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What
Does it Take to Become Buddha?
by Ven. Jinmyo Renge osho
April 10, 1998, Honzan Dainen-ji
What
does it take to become Buddha? Absolutely nothing, absolutely everything
.although
having a good sense of humour doesn't hurt.
To be a Buddha we must use every moment of our experience, be willing
to receive richness and release poverty. To be a Buddha requires that
we stop our games and learn how to be playful. To be a Buddha means that
we must wake up, again and again and again to what all the Buddhas and
Awakened Ancestors of the Lineage of Transmission have Awakened as.
To wake up we need to be able to sit when we are too tired or crabby to
want to. To wake up we need to stand up and do kinhin just when we have
stumbled on some state of peacefulness that we enjoy.
Yunju Daoying daiosho said, "If you want to realize this thing of
Suchness, you must be a person of Suchness." Get it?
Suchness is the Reality of who we are all are. A Buddha is one who has
Awakened to who she really is, the Reality which presents itself everywhere
as everyone. Although we are all people of Suchness, although Reality
is what we truly are, unless we realize this, we are not a Buddha.
Dogen zenji said, "You can't fabricate a Buddha through sitting or
lying down." Get it? He said this in the Fukanzazengi, an essay concerned
with how to sit and how to live as Awareness. His point is that although
we sit, sitting is not something that can fashion us into a Buddha. A
Buddha is someone who has no strategies, is not conditioned, does not
move attention towards or away from anything at all. And so a Buddha is
not fashionable, is not concerned with how he appears to be. A Buddha
is without strategies yet lives her life as a seamless activity of skillful
means, using situations to Awaken others.
To wake up, we need a Teacher who can show us the nature of our experiencing
through the process of Transmission. Transmission can take place anywhere
at any time. The 10,000 koan and Recorded Sayings and Doings of ancient
Zen Masters all recount such moments. You will notice that most of my
Dharma Talks involve stories about our own Teacher, Zen Master Anzan Hoshin.
This is because these stories are not only of contemporary situations
but the heart of them shows the core of every one of the old stories,
alive here and now. And what is Transmitted is who we all are and what
here and now is. Sometimes it occurs when seated in the presence of the
Teacher; sometimes it occurs when one is doing the laundry. So, of course,
I have a laundry story to share with you.
About eight years ago, Rev. Dozan anagarika was visiting from Great Britain
and one afternoon, the Sensei, Dozan anagarika and I went shopping. I
could write a Dharma Talk about shopping with the Sensei, but I'll save
that for another time.
This story is about a set of wind chimes we found in a shop that day.
We didn't buy them, as they were quite expensive, but I remember that
the Sensei was pleased with both the quality of craftsmanship and their
tone.
During this time, I was not living in the monastery. I lived in a ground
floor apartment not far from the Zen Centre and between sittings was making
quite a project of making my living space as Zen-like as possible. I had
stripped the walls bare, removed whatever I hadn't used, looked at, or
thought about for six months and so on. Over the next few days, I kept
thinking about these chimes and although I was on a very limited budget,
decided that I should buy them. And so I did, and hung them on my porch.
Now, you'd think that would be the end of that, but it wasn't, because
a very inconvenient question began to form and as much as I tried initially
to ignore it, it just would not go away.
You see, I could not ignore the fact that it was the Sensei who had discovered
the chimes and it was he who recognized their quality and it was he who
could not buy them for the monastery because finances were so tight, but
it was I who was listening to them. And so, the melodic tone of the chimes
began to take on a sour note that just could not be ignored.
I was pondering this one morning, while putting a load of laundry into
the washing machine. I cranked the dial and the machine began its noisy
labour. I remember leaning against the machine, listening to it chugging
away. As I listened, there was a dawning of recognition that ultimately
articulated itself as, "Well, I can always listen to the sound of
the washing machine."
After all, the point of an ikebana or sho or arrangement of stones created
by the Sensei is to help us to see. Chanting practice helps us to speak.
Incense helps us to smell. The sound of the Sensei's shakuhachi or of
the chiming of wind bells helps us to hear. As we open more and more to
the simplicity of our experience and stop trying to be the one who sees
or hears, the richer all colours and sounds become.
Decision made, I took the chimes down, repacked them in their box and
drove to the Zen Centre. When I arrived, the Sensei was seated in the
garden with Dozan anagarika. Very nervously, I offered the box. I was
so nervous, in fact, that my hands shook. And this was because, of course,
neither the Sensei nor Dozan anagarika knew anything about this little
drama I had gone through, let alone what was in the box. At the time,
I thought they might think I was completely nuts if I attempted any sort
of explanation. Perhaps the Sensei might think I was trying to curry favour
or roll over like a dog to show my belly. I certainly felt exposed but
it became immediately apparent that any idea we might have about the mind
of a Zen Master is too simplistic and cartoon like to mean anything.
The Sensei saw my nervousness, lightly gestured for me to come closer
and said "It's all right." He smiled brightly as he took the
box from my hands, looked directly into and through my eyes and said,
before opening it, "Well, you can always listen to the washing machine."
There is a word in the Japanese text of Uji or Being-Time
by Dogen: "Kappatsupachi" -- it means the sound of
a fish slapping its tail. Unmistakable, distinct, crisp. A moment of Transmission
is like that - simple, direct, it is what it is. So I didn't say anything.
The Sensei smiled and said, "Where should we hang them?" If
any of this had been about me, I would have said "outside your window."
But neither of us suggested that and so, for over seven years, the chimes
hung over the front door of Zazen-ji, where they sang into the busy activity
of Somerset Street West, for Anzan sensei, for all students as they arrived,
and for passers-by who would take the time to notice.
Anzan sensei spends endless hours with students, listening to their stories,
entering into their experience in order to show them what it takes to
be a Buddha. I was recently thinking about one of these informal conversations
between the Sensei and a student that I was also present for. The student
was describing being very tired, coming home and wanting only to go to
his room. But he was intercepted by someone in the hallway who wanted
to talk
.and talk
..and talk. The Sensei listened to this with
his eyes lowered and then slowly brought his gaze up. And then he said
"You should have said that you were going to sit in zazen."
The student said "Yes, I only said I was going to sit". This
exchange was very quick, and may seem almost trivial, but what I saw of
it was far from trivial. This is some of what I saw:
Firstly, the Sensei had not been told by the student that his reason for
wanting to escape this meaningless conversation was in order to sit. In
fact, the way he told it implied only that he was tired and wanted to
go to bed.
The Sensei not only filled in the missing information, but told him what
he had actually said and then told him what he should have said to make
himself clear to the other person. And this was done so seamlessly and
effortlessly that the student missed it altogether.
But there was something else that I noticed, something that I've seen
many times before. Just a moment or so before the Sensei had asked me
to straighten up and so I was more attentive than I would ordinarily have
been. When the Sensei raised his head, he did so very slowly. I was seated
just a few feet from him, watching attentively. As his eye gaze lifted,
as closely as I can describe it, it was like seeing sunlight shining through
water. And the light, as it shone right to the bottom, exposed everything,
rocks, plants, small creatures, mud, all exposed in minute detail by the
light. Similarly, in that moment, all of the stances, states, hopes and
fears experienced by both myself and the other student were exposed in
minute detail.
This is traditionally called Komyo, or Luminosity. Komyo means "bright
brightness." Myo in particular has the meaning of the first light
of morning spreading on the horizon. And this is the Radiance spoken of
by all of the Awakened Ones, as taught by the Buddha.
Sounds great doesn't it? But wait, I'm not finished yet. You see, a true
Teacher will teach by example, but then insists that the student take
responsibility for what is shown. Get it? So, how do you take responsibility
for having seen, having experienced a moment of komyo? Here is an example.
A few days later, I was feeling very sad. I don't really know why. Often
when I feel sad, there really isn't a reason for it that I can find. But,
as is the case for any other student, there is a strong tendency to try
to find one. I was sitting alone, observing the fragments of thoughts
and feeling tones trying to assemble themselves into some sort of coherent
storyline and noticed that my eyegaze had lowered. I raised it slowly
and looked out the window. Sunlight was streaming through the trees and
the sky was brilliant blue.
It was bright bright. And in this brightness I saw that I had a clear
choice. I could be sad or I could open to the brightness and allow myself
to be as transparent as water, the sadness no more than a detail, along
with the mud, rocks, plants or other small creatures. And that was what
I needed to vow to do, as a monk, in order to take responsibility for
myself and for others. And that this would mean to release every fear,
every sadness, every sorrow, every apparent obstacle, both my own and
other's into this Luminosity.
I hovered on the edge of a decision, just as I had with the wind chimes,
but not for too long. I knew right from the start that this practice would
cost me everything and I was right. You would not believe the number of
well-intentioned, stupid stances, ridiculous states and petty nonsense
I've had to give up. Seven years ago, I signed a blank cheque and gave
it to the Sensei. I mean an actual piece of paper made out like a cheque.
When I handed it to him he laughed and handed me a contract that he had
written up. This blank cheque is hidden somewhere here in Dainen-ji, but
I don't think I should tell you where it is. Well, here's a hint: any
monk here could figure out where it is in about three seconds.
So what does it take to become a Buddha? Absolutely everything, absolutely
nothing. And a sense of humour doesn't hurt.
It is impossible to try to figure out how this wonderful practice works.
Feeling the breath, hearing a note of a bird's song, coming alive to this
moment, even if only for a moment, is wonderful, so amazing, that sometimes
I cannot help but laugh.
The Sensei tells a great joke. He says it is his favourite knock knock
joke. Like this practice, it is subtle, easy, but a continuous challenge:
Knock, knock
Who's there?
Have a good morning.
 
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White Wind Zen Community. All rights reserved.
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