But in another… you’ve never met the one who is special.

Once you see that, there’s no problem.

Suzuki Roshi said:

“When we all walk together in the same way, following the same form, then we walk as our true selves. Completely unique.
The form takes care of the self-conscious mind. Then walking is just walking.”

In other words, when we're not trying to live or walk in a way that makes us appear unique, or important, or different—when we’re simply following the same form—we become free to just walk.

And in that, who we really are shines through.

But to do this, you really have to practice.
You have to cultivate intention.
You have to plan.
You have to follow through.

Without this, we never actually show up.

The case ends with a solemn warning about missing this very important point.

Later, this dialogue between Hofuku and Chōkei was quoted to Chōkei. He said:

“If it hadn’t been for Mr. Sun—or Setchō—then you would have seen skulls covering the fields.”

When we cling to this notion of self—this notion of somehow being separate—of our needs somehow being outside the practice—you’re already dead.

Don’t let your skull be one of them. Wake up to this life you’re living. Meet that one. Set your intentions. And actually manifest that in your activities.

Sometimes that looks a lot like bowing.
Sometimes it looks a lot like putting food in the food pantry.
Sometimes it looks a lot like ending an argument with our wife—even when we think we know we’re right…
(Which I know is obviously never the case, yeah?)

Otherwise, you’re dead where you stand already. And I don’t want that to be the presence of your practice.

There’s so much magic.
So much wonder happening here at the Center.
And it’s because of your continued practice.

I’m looking forward to all these wonderful things we’re doing—
We’ve got an ordination coming up. Two retreats in April. More jukai ceremonies. More service. More bowing.

But it’s all dead activity—
until we really show up.

And instead of bowing, we’re the ones who are bowed.