Seeking Meaning and the Empty Search | Blue Cliff Record Case 20

When we experience suffering, we often look for something outside of ourselves to give life meaning. We want our struggles to fit into a framework, to be part of some larger story. We search for a grand narrative, some overarching meaning that will explain why things are the way they are. This is not necessarily a bad thing—it is human nature to try to understand our place in the world.

But this search can also become another form of attachment, another way we distance ourselves from life as it is. We may think we are practicing, but in reality, we may just be substituting one conceptual framework for another. Even in Zen, we can turn our practice into a project—another way to hold onto an idea of self. We may say things like, “Just be present,” or “Just stay in the moment,” as if these words alone could resolve the fundamental restlessness we feel. But these phrases, which may have originally carried insight, can become stale, like slogans that prevent us from truly encountering the present. Instead of facing the raw immediacy of our lives, we dress them up in spiritual language.

There is a case in the Hekiganroku (Blue Cliff Record), Case 20, that points directly to this issue. It is called Ryūge Asks Suibi and Rinzai:

Ryūge asked Suibi, “What is the meaning of the Patriarch’s coming from the West?”

Suibi replied, “Bring me a chin rest.”

Ryūge brought one and handed it to him. Suibi took it and hit him.

Ryūge said, “You can hit me if you like, but after all, there is no meaning in the Patriarch’s coming from the West.”

Later, Ryūge asked Rinzai the same question: “What is the meaning of the Patriarch’s coming from the West?”

Rinzai said, “Bring me a sitting cushion.”

Ryūge brought one and handed it to Rinzai. Rinzai took it and hit him.

Ryūge replied, “You can hit me if you like, but after all, there is no meaning in the Patriarch’s coming from the West.”

This is the same old question that monks have asked for centuries. What is the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming from the West? What is the meaning of practice? What is the meaning of suffering? What is the meaning of my life? We all ask these questions, hoping that there is some deep answer waiting for us.

But in Zen, meaning is not something to be grasped. It is not something outside of ourselves that we can hunt down and capture. The monk in this case wants Bodhidharma’s journey to be a symbol, something grand that he can hold onto. But Suibi and Rinzai both reject this way of thinking entirely.

Instead of offering an explanation, they ask for everyday objects—a chin rest, a sitting cushion. These are not mystical artifacts; they are not symbols of some cosmic truth. They are just things that the monk already has right in front of him. Then, after receiving them, Suibi and Rinzai strike him.

This is a direct teaching. When we grasp at intellectual meaning, when we try to find an answer that will satisfy the mind, we are already short-sighted. We have already turned away from the living reality in front of us. This is why Ryūge, after being hit, finally says, “After all, there is no meaning in the Patriarch’s coming from the West.”

But we have to ask—does he really see it? Or is he just clinging to some intellectual construct that seems appropriate?

We do this all the time. We trade one set of beliefs for another. We say, “There is no meaning,” but we still cling to something. We still want reassurance that we are on the right path, that we are making progress, that we are getting somewhere. But this isn’t liberation. This is just rearranging the furniture in the prison cell.

Suibi and Rinzai’s blows point to something beyond explanation. They are not offering meaning in the way we expect. They are pointing us back—again and again—to the immediacy of experience.

To see without concepts, without attachment, requires that we meet our lives directly. There is an old teaching about the two arrows. If you are shot by an arrow, you feel the sting, the heat, the wetness of blood. That is the first arrow. But then comes the second arrow—the thoughts. “Why did this happen? Who did this? Was it an accident? Was it deliberate?” Before we know it, we are lost in speculation, making up stories about what happened.

The second arrow is where suffering takes hold. The first arrow is just what it is. The second arrow is all the meaning we pile onto it.

If we drop the second arrow, what happens? We just deal with what is in front of us. We remove the arrow. We tend to the wound. We act. There is no “I” tending to my wound. There is only what is needed.

This is samadhi. This is life as play. This is liberation.

When we stop looking for meaning elsewhere, we realize that it is already here. Dōgen says in Fukan Zazengi:

"Your body is like a drop of dew on a blade of grass. Your life is like a flash of lightning. Your body will disappear soon, and your life will be lost in an instant."

Every evening, as we go to bed, the number of days is reduced by one. We do not have time to waste trying to figure it all out. The answer is already present in every breath. There is no need to search for it. We simply follow where each step leads.

Many people get stuck in spiritual orthodoxy—clinging to tradition, aesthetic, or form. But true practice requires us to drop it all. When we do, the path rises to meet us.

And when we see the recognition of this truth reflected in the eyes of another practitioner, we bow deeply—because in that moment, we see our true face.

In this way, we inherit the Buddha’s great awakening. In this way, we join the dance completely.

This is where meaning is found—not in ideas, not in concepts, but in this very moment.