Wandering in the Mountains
From a teisho by Sensei Michael during a weekend session on October 19, 2024 at One River Zen
Coming together in sesshin is such a powerful way of being in community, of being present. It restores us to a vantage point where we can see our true nature clearly because it’s echoed everywhere we look—all the wonder, all the joy. Many of you are old friends, some are new, but when we come together like this, we meet ourselves. We think we’re looking at different people, but we’re actually meeting our true nature in one another.
Sesshin started early this time. Peter, Chris, and Genpō spent hours working on the temple, repointing the brick walls and moving about 1,300 pounds of mortar. It’s labor, sure, but when we come together for something larger than ourselves, it becomes something more. Even in moving cement, there’s playfulness, there’s gratitude. And that same playfulness is what we bring to sesshin.
Now, today’s case comes from the Hekiganroku, Case 36: Chōsha Wandering in the Mountains.
Main Case:
One day, Chōsha went wandering in the mountains. Upon returning, the head monk asked him, “Where are you coming from, Master?”
Chōsha replied, “From wandering in the mountains.”
The head monk asked, “Where did you go?”
Chōsha said, “First, I went pursuing the fragrant grasses, and then I returned following the falling flowers.”
The head monk said, “I’m very much like the sense of springtime.”
Chōsha replied, “It even surpasses the autumn dew dripping on the lotuses.”
At first glance, this case might seem cryptic, but Chōsha is showing us how to live fully in each moment—without attaching ourselves to the meaning we’ve constructed around life. Wandering in the mountains, following fragrant grasses, returning with falling flowers—it’s not about some grand pursuit of enlightenment. It’s about being fully immersed in life as it unfolds. He’s telling us to be with life as it is—without seeking to escape, without holding back.
Now, we often talk about positive samadhi and absolute samadhi. These are two essential aspects of our practice. Positive samadhi is the samadhi of life. It’s when we are fully present with whatever arises—joy, pain, confusion. We meet each moment with complete engagement, without running away. Positive samadhi is what we experience when we are alive, when we throw ourselves completely into our lived experience.
But then there’s absolute samadhi, which is our death. It’s the point where all distinctions fall away completely. When Chōsha speaks of surpassing the autumn dew on the lotuses, he’s pointing us directly to this. The autumn dew is beautiful but fleeting, and as it drips away, it symbolizes death—absolute samadhi. And that’s not something to fear. It’s just another part of our journey. In absolute samadhi, the “I” dissolves completely, and we return to the source, beyond all notions of life and death.
Now look over here at the scroll on the wall. Painted beautifully in Chinese script, it reads, “The autumn leaves dance on the gently blowing autumn wind.” It’s more than just art—it’s a reminder. A reminder to stay here with this moment. We only get a certain number of these moments before we pass into absolute samadhi.
You walk by someone suffering on the street and think, “I ought to do something about that tomorrow.” Yet, tomorrow never seems to come. Or maybe you argue with your partner and think, “I’ll fix it in a day or two, then I’ll tell them I’m sorry, that I love them.” But here’s the truth: we are not guaranteed that chance.
You’re going to live—or rather, you have to live now. If you’re going to practice, practice now. The autumn wind is blowing, my friends. And while it’s beautiful, full of joy and life, it’s also a reminder: take heed—do not squander your life.
The positive samadhi we can practice today, with every breath we take, must be used fully, appreciated to the very core of our being.
Now, when we walk by the ancestors’ altar, we’re witnessing the truth of absolute samadhi. The ancestors, having passed into death, are fully present with us in our practice. They’re no longer confined by the “I,” and they bear witness to our practice from that place of no-separation. This is what we’re stepping into with Jukai. When we stand before the altar, we bear witness to the unbroken lineage of teachers, the practice that’s been passed down to us through centuries. The ancestors support us in life from their place in absolute samadhi.
So when Chōsha talks about the autumn dew surpassing the sense of springtime, he’s not just being poetic. He’s pointing to the fact that, as beautiful as life is—like springtime—the truth of our existence is found in absolute samadhi. The dew on the lotuses will drip away. Everything we cherish will fall away. And in the falling, in the letting go, we see the deeper truth of our impermanent nature.
Hakuin said, “Samadhi in actual life is 100,000 times better than samadhi in quietude.” That’s what he’s talking about. It’s not about sitting quietly in a corner and feeling peaceful. The real work is right here, in the world. The real work is showing up for life. That’s where our practice comes alive.
So while we’re here, while we’re still alive, let’s live fully. Let’s embrace positive samadhi. Don’t get lost in your thoughts about life—step into life. That’s how we honor this practice. That’s how we make use of the precious moments we’re given.
