The Eternal Sky

Dharma Talk by Geoffrey Shugen Arnold, Sensei
Book of Serenity, Case 7
“Yaoshan Ascends the Seat”

Featured in Mountain Record 25.3, Spring 2007

The Pointer

Eyes, ears, nose, tongue—each has one ability. The eyebrows are above. Warriors, farmers, crafters, merchants—each returns to a job. The unskilled one is always at leisure. How does a real Chan master devise techniques?

The Main Case

Yaoshan hadn’t ascended the seat (to lecture) for a long time. The temple superintendent said to him, “Everybody’s been wanting instruction for a long time—please, Master, expound the Teaching for the congregation.”

Yaoshan had him ring the bell; when the congregation had gathered, Yaoshan ascended the seat: after a while he got right back down from the seat and returned to his room. The superintendent followed after him and asked, “A while ago you agreed to expound the Teaching for the congregation. Why didn’t you utter a single word?”

Yaoshan said, “For scriptures there are teachers of scriptures, for the treatises there are teachers of treatises. How can you question this old monk?”

The Capping Verse

A foolish child troubles over “money”

used to stop crying;

A good steed chases the wind, looking back

at the shadow of the whip.

Clouds sweep the eternal sky;

nesting in the moon, the crane—

The cold clarity gets into his bones,

he can’t go to sleep.

This is, in a sense, a very simple koan. Yaoshan, the dharma great grandfather of Dongshan, hadn’t given a talk in a long time and there were rumblings in the sangha. “What’s going on?” “Why isn’t the old man doing his job?” The superintendent, because it was his job, went to Yaoshan and said, “You know, you haven’t given a talk for a very long time. Everybody would like to hear the dharma. Please give a teaching.” In the commentary it says in reference to this line, In the course of humanity and duty, in the capacity of host and guest, this is not out of line. It was a perfectly appropriate request, so Yaoshan had the superintendent ring the bell. The monks then assembled, eager to hear the talk. Yaoshan took his seat and after a while he got down and went back to his room. The superintendent ran after him and said, “Just a minute ago you said you were going to give a talk. Why didn’t you give a talk, why didn’t you say anything?” And Yaoshan said, “For scriptures there are teachers of scriptures, for the treatises there are teachers of treatises. How can you question this old monk?” Another translation said, “Why are you unhappy with this old monk?”

The question, of course, is did he expound the teaching? If he did, why did the superintendent ask him why he didn’t? More importantly, what was the teaching? If he didn’t, why didn’t he? An old master said, “A hut conceals deep within a thunderous tongue. Let the myriad forms explain on their own.” What was Yaoshan’s teaching?

When Manjushri asked Vimalakirti, “What is the dharma gate to nonduality?” Vimalakirti was silent. “Let the myriad forms explain on their own.” Each and every thing expresses its own nature, its own completeness. Isn’t that good medicine for an ailing planet, for a troubled people, given that all of our ailments are based on the belief in a fundamental brokenness? We think that the world is a broken place, that people are broken creatures, and that it can all be fixed by repairing the brokenness. But that hasn’t worked so far. That’s what the Buddha realized. Nothing is broken, fundamentally. Each thing expresses its own completeness. So this old master said, “Let the myriad forms explain on their own.”

Another master said, “Speaking when silent, silent when speaking, the gate of great generosity opens with nothing blocking the way.” Speaking when silent. Did Yaoshan give a talk? If so, what did he say? What did the myriad forms explain on their own? What did Vimalakirti express with his silence, a silence that filled heaven and earth? What was Yaoshan’s form, extending out in the ten directions with nothing blocking the way? The superintendent, not understanding Yaoshan’s teaching, followed after him, You said you were going to give a talk. Why didn’t you?” Yaoshan’s teaching wasn’t perceived. Not being perceived it couldn’t be realized. Not being realized it couldn’t be manifested. There’s also silence when speaking. Sometimes that’s just because we’re talking but we’re not saying anything. Sometimes it’s speaking without moving the tongue or lips. Who is it that’s speaking?

Yaoshan was a teacher. The sangha was his responsibility. It was his whole life. He didn’t want to just let them rot. So why hadn’t he given a talk in a while? Was he just being lazy? Did he not have anything to say? Why did he respond in this way to the superintendent’s question: “For sutras there are sutra teachers, for treatises, there are treatise teachers. Why do you question this old monk?” Why are you bothering me?

In the pointer it says, “Eyes, ears, nose, tongue—each has one ability.” Each organ is perfectly created to perceive within its own sphere. The eye perceives objects. The ears perceive sounds. We can see this perception as being limited to one sphere, one ability, or we can see it as freedom. We can understand the senses as the means we use to create the self and therefore suffering, or we can see them as the gate to liberation. “The eyebrows are above.” Everything in its place, everything fulfilling its own purpose. “Warriors, farmers, crafters, merchants—each returns to a job.” They all have their own work to do, their own skill. You don’t ask a soldier to plant next year’s crops, or a farmer to engineer a bridge, or a merchant to perform surgery. “The unskilled one is always at leisure. How does a real Chan master devise techniques?” What kind of unskillfulness is he talking about? What are the necessary tools of the trade for a person of the Way?

The commentary says, The hungry will eat anything. The thirsty will drink anything. It’s true. It’s easy to be appreciative when you feel the edge of hunger. I read an article recently about altruism which said that studies consistently show that the people who give the most are those who have the least, and those who give the least are those who have the most. Is that because the people who have the least know what it’s like to lack?

An old master said, “Nowadays many people take the dharma lightly. I would be like a farmer who lets the fields dry from time to time to make them parched and thirsty. After that, when water is poured on, then the crops sprout easily.” I remember a story Daido Roshi told years ago of a sesshin he did in New Zealand. One morning during zazen he got up and left the zendo and went into the dokusan room to start face-to-face teaching, except nobody noticed that he’d left. The jisha didn’t notice, the monitors didn’t notice—everybody just kept sitting. Daidoshi waited in the dokusan room for a while, but no one came, so he changed out of his robes, got in the car and drove into town to have breakfast. I don’t think that happened again.

But why did Yaoshan do what he did? Everyone knows that when teachers say too much, they spoil students. Then students become reliant on the teacher and forfeit their own ability. What happened during the time that Yaoshan wasn’t giving a talk? Were those students just walking around grumbling, waiting for the teachings? Did they put everything on hold, thinking they couldn’t practice, couldn’t encounter the dharma, couldn’t do anything until the teaching was expounded? That’s why that old master said, “Deep within a hut, there’s a thunderous tongue. Let the myriad forms explain for themselves.” As Daidoshi says, there’s a teaching that has no teacher.

There’s an interesting story involving Yaoshan. A monastic came to him and said, “I have doubt, and I ask you to resolve it for me.” Yaoshan responded, “Wait until I go into the hall tonight to speak and ask about it then. I’ll resolve it for you.” That evening Yaoshan entered the hall, and when everybody was there he asked for the monk, “Where’s the monk that came to me today to resolve his doubt?” The monastic came forward and stood there, and Yaoshan got down, grabbed and shook him, then called out, “Hey everybody! This monastic has doubt!” He then released the monk and went back to his room. Later, Wansho said, “Do you say he resolved the monastic’s doubt or not? If he resolved it, where was it resolved? If he didn’t resolve it, then say whether your own doubt was resolved.” How did he resolve the monastic’s doubt? Did he? Can he? Or did he just magnify it? What kind of generosity is that? I’ll bet that monk sat well and hard after that little encounter.

When aspiration is present and it’s clear, then practice is very easy. It just naturally happens; it’s hard to contain it. But you can’t control motivation. You can’t manufacture it. It’s one of those intangible skills. Yet speaking of it as a skill makes it sound like it’s something we can learn. Is it? Is it like waiting for the phone to ring or are we somehow each intimately, intricately involved in arousing that aspiration? But it’s not a thing, so how is it aroused? It has to do with entering into the mystery of what spiritual practice is all about. It’s not tangible, but it’s not non-existent. It’s not something you can manufacture, but it’s not something that you can wait for. And so what do we do? Well, you can look outside. Just look around. You can look inside. Look around. What do you see? Don’t just look! Ask, investigate, wonder. Be troubled. Allow yourself to be made uncomfortable by what you see.

The poem reads, A foolish child troubles over “money” used to stop crying; A good steed chases the wind, looking back at the shadow of the whip. The first line refers to a mother gathering autumn leaves and offering them to her child, saying, “Here! Here’s some money to keep you happy.” The superintendent is like the child worrying over “money”: “You haven’t given a talk in a long time. Don’t you think you should expound the dharma?”


When the Buddha was practicing, he had the aspiration to be free. That’s what we know. That’s what he said and that’s what his life indicates. He had a great aspiration, which is different from having ambition. He wasn’t being motivated by the ambition to lead a sangha. He turned that down twice, according to the sutras. Ambition is a fortification of the self. The Buddha’s aspiration was to shed that self, to be naked and free. If he had had a shred of ambition, a shred of clinging, of wanting to just be done, to be finished, he wouldn’t have been the Buddha. His actions indicate that although he had eaten, he wasn’t satisfied. He was still hungry.

To stay in touch with that aspiration is difficult, because it means you have to continue to be uncomfortable on some level. That’s one of the skills for studying the dharma, learning how to live with the discomfort of delusion. Before we enter into practice there’s a lot of discomfort at being deluded, and we put a lot of energy into getting rid of that discomfort. Then, when we finally decide that this approach doesn’t work, the decision becomes to turn toward that very discomfort. How do you live with the experience of being in

this world and of not being in perfect accord even as you’re practicing and working toward harmony? Those who don’t develop the skill to hold that discomfort do not continue. This is where desperation can be very helpful. If you really know that there is no door to escape from, then there is no door to escape from. We may not like the room we’re in, but we’re in it—until ultimately we realize that satisfaction comes from realizing there never was any hunger. We see that all the discomfort, real though it was, was not real, was not necessary, was a creation of mind. Still, that very same hunger persists. It doesn’t go away. On the contrary, it gets much bigger, because now we feel everyone’s hunger.

Clouds sweep the eternal sky; nesting in the moon, the crane— The cold clarity gets into his bones, he can’t go to sleep. That eternal sky is our nature. It’s our mind. The pain of sitting with ourselves is like the sky being blocked in, and it is eternal in the sense that there’s no release from it. It’s not that it reaches everywhere, but just that we can’t get away from it. And yet, within that eternal sky there are clouds passing. Are the clouds different from the sky? Does the sky resist the clouds? They don’t have an arrangement: “You can pass through,” “I won’t diminish your blue.” They just sweep through. It just happens. Nesting in the moon, the crane—This is like the crane nesting in a treetop, silhouetted against the moon. The crane is a symbol, as is the moon. The moon, of course, is the symbol of enlightenment. The crane is that eternal sky, the great emptiness. The cold clarity gets into his bones, he can’t go to sleep. For Yaoshan, that spaciousness, that non-obstructive sky is so deep in his bones, that he can’t go to sleep.

The commentary says, Yuanwu’s verse and these explanations in this way are all just yellow leaves to stop the crying. It’s just because you’re sound asleep and not yet awakened. Those whose sleep is light will wake up as soon as they’re called. That’s the good steed chasing the wind looking at the shadow of the whip. A non-Buddhist said to the Buddha, “I don’t ask about words, I don’t ask about no words.” The Buddha just remained silent. The student bowed and said, “Thank you for dispelling the clouds of my ignorance,” and walked away. Ananda, who was standing nearby, asked the Buddha, “What happened? What did he see?” The Buddha said, “He’s like a fine horse that moves at the shadow of a whip.” It’s just because you’re sound asleep and not yet awakened. Those whose sleep is light will wake up as soon as they’re called. Those deep asleep can only be aroused by being shaken. Then there is yet another kind, who when you grab them and stand them up like dead trees, still talk in their sleep by themselves, staring. In other words, even a good shake isn’t going to work here.


Of course, everyone wants to be the horse that moves at the shadow of the whip. But what is most important is moving. Whether you move at the shadow of the whip, or whether you have to feel the whip itself is just a matter of your present awareness. Just don’t be the kind that cannot get woken up at all.

To wake up to ourselves takes great resolve. That’s part of the work of being a student of the Way—to develop resolve, and then to renew it, and then to renew it again. In that resolve is our commitment. But to what, to whom? Commitment is the merging of our resolve—born out of a deep aspiration to awaken—with our thoughts, words and actions. Commitment helps us to remember, and live within, what we should not forget. This is important because the path is filled with obstacles, so many ways to get lost, to forget what is essential.

Shantideva said, “I don’t desire suffering, and yet foolishly I desire the cause of suffering.” Nobody wants to suffer. We actively do not want to suffer, but we also can actively desire the cause of our suffering. And then as he says, “When suffering emerges due to my own actions, why do I then become angry with others?” Our resolve and our commitment, that aspiration that I spoke of, are for moments when we’re caught in that web. When we’ve convinced ourselves that the cause of our suffering is actually our release.

It is difficult to be awake. And yet, if we’re sincere, if we really throw ourselves into our practice, then every moment is good practice. Can we tolerate being inside our own body and mind at any given moment: when it’s agitated, when it’s quiet; when we feel completely in it, when we don’t? Can we just reside there? Can we practice there? Those are the skills

to living a human life, to meeting the illness of the planet and the woes of human beings.

“If the eye never sleeps, all dreams will naturally sleep. If the mind makes no discriminations, then the ten thousand things are as they are, one essence. To understand this mystery is to be released from all entanglements.” The eye that never sleeps is not dependent on anything. It’s not dependent on clarity or lack of clarity, it’s not dependent on a calm mind or an agitated mind. It’s not dependent upon being energetic or being sleepy. It’s just an eye that doesn’t sleep. It’s an eye that sees all of those passing clouds as they are—which means not adding and not taking away, not holding fast, not rejecting.

“Yaoshan ascended the seat: after a while he got right back down from the seat and returned to his room.” Nothing changed.

He didn’t add anything, he didn’t take anything away. There is so much happening within us as we practice moment to moment. That is how the whole thing works, and it’s important to trust it so that we don’t get swept up in the passing clouds. The clouds pass; they come and go. But there is something that doesn’t go with the clouds. It’s that deep desire to know, to understand, to live this life as is our birthright. So please, be like that field, parched and thirsty. Absorb this dharma.

 

Geoffrey Shugen Arnold, Sensei is vice-abbot of Zen Mountain Monastery, branch president of the Zen Center of New York City: Fire Lotus Temple, and head of the National Buddhist Prison Sangha. He received Dharma transmission from Daido Roshi in 1997.