《道禅集》

Compiled by the Perfected Person (Zhenren) Wang of Jinpo.

A companion has been asking me about Chan methods for several days in a row. I am glad that he can set his mind on seeking the Dao (the Way), and that his aspiration is firm and consistent throughout. I reflect that my own intelligence falls short and my wording is shallow and crude. I fear I may harm the pure reputation of the community of practitioners, and I have neither De (Virtue/Power) nor cultivation worth praising. To say these things is nothing more than “speaking of a dream within a dream” and “setting a head upon a head,” vainly adding one more layer of talk.

To carve and polish deliberately in a grove of sandalwood is rather like flowers blooming on thorns; in the forest where lions come and go, a fox is roaring loudly.

What is said here is not the Dao of sudden awakening, but only a few thoughts. If one cannot turn around and realize it in person, what is gained is no more than half. Yet if not even a single phrase is offered, the other person may find it hard to open the crucial point.

One must first rely on single-minded concentration to understand how thorough liberation is reached, and then clearly recognize the “four inversions” (four kinds of inverted understanding) before one can tend toward completeness. Forget names and categories, abandon outward appearances, break through the false and illusory, and do not cling to what is called the real. Do not remain bound to the paths of the “Three Vehicles”—the hearer, the solitary awakener, and the bodhisattva—but enter directly the gate of the mysterious and wondrous.

Words can convey an echo, and within a sentence the sharp point of the encounter can also appear. The formless sword of wisdom may be used at one’s fingertips; the bright pearl that has left form and appearance behind may also be handed over face to face. The sentences are as clear as fine jade sifted by the autumn moon, and the words are like brocade spread with spring flowers.

Broadly speaking, the finger that points to the moon is only a guide; once the moon has been seen, the finger is no longer of use. To catch fish one must rely on a trap woven of bamboo strips; once the fish are caught, the trap may be set aside.

Thus, when the obstruction that is like a painted screen is broken through, one can understand the house style of cultivation that transcends the world; when the bottom falls out of the bucket, one sees that cultivation no longer depends on contrived effort and management. To add even a thread or a hair is like a thorn lodged in the eye; to take away even a thread or a hair is like cutting a piece from living flesh. If one does not meet a person who truly has the eye and can discern the principle, it is hard to understand the meaning within.

If now one fails to recognize one’s own eyebrows and instead goes about uncovering other people’s faces, one ought to be brought to see that, on seeing a scene or hearing a sound, one can comprehend it in that very moment, without groping about in every direction.

One who has thoroughly penetrated the matter can set it down and can also take it up at any time; one whose wisdom is fully open can also respond with flexibility to the situation. This is like making primordial chaos whole and opening its seven apertures, and like shattering empty space so that the sixfold world (above, below, and the four directions) is smashed to pieces.

Although there is no astonishing technique, there is a response full of force and sharp in its cutting edge. To understand these things is just like parting thick fog and seeing the sky, or parting the clouds and seeing the sun.

Why trek across ten thousand rivers and a thousand mountains, searching everywhere for the Ten Continents and Three Isles (the immortal realms of Daoist legend)? Do not look beneath straw sandals for the conditions of attaining the Dao, nor inquire only on the meditation cushion after the essentials of cultivating the mind. The principle before one’s eyes has already been laid open, and the crucial point has been delivered face to face. Those who have the eye should take up the understanding; those who feel they lack the strength should apply their effort precisely from here. A verse still follows, for everyone to verify together.

The verse says:

When iron strikes copper, the sound rings out sharp and clear, and a person’s spirit grows hard and unyielding. Lips are like knives, the tongue like a sword, and speech is like the firing of a gun. Yet the moment one draws near, heads fall; even if the head is not lost, the whole body is wounded.

One may ask: who is wounded, and what is it that falls? The person without a head has, on the contrary, ears and eyes complete; the wounded person is like one deaf and blind.

When empty space and a cloth drum are struck together, who is the guest and who is the host?

Zaimao, Verse Seventy-Four

Let guest and host face each other of themselves, neither owing the other anything. When movement and stillness are both forgotten, one accords with the essential working of the sage. To cling to the very word “Dao” (the Way) is itself a sickness—how much more so to go on discoursing about every subtle and mysterious principle.

What does it mean to break attachment to “the mysterious”? Can one see it face to face and truly take it in? Lift up that white gull which appears out of “nothing,” and there is no need to speak further of its long passage to Silla (an ancient name for the region of the Korean peninsula).

In ordinary daily life, things are simply thus; there is no fixed method that can be handed on. One need not idle away time practicing fists and staves or probing and testing. The bright moon and the clear wind have already said all there is of Chan.

The mote of dust before the eyes seems to hold the vast heaven and earth of two hundred prefectures; mountains, rivers, and the great earth can be gathered into a single hair. The ten directions and the three realms (a Buddhist expression for all space and the worlds of living beings) need not be sought elsewhere; they are all at the tip of Jinpo’s staff.

One may travel to the ends of the earth, yet the body has never moved. When every attachment is broken, fulfillment is complete. Why speak again of the scenery of eternal spring? Clear wind in the bright day, and a bright moon at night—these are the scene before one’s eyes.

After awakening to the Dao, the whole body seems to be eyes; when one is lost, one clearly has eyes and yet is like the blind. How many in the world are like the plank-bearer (one who shoulders a single board and whose view is blocked) and cannot see the whole? They do not believe that the light of heaven shines without cease, day and night.

An iron man strikes the clappers, yet the sound is soundless; a stone woman plays the sheng, yet her lips do not move. Rotten wood still puts forth tender shoots in the cold of winter, and among the chilly rocks there is another spring.

To learn much and know widely is not yet to accord with Chan principle. A foolish cat watching a burrow labors in the end in vain. Alas for the clever of past and present: they clearly have eyes—why can they not see heaven?

Everyone has the White Guanyin (here meaning the compassion and luminous awareness originally present in every person). Meeting the myriad affairs with ease and completeness, one need not seek outside. Ear, eye, tongue, and sound can all accord with the wondrous principle; seeing, hearing, knowing, and perceiving are originally the working of one mind.

Chan and the Dao have never been easy to attain. If one can understand the crucial point within them, it is like the natural meeting of a needle’s point and a mustard seed. When inside and outside both show forth true emptiness and stillness, it is like parting cloud and mist and seeing the sun.

The radiance, perfect and without the slightest lack, is as vast as empty space; in cultivation, not a minute and not a second of effort can be wasted. If one can open the “Quanzhen eye” (Complete Perfection) at the crown of the head—symbolizing the wisdom that discerns reality—one can gaze far in all directions and understand that the myriad things are originally one.

Take empty space as the drum and oneself as the drumstick. With a single strike, delusion and discrimination are broken through—what is left to doubt? Set turning the various skillful devices and methods of cultivating the Dao (the Way), so that the distinction between sage and ordinary person comes to rest, and neither side suffers any loss or lack.

When a single phrase strikes the crucial point, it can revive the lineage style handed down by the patriarchs. This mind-teaching has been hidden and profound since ancient times and cannot be lightly disclosed. At times, after the roar of dragons and the howl of tigers has subsided, one leaps forth from Spirit Mountain (in Buddhist legend, the place where Śākyamuni taught) and the Ocean of Nature (the pure original nature inherent in all beings).

Radiance fills the whole body, without the slightest defect.

When a single phrase strikes the crucial point, it can revive the lineage style handed down by the patriarchs. This mind-teaching has been hidden and profound since ancient times and cannot be lightly disclosed. At times, after the roar of dragons and the howl of tigers has subsided, one leaps forth from Spirit Mountain and the Ocean of Nature.

Radiance fills the whole body, marvelous and peaceful; even when it fills empty space, it is not too much. If one asks where it truly appears: the green willows still sway in the wind as before.

An iron flute without holes is sounded by a wooden figure; the tone is full and resonant, shaking the earth. It awakens the thousand hands and thousand eyes of the Greatly Compassionate Guanyin (symbolizing the vast capacity to save living beings), and spiritual powers and wondrous functions are at once revealed without remainder.

Everywhere is the same expanse of empty space; why seek outwardly for some deep and mysterious realm? Within oneself there is already the realm of immortals and buddhas. The radiance that illumines the worlds of the ten directions is right before the eyes at this very moment.

Do not treat Chan pivots as riddles to be guessed. When the mind is empty and luminous and contemplation is thorough, one naturally accords with the realm of the Tathāgata. Carefully savoring the meaning in the verse, grasses, trees, mountains, and rivers all seem to reveal their original face before one’s eyes.

From the beginningless past, original nature has never changed; last year’s peach blossoms are just as crimson this year. Who can understand the meaning held in the tips of the hundred grasses? That is precisely the original host—the unchanging true nature.

A single point of numinous light interpenetrates heaven, earth, and the myriad things. Responding to conditions and meeting whatever appears, wherever the gaze falls can become the immortal realm of Penglai. Before spring arrives, willow catkins fly with the wind; after the twelfth month, plum blossoms open amid the snow.

Clapping one’s hands and stroking one’s beard, one laughs with full ease. After awakening to the Dao, one realizes that all things accord with the constant truth. The spring colors filling the sky admit no distinction of high and low, yet the flowering branches across the land each have their own length.

One must stand firm in body and mind amid the perilous places where wolves and tigers roam. Before spring arrives, willow catkins fly with the wind; after the twelfth month, plum blossoms open amid the snow.

Clapping one’s hands and stroking one’s beard, one laughs with full ease. After awakening to the Dao, one realizes that all things accord with the constant truth. The spring colors filling the sky admit no distinction of high and low, yet the flowering branches across the land each have their own length.

One must settle one’s life amid the thickets of wolves and tigers; even when facing menservants and maidservants, one must distinguish who is close and who is distant. Every household can set out on the road to Chang’an (symbolizing a secure refuge or an ideal realm); yet how many can truly arrive in Chang’an?

The white ox (symbolizing pure original nature) comes and goes, formless and traceless, among the white clouds, riding the morning wind. At leisure it tills the sun and moon in the Dantian (energy center)—the place in Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy) where one visualizes and refines Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy)—letting the numinous seed grow of itself, without deliberate effort.

Where the cultivator of the Dao (the Way) has passed, no dust clings. The only fear is that, when the crucial moment arrives, the realization is still not genuine. If one merely clings to wandering the little paths of fragrant grass, how can one know that one has already turned away from the spring light of the old garden?

When not a single thought arises, one accords with original truth; if one is bound by every kind of entanglement, it is as though calamities follow one upon another. Suddenly the lock of the mysterious pass (the threshold of realizing original nature and penetrating the subtle principle) is broken, and the bright moon and clear wind freely appear.

A single point of spiritual light merges into boundless emptiness. If one attends only to Chan inquiry, the effort is wasted. Within the ordinary one senses the ordinary Dao; once this ordinary Dao is truly realized, there is nothing left to cling to.

To take thusness (the true, unchanging nature of all things) as an object of contemplation is, in the end, deluded attachment. Even if one sees, hears, and perceives a clarity like the moon and a freedom like the wind, it is still not the ultimate.

A single point of spiritual light merges into boundless emptiness. If one attends only to Chan inquiry, the effort is wasted. Within the ordinary one senses the ordinary Dao; once this ordinary Dao is truly realized, there is nothing left to cling to.

To take thusness as an object of contemplation is, in the end, deluded attachment. The four modes of cognition—seeing, hearing, sensing, and knowing—are none of them ultimate. To recognize one’s own mind and penetrate the root, though one may take it up in the present moment, may still be only the second level of the mysterious gate (the gate of subtle cultivation).

Sitting upright, one feels that the worlds of the ten directions are a single household. Cold cliffs and withered trees can sprout again. If someone comprehends the scene of an everlasting spring that never fades, the iron tree too will blossom, clear and plain.

In the unbearable heat of the sixth month, beneath the rootless tree the shade of the leaves is cool. A coolness like a bit of cold ice within the red furnace empties and brightens the mind, and one’s mood stretches far and long.

Suddenly the west wind feels especially cold, yet the golden chrysanthemums by the hedge quietly give off a pure fragrance. The autumn scene has not failed the promise of that year; the chrysanthemums still keep their fragrance in late autumn.

If one wishes to penetrate Chan phrases and forces an explanation of every line, south will be called north and west called east. The ancients’ gong’an (questions and cases used in the Chan school to awaken insight) should all be set aside. See through the subtle principle of the Tathagata, and one can leave behind attachment to emptiness.

In whatever state one meets, wondrous awareness manifests within it—what else is there? Beyond walking, standing, sitting, and lying down, it still accompanies one always. Perfect, numinous awareness belongs to everyone, yet people often do not know it in themselves, and let themselves sink like heaps of ruined bones.

Ask the people of the world: have they ever seen two clay oxen fighting until at last they sink together to the bottom of the Eastern Sea? The nostrils (here referring to the breath, or to signs of life) vanish without a trace, and all tidings cease; yet a moon without attributes shines upon the autumn sky.

Within walking, standing, sitting, and lying down, wondrous awareness accompanies one always. Perfect, numinous awareness belongs to everyone, yet people often do not know it in themselves and let themselves sink.

Ask the people of the world: have they ever seen two clay oxen fighting until at last they sink together to the bottom of the Eastern Sea? The nostrils vanish without a trace, and all tidings cease; yet a moon without attributes shines upon the autumn sky.

When the eyes are diseased, one takes the phantoms in empty space for real scenery, chases after them, and becomes lost; the moment a thought stirs, myriad waves rise in its wake. When the illness is cured, the phantoms disperse and the realm of Chan appears. The bright moon and clear breeze have always been thus, yet people are often unaware of it.

Take raw iron into the kitchen and cook it, casting it into sour fillings and fine delicacies. If one can savor the taste with care, one can in turn trip up “impermanence.” Cooking and tasting serve here as metaphors for seeing through impermanence by means of personal realization.

The road to the Western Heaven is one hundred and eight thousand li; to arrive there, sitting calmly and upright is itself the journey. The “man with a plank on his shoulder” is one of narrow vision who clings to a single side. The verse awakens such a person, so that the eye at the back of his head also opens and he sees clearly.

Only after thorough awakening does one know that even a single word is already too much. Who taught you to recite “Amitābha”? No sooner have you stepped through the gate than you receive three thousand blows—an exaggerated Chan saying used to shatter attachment. Quickly ask your senior brother: does it hurt?

Let every clinging come to rest. There is no need to investigate on purpose, nor to press questions about past, present, and future. So long as the scenery of the homeland in the heart is pure and clear, the distant mountains remain wrapped in mist and cloud.

The white ox on the open plain, once turned loose, is not to be called back; when hungry it eats, when thirsty it drinks, and when weary it passes the days with the four seasons. The “white ox” here is a metaphor of practice commonly used in Chan. The wooden man does not know how to keep his mouth shut, and quietly nods toward the green mountains.

Among the myriad things, only one true self shows itself—now angry, now joyful, now close to others, now distant. All that is heard, seen, and perceived is likewise a matter within one’s own mind.

To know the original face from before your parents gave birth to you: it lies in oneself, not in heaven. When all manner of tangled things come crashing in, they smash thought to pieces; only then does one not fail the Chan teaching handed down by the patriarchs.

In an autumn cave as cold and clear as the moon palace, an oyster nurtures a pearl in embryo; yet the bright pearl does not come from there. The sacred and the ordinary mirror one another amid the red dust, and a golden lotus actually blooms in the midst of fire.

Which, before your eyes, is your home? If the scene before you has not yet been seen clearly, dust and sand have already risen. Should someone grasp the meaning and act according to conditions, it is like a spring bird murmuring as it feeds its young, and like calling out among falling blossoms.

East, south, west, and north may all be used to discourse on the mysterious and speak of the Dao (the Way); within heaven and earth and the four directions, there is nothing more than a single hermitage. From this point one no longer lingers in the distinction between the ordinary and the holy; the distant mountains remain as green as indigo.

Original nature neither increases nor decreases; it is subtle, perfect, and constant. Once one falls into choosing and rejecting, into discrimination, it is hard to find rest. Gouging a sore in the flesh may still be endured, but a thorn in the eye is not something one can willingly accept.

Yesterday the whole Great Void was shattered, and the master who has always been there was recognized. Yet emptiness was gathered up again and set back in that deep, dark, and remote place.

Do not find it strange that these unrestrained recitations seem to make no sense; they can suddenly clear the dull, benighted nature of ordinary people. If one calls forth that nameless master, one dares to take the void itself and cut it to shape.

There is a reason for turning the void over in one’s hands: one must recover that former master of old. Only when the void is recognized from this point on does one know that both fundamental substance and outward form are whole and real.

When those who possess the Dao (the Way) meet, the mind is at once suddenly clear—what, of all that lies before the eyes and beneath the brows, remains to be doubted? If a person can drink dry the waters of the West River, he can ride a mud dragon out to sea. The “mud dragon” here is a metaphor, referring to the mastery of things that are elusive and hard to grasp.

Once the Chan (Zen) meaning within pure emptiness has been thoroughly understood, one eats when hungry and sleeps when tired. If you wish to know the genuine tidings of a higher level, look to the tip of the tall pine beyond the clouds, pointing straight into the sky.

Among the traditions of religious teaching, who can equal the Daoists? The marvel lies in a person’s transformation in the present moment. The autumn moon, the spring flowers, and the snow and sleet of winter are, from the beginning, all manifestations of the true master (that is, the inner true nature).

Ask how you pass your days, and people of the world do not know. The ears can “see” things, while the eyes are like the eyebrows; the springtime within the gourd does not change, and the scenery beyond the world has a subtlety of its own.

Across ten thousand li, river and sky are one expanse of autumn color; the three mountains and the four seas are scenes of clear seclusion. If one can press down the head of the spirit dragon, there is no need to drift with the waves.

The profound workings that are disclosed are known to few in the world. People often entangle themselves and bind themselves, and thus give rise to doubt. In awakening, it is like the sun rising and the sky growing bright, the eyes opening to see heaven and earth; in confusion, it is like the wind blowing across the water, wrinkling it into ripples.

A single point of numinous clarity and empty stillness exists prior to heaven, earth, and the myriad things; never has any sage been able to speak it to the end. Yet it can pass on its message beyond the world—the water of the ravine and the wind in the pines seem already to have said all there is of the Chan meaning.

A needle’s eye and an opening the size of a mustard seed are not narrow, nor are the ends of the earth and the corners of the sea broad. With an open mind, and with the eye of formlessness throughout the whole body (a way of seeing not bound by outward forms), one can be perfectly clear and not be deceived by others.

How pitiable are those who chase outward appearances, taking the flower’s shadow in the air for something real, turning their backs on their own gate and seeking elsewhere. They do not know that, from the start, there is nothing the matter; to press further into the mysterious is rather like getting sand in the eye.

Do not let the green bamboo before the hall be veiled in mist; beyond the willows the oriole’s song rings as clear as a zither string. A truly clear-sighted Chan master, if able to grasp the meaning of Chan from this, need no longer speak of those repetitious, long-winded methods of Chan instruction.

Seeing form and hearing sound, one can accord with original reality; in every thing the “body of the Dharma King” (the Buddha’s true Dharma-body) is revealed. Flowers of awakening cover the ground—who recognizes them? That numinous, graceful root and shoot has a life of its own; there is no need to wait for spring.

The deep, still mind of Chan is as vast in capacity as empty space; though it does not speak, it already comprehends the classics of ten thousand schools. If one can grasp within it the original Dao (the Way), one will trust that it lies right before the eyes, as near as the eyebrows above them.

Meeting things, one comes to know one’s own mind; once the true mind is known, all things display the body of the Dharma King. Flowers of awakening cover the ground—who recognizes them? That numinous, graceful root and shoot has a life of its own; there is no need to wait for spring.

The deep, still mind of Chan is as vast in capacity as empty space; though it does not speak, it already comprehends the classics of ten thousand schools. If one can grasp the original Dao, one will trust that it lies close at hand, as if the eyebrows were just above the eyes.

To see a thing and thereby know the mind is to recognize one’s own mind; once the mind is recognized, the great earth shows itself as precious as gold. Within oneself there is already a treasure like a bright pearl; there is no need to seek it from the black dragon (Lilong, the legendary dragon said to keep a precious pearl beneath its jaw).

Sometimes one holds the guard so tightly that there is not the slightest room to turn, and in the end the teacher’s effort is spent in vain. Overturn that yellow-headed, golden elder (meaning the Buddha), lest people call him the master of the house.

One may travel to the ends of the earth, yet the feet have in fact never moved; right where no step is taken, one accords with the profound principle. The cries of apes and the calls of sparrows—do you catch their meaning? They have already spoken to the full the upward pivot of the Chan school (the direct pointing to the fundamental gate of the Dharma).

The Three Bodies (the Buddha’s three bodily aspects) and the Four Wisdoms (the Buddha’s four kinds of wisdom), though their names are many, leave no fixed trace. The Eight Liberations and the Six Supernatural Powers (the states of freedom and the abilities spoken of in Buddhist practice) function wondrously and are complete of themselves. A person’s original face is perfect from the start; without rouge or powder it has a grace of its own.

To inquire into the Way and take up Chan may seem difficult, like waves suddenly rising on level ground. When the mist clears, true emptiness shows itself vast and boundless; for ten thousand li, river and sky are one clear, cold hue.

When someone comes to ask me the essential purport of the patriarchs and the Buddha-dharma, I point straight to the first peak of Spirit Mountain (Lingshan, a pointing to the source). To grope with a deliberate mind makes it all the harder to grasp; when there is no mind, one can see the original face of former days.

Kāśyapa (Jiaye, the Buddha’s disciple Mahākāśyapa) raises a fist as a sign, and Ānanda (Anan, the Buddha’s disciple) answers with palms joined—what remains to doubt? After the leaves fall, neither of the two pines leaves a shadow; the flower, holding a smile, is precisely the first branch in the east wind.

I have a prescription for a spiritual elixir from beyond this world. There is no need to labor at compounding and refining it; one need only take it up in person and understand it. Open that packet of medicine sealed with borneol and musk, and the fragrance passes straight through the nostrils of the Chan practitioner (chanhezi, a monk engaged in Chan practice).

Mahakasyapa raised his fist to show that person; after Ananda pressed his palms together, what was left to doubt? The leaves on the pines had all withered away, as if neither of the two pines cast a shadow; the flowers opened with a smile, like the first branch bursting into bloom against the wind.

I have a wondrous elixir formula that transcends the world. It need not be laboriously compounded; one need only take it upon oneself and understand it. Open the medicine packet sealed with musk and other fragrances, and the scent passes through the nostrils of the Chan practitioner and comes rushing full upon the face.

When mind and external conditions are both forgotten, the myriad phenomena instead appear. Beneath the rootless tree, the shadows of the leaves are cool and clear; the wooden man is just waiting to put on his boots and depart, yet the stone woman invites him to talk of heaven and earth.

Cast down those layers upon layers of abstruse explanations, and do not cling to so-called truth; once one has thoroughly penetrated Dao (the Way) and Chan, one can see clearly the dust and grime before one’s eyes. Cold rocks and withered trees unexpectedly seem like stone giving rise to a smile; elsewhere there is a Penglai realm of the immortals, alive with the feeling of spring.

He raises his fist—do you understand? The gull with lowered head flies past Silla (the ancient name for the region of the Korean peninsula). The family style of this school need not be proclaimed to those who are confused; when words do not meet between people, even a single sentence is already too much.

The original face is the same as empty space and is not bound by discrimination. At the very moment a thought arises, it is still hard to understand: who is it that can perceive the thought? The circle-sign (yuanxiang; in the Chan school, the circle used to indicate perfection or suchness) need not be compared to the bright moon; when the light of wisdom shines forth, it is perfect and without lack.

True great awakening need not be boasted of on the lips. Once one has thoroughly penetrated Dao and Chan, one can see clearly the dust and sand before one’s eyes. When the mind is lucid and clear, it illuminates through and through the realm of true emptiness; the heavens and earth of the eight directions, within a single contemplation, are as if one family.

Yet true emptiness does not reside in words and letters. To be moved to chant these clumsy verses is to unfold the spiritual meaning within them. Although the Great Void has no form, each time one takes it up and savors it, a fresh significance can appear.