Shoho Michael Newhall
At one time the teacher Jianfeng was approached by a monk who asked “All the awakened ones of the ten directions are on one road, which is the gate of nirvana. Where is that road?” Jianfeng drew a line in the air with his staff and said “It is here.”
This direct answer is from Case 61 of the Book of Serenity, also called the Shoyo Roku. The term “nirvana” within this case usually is translated as “extinction,” and the metaphor is a flame that has gone out. Thanissaro Bhikkhu refined the term from its etymology as “unbinding,” that is, nirvana is like a fire that is unbound from it’s fuel, and therefore free, free not to burn, released from the flame-like bonds of attachment, aggression and delusion, unbound and liberated. Jianfeng says this road of liberation, the gate of nirvana, is here. But what is this “here?”
From this place, from this zen center where I practice, some people come and go, just tasting the practice, but some stay for a while, and others settle in for a longer haul. Regardless, I always have carried a broad view of sangha with expanded idealism: that sangha, the community, must include all beings, be totally inclusive. Though I still carry that view, in recent times the focus rests much closer to home, to a daily practice of a specific place, to the local neighborhood, basically to who is here. This does not, of course, exclude myself. In the functional sense, we can always say that we practice alone as well as with all beings. And unavoidably there is the missing of who or what is not present, has passed on or not with us - those persons, times, places that in effect, by memory or otherwise, though elsewhere, remain present. But still we might ask, within this moment, who is here now, am I here, what exists right now, or what remains at this specific place from which the asking arises?
The term “presence” or “to be present,” has been bandied about in popular Buddhism, as well as in the new age self-help arena. “Mindfulness” is a similarly ubiquitous term, as is the term “awareness.” Lately I have tried replacing “awareness” with something slightly more specific: the practice of “whereness.” It may seem a strange variation, definitely formative as practice, but I am curious to see where this whereness will go. I have noticed that more than a spacial check-in to a location, or attention to details of the present moment, that it can include, more subtly, some relational involvement, a seeming exchange, a kind of meeting. In touching something, for instance, a hand meeting an object to be held, the tactile contact itself might be an opportunity to be in place, and so be noticed as it is. If the object can be noticed as it is, how is it then for the one who is picking it up?
In considering such a “practice of place” I am reminded of a story of the Buddha. At one time Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha to be, had to meet some profound uncertainties. He had doubts that he could continue, and desires for what he left behind. This “mara” he met emphatically, directly and very locally by simply touching the ground. He said, by that gesture, “I am here,” or “I am here, now, of this place, on the earth.” This earth-touching mudra is in many images of the Buddha. The gesture confirmed his place as well as his intention, and with the strength of that confirmation he continued his practice.
Another monk also said “I am here,” or rather “Here I am!” His name was Zuigan. I imagine him as an older monk, retired to a hermitage, and comfortable talking to himself. So every morning he would ask himself “Zuigan, Zuigan, where are you?” This was his check-in with the first of the three-fold practices - meditation, knowledge, ethics. His meditation was “here I am,” his knowledge was “don’t be deceived,” his ethics was “better shape up.” He said to himself, “Yes sir, here I am, I won’t be deceived, I will shape up.” So in this way Zuigan arrived every morning, in place, ready to go.
In considering the meaning of place, we should not confuse it with a traditional Indian Vedic concept called “svadharma.” This term denotes a given place in life, one’s caste, or a specific role in society and with it a duty to fulfill the obligations of such a prescribed position. The place of practice is certainly not in any way predestined, not set up beforehand, even by what has been called the favorable conditions of a human birth. Practice turns out to be a function of being by virtue of choice. Whether that choosing be direct and clear, or with slow and obscure movements towards the path, however the line is drawn by the staff, however we enter by whatever route, we still may arrive to confirm that “it is here.”
Choice is the common translation for the Sanskrit “chetana.” But a broader understanding of chetana includes aspiration, intention, will, energy, the moral strength to effect change, continue the work and complete the task. Chetana might be called a “starter motor” for the engine of another Sanskrit term: “bodhicitta.” This is the “mind of awakening,” the mind to liberate all beings and one’s self, the mind to fully negotiate the way, that is, the way of all Buddhas.
So there is no svadharma. We have to choose. There is no special place, no destiny, duty-bound by birth, no quintessential “just right” place. Nothing to carry us on forever in our cribs. Cars are still honking, and that itching in back of the neck is still there. Nothing is perfect, absolute, ideal. And to top it off, we have the usual old age, sickness and death. We have to see this without the adornments of our creative minds: there is just this place. It is what it is. And we might as well arrive here, since its where we are anyway. Dogen Zenji said, “when you find the place where you are, practice occurs, actualizing the fundamental point.” An old Buddha named Steve Stucky once said “just be thoroughly present, and get out of the way. That is practice.” And he also said (should we be too impatient), “it doesn’t take too long to get to now.” Tiantong once said: “There are no walls in the ten directions. From the very beginning there is fundamentally no obstruction, no doors in the four quarters, so right here enter the way.”
In this context we could say that when you are in place (in life, in the world, with your feelings, in your head, etc.) that purpose finds you. You do not need to find a purpose. Purpose finds you. This implies that place precedes purpose, that the recognition and employment of purpose needs a position or place or basis to be experienced thoroughly, to be fully received. Yunmen told his assembly that everyone is luminous, a bright light, but you do not find your light by seeking it. You allow it to find you, where you are: in the assembly hall, in a garden, a kitchen porch, in a hallway. Is it too much to ask of ourselves to begin where we find ourselves? The place where you find yourself might manifest with any expression: mundane, ordinary, radical, unique. Nothing special can be special. It can shout or be a quiet voice, even quiet as the voice of the breeze rustling a bush on a hilltop, with the last light of day burning through it. However it expresses itself, whether at dawn or dusk, let the place be sufficient for the day.
It’s said if you want to receive the dharma, put yourself in the middle of the dharma highway and get run over. To make one’s self available to suchness, practice suchness without delay. This is a good place to build a sanctuary, but do I need to know the appropriate place by experiencing whatever is not the right place? I wonder if in attending to where I am, I can be less attentive to who I am? With the experimental practice of “whereness,” when attending it, will it help me to keep it all close? Can I keep things intimate, close at hand, local and still exclude nothing?
These many questions bring us back to the question “Where is that road? that was asked of Jianfeng. He said “It is here.” Another answer to the same question was provided by Yunmen. Yunmen said “The fan leaps up to the thirty three heavens and hits the emperor of the gods on the nose. The carp of the eastern sea is hit once with a stick and it rains buckets. Do you understand, do you understand?” Well, this might at first not seem to make sense, but of course we understand. We understand the incidental toss of a fan, the casual touching of a fish with a stick, the least of our movements and thoughts, can broadcast effects in all directions, turn the wheel of the dharma, and perhaps even shift the world. And if that is so, how I can I not be attentive to what is right here before me: the fan, the stick, the moment, the place.
- Shoho Michael Newhall, at Jikoji, January 19th, 2020