Ummon’s Mount Sumeru: Meeting the Obstacles of the Mind with Zen Clarity | Shōyōroku 19

A Dharma talk by Sensei Michael Brunner of One River Zen, Ottawa, on Ummon’s Mount Sumeru—meeting life’s obstacles with Zen clarity delivered November 8, 2025.

In our karmic mind, in the land of the constructed self, we have a tendency to be pushed and pulled by life’s circumstances, to live from one disappointment to the next, from one thing we’re anticipating to another—now happy, now sad, now hot, now cold. We see insurmountable obstacles and intractable problems, and the end of the world is never far away. If you don’t believe me, just look at the world’s literature. From the time of the Bible onward, people have been predicting that the end is near. Every generation says, “It’s clearly worse now than it’s ever been.” It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. This sense of scarcity and lack is a thread woven through our human story—a narrow glimpse of the world beyond.

As convincing as these images and portents may seem, we begin to recognize that things seldom unfold as we imagine. We can sense a world glimpsed through the knots in the fence of our longing and aversion—a world of freedom and boundlessness. In that moment, we begin to yearn to take our place in that home. But we often imagine it as a home in silence, away from our tortured thoughts—a kind of escape. We may even wonder if such an existence is possible, or what it would look like. And so we look elsewhere.

We get a glimpse of this conundrum in the nineteenth case of the Shōyōroku, called Ummon’s Mount Sumeru. The case begins:

  A monk asked Ummon, “When not producing a single thought, is there any fault or not?”
  Ummon said, “Mount Sumeru.”

Ummon Bun’en was the founder of the Ummon school of Zen, one of the original Five Houses of Zen that later consolidated into the two primary schools we know today, Sōtō and Rinzai. The Ummon school eventually folded into the Rinzai tradition. He was a disciple of Bokushū Dōmyō and Seppō Gison. We meet Seppō in several other cases; Bokushū we know mostly through legend and lore. Ummon appears in nearly forty cases across the classic koan anthologies. He is one of the most prevalent figures in the literature. We often think of Jōshū as the sharpest presence—when Jōshū appears, we know we’re in for it—but Ummon is no less powerful. He wields his sword so precisely that when it lands, we forget the executioner was ever present.

There are two stories about Ummon’s awakening. In one, he’s studying with Bokushū, who suddenly seizes him and throws him down. In the impact, Ummon’s foot catches and breaks, and he cries out, “Ouch!” In that flash, the self that was seeking collapses into recognition: it’s right here. In another version, he’s with Seppō, who slams a temple gate shut—unfortunately, on Ummon’s leg—and in that shock, the whole world opens. Choose whichever story you like. In both, there’s a collapse of the world of thought and disaster, and the dawning of liberation through direct, embodied pain. Whether thrown or struck, both point to the same moment: when body and mind drop away and reality reveals itself as whole and undivided.

Ummon spent his whole life teaching the practice of turning obstacles into gateways. Whether through pain or surprise, he continually turned our attention toward the realization that awakening does not come from avoiding the world but from meeting it completely. So here, when a monk asks about a mind free of thought, Ummon doesn’t offer comfort or concept—he lifts up Mount Sumeru itself. The mountain is vast, immovable, inescapable. Depending on how we meet it, it can be a trap or a gate.

Wanshi Shōgaku, who compiled the Shōyōroku, wrote a preface to this case. He said:

  “I always admire the novel activity of Ummon. All his life he pulled out nails and wedges for people. Why did he sometimes open his gate and set out a tray of glue, or dig a pitfall in the middle of the road? Examine this closely and see.”

So, is there a trap here? Yes—there is both a trap and a Dharma gate. It all depends on how you shift your gaze, or ultimately, how well you include everything rather than bracketing your perception to include less or more—the constant push and pull of the small self.

In Zen, one of the terms we use for direct seeing is nen. In a first-nen experience, we relate directly. There’s no gap, no separation between our lived experience and ourselves. Think of it as drinking a glass of wine—or juice, if you prefer—and really tasting it. It’s marvelous. In that moment, there’s no drinker and nothing to drink. There is only revitalization. The whole universe is refreshment.

A second-nen arises when we try to relate the experience to a friend, or recall it later. No matter how carefully we choose our words, we can’t fully conjure the immediacy of that first moment. A third-nen appears when that friend retells the story to someone else, or when we ruminate on our memory of having described it. Ideology, prejudice, and philosophical frameworks are all products of the third nen and beyond. This isn’t to say they aren’t useful—only that we must see them for what they are and keep them in their proper place. They are not substitutes for direct experience. Yet we cling so tightly to our ideas about reality that we miss reality itself. That’s delusion. But even delusion loosens its grip when we see it rightly.

So the question becomes: is each echo of the nen included in the Great Mountain? Yes—it’s all the Great Mountain itself. But if you see only the foothill, or only the one witnessing the mountain, you never truly appreciate its scale. When you take it all in, you realize there’s nothing to climb and no one to climb it. If you try to exclude your thoughts, the mountain rises tall and blocks you. If you cling only to your thoughts, the trap springs shut. So what do we do?

Here we teach the Three Transformative Touchstones, a framework deeply rooted in the precepts. Within them we find the antidote for this kind of stuckness. First, to maintain wonder—meeting each moment with openness and curiosity, allowing creativity and insight to arise from direct experience. When we stop clinging to “this” or “that,” label or labeler, and simply open to what is present, our distinctions lose their hold. To maintain wonder is not to measure every experience against some cosmic scale of definitions, but to see it as it is, right now, right here. We often substitute judgment for reality. Why do that, when reality is right here, waiting to be experienced directly?

When we can see through our judgments—not by excluding them, but by including them and seeing them as echoes—the second touchstone naturally follows: to include everything. To embrace joy and sorrow, confusion and clarity, as essential aspects of the unfolding path. Only then can we truly be all-inclusive. Noise and quietude both must be experienced. Longing and aversion are both teachers. In not resisting one, we find harmony and balance in both. We begin to see that the obstacle and the path are not two. And when we see this, we glimpse our true nature and the sufficiency of what is. We see the vast boundlessness of our being.

When we hold to these two touchstones—maintaining wonder and including everything—the third touchstone arises effortlessly: to transform suffering. We begin to work with difficulty not as an obstacle, but as the very ground from which wisdom and expression arise through skillful action. Not by excluding thought, not by judging rightly, but by opening completely—letting heart and hands align. We are actualized by our circumstances. Everything becomes the field of practice. Knowing that you contain the boundless universe within you—of course that includes suffering too. But you also have all the resources to meet that suffering with compassion and transform it.

You have to shift your gaze—to open actively to your boundless nature. Don’t bracket your view to see one side or the other. Train yourself to allow it all.

There is an appreciatory verse for each case in the Shōyōroku, and Wanshi’s for this one reads:

  Not raising a single thought—Mount Sumeru.
  Ummon’s Dharma is not meant to be stingy.
  Come to accept it and you’ll get a double portion.
  Doubt it, and you’ll never scale that thousand-yard height.
  Blue oceans vast, white clouds at ease.
  Between them there’s not a hair’s breadth.
  A false cock’s crow never deceives one.
  Be unsure, and you’ll not pass through the barrier.

It’s all right here. Ummon’s words were few, but the full measure is contained within. If you see it as a meager feast, you’ll starve. If you open to its wonder, you’ll swallow the whole of Mount Sumeru. You’ll take in the vast universe, leaving nothing outside. But this must be lived. It can’t be understood. This is something you work through with your hands, your feet, and your heart—actively engaged. It’s always right here, even when you think it’s conspicuously absent. Each of you carries this in full. The question becomes: how will you use it? Or will you collapse into one of the foothills along the path?

Each one of you—Mount Sumeru!