Who Is This Arising and Vanishing?
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Good morning. It’s a frigid landscape outside—trees stripped bare, snow blanketing the ground. When we look out over the valley, we can see the latent potential waiting for spring. Sometimes, we reflect what we see in the landscape. We go dormant, we withdraw, and we wait for a better time to engage. It’s interesting how often we get ahead of ourselves, envisioning the fullness of spring as some ideal, while we sit dormant, suffering because life doesn’t match how we think it should be.
This reminds me of Katsuki Sekida. He came to the United States from Japan in the early 20th century. Despite being a Zen master, when he arrived, no one came to practice with him. He became a high school English teacher and sat on his own for years. It might seem like all that time was wasted. Yet, from that solitude came Two Zen Classics, the book many of you use to navigate the Mumonkan and Hekiganroku. When Sekida sat, he wasn’t just sitting for himself. He was sitting for us. Even now, we sit with him. In this practice, when we are open and aware, there is no other time, no other place.
We all have this tendency to withdraw, to wait for some ideal conditions. And yet, the opportunity to awaken is always right here. This is pointed to in Case 43 of the Shōyōroku, the Book of Serenity, titled “Razan’s Arising and Vanishing”:
Razan asked Gantō,
“What about when arising and vanishing are ceaseless?”Gantō scolded him and said,
“Who is this arising and vanishing?”
At first glance, it might seem like Gantō’s response doesn’t address the question. Razan asks about arising and vanishing—about the endless cycle of things appearing and disappearing. How do we make sense of that? How do we find stability amidst this constant flux? But Gantō doesn’t respond with an explanation. He doesn’t say, “What is this arising and vanishing?” Instead, he asks, “Who is this arising and vanishing?”
This shift from “what” to “who” changes everything. “What” points outward, to objects, phenomena, or ideas—things we might try to define or explain. But “who” turns the question inward. It directs us to investigate the experiencer, the one who perceives arising and vanishing. Gantō is inviting Razan to look deeply into the source of his question, to examine the one who is asking.
This is no small task. It’s not enough to rely on concepts or intellectual understanding. Concepts are tools, useful for navigating the everyday—finding a grocery store, calculating a rocket’s trajectory. But they fail us when it comes to grasping our lived experience. You can’t nourish yourself with the description of a rice cake. Even the most detailed account won’t satisfy your hunger. Yet we cling to these descriptions, these conceptual ideas of how life “should” be, rather than engaging directly with what’s here.
When we stop clinging, something remarkable happens. The boundlessness of the present moment reveals itself. We begin to see how everything is interconnected, how nothing is truly separate. I often remind students: this practice isn’t about escaping to some magical realm of unicorns and fairies. But if you drop the search for it, you’ll find the wonder of this moment unfolding right before your eyes. The seeds of your true nature are always here, waiting to be seen.
But as long as we hold onto ideas of how things should be, we remain blind to what is. Some mornings, we wake up and think, “I’m too tired. I’d rather sleep than practice.” Or we sit, and the experience feels wrong—thoughts of an argument or a worry distract us. But that, too, is it. That, too, is the practice. When you let go of your judgments, clarity emerges. You begin to see the patterns and habits of the small self—its likes and dislikes, its attachments and aversions. And when you see them clearly, you can go beyond them.
This is why Gantō’s question—“Who is this arising and vanishing?”—is so important. It invites us to turn inward, to see the one who clings to concepts and creates stories. Who is this “I” that feels trapped? Who is it that longs for something more, something better? When we investigate deeply, we begin to see that this “I” is not fixed or solid. It’s just another arising, another vanishing.
When things get difficult, when the small self pulls at us, that’s precisely when we need to sit. That’s when we have the chance to transcend the boundaries of this small self and glimpse our true nature. But instead, we often wait for the sun to shine, for conditions to align with our ideas of beauty and wonder. And when they don’t, we suffer. When they do, we cling, hoping the moment will last forever. In both cases, we lose track of what’s right in front of us.
Living from the perspective of the small self—driven by judgments and discriminating mind—we can’t be centered in practice or appreciate our boundless nature. So please, continue to practice, even when the landscape seems bleak. Remember, you have the sangha to support you, and I am always here to listen when things are challenging. Those moments of difficulty are the forge where ore is transformed into gold. They are where real practice begins.
Thank you for showing up, for doing the most difficult thing. As you move through this week, notice how your practice transforms your life and how you become nourishment for others. Recognize that everyone you encounter is contained within your awareness and that you already have the resources to meet all the suffering you find.
