Copyright 1992 by Bristol Chan Group, UK, uploaded with permission. May not be quoted for commercial purposes. Anyone wishing to quote for non-commercial purposes may seek permission from the editor: jmcg@biols.susx.ac.uk or Peter Howard, 22 Butts Rd., Chiseldon, Wilts., SN4 0NW, England, UK. Printed versions of past and future issues [which includes drawings, etc.] can be obtained for the sum of 2 pounds sterling each, including surface postage, anywhere in the world, from Peter Howard. NEW CH'AN FORUM No.4 Spring 1992 Dharma Adviser The Venerable Chan Master Dr Sheng-yen Teacher Dr John Crook Editor Hilary Richards Engravings Ros Cuthbert CONTINUE! CONTINUE!...... We have at last found an excellent room for our weekly meditation evenings in Bristol. It is a peaceful place, the meditation room of a Yoga centre and after our various other rooms we now feel we have a place that is really good for our group to sit in. We welcome you to come out and join us, even on a wintry evening. Group sitting gives an encouragement to personal practice and allows us to meet with one another for instruction and friendship. Last term John was present for most of our meetings and gave a variety of talks focusing especially on the Koan stories to be found in the Book of Tranquillity. There is also the opportunity for Dokusan interviews and guidance on personal meditation practice. Our weekend retreats at the Mendip Painting Centre are well received and enable people from further afield to meet with us. In November Richard Hunn inspired us with insights that stem from a profound knowledge of Chinese Chan literature of which he is a leading translator. We intend to maintain contact with him and perhaps run some retreat "exchanges" between Bristol and Lancaster where Richard is now living. We hope to invite other retreat leaders to join us from time to time. 1992 will be a busy year at the Maenllwyd. The retreat to be led by Master Sheng-yen over Easter is fully booked with a long waiting list. Those of us who have a place are certainly fortunate to be able to participate and to receive instruction from Shifu. It promises to be an auspicious occasion. Throughout the year John will be running a programme of Western Zen retreats, a Chan retreat and an Introduction to Tantra. Details of these are printed at the end of this newsletter. John will be having a busy year. In May he is going on a pilgrimage to Mount Kailas in Tibet. He will be attending a conference on The Precepts in the Modern World arranged by Shifu in Taiwan and a symposium on Buddhism and Modern Thought at Emmanuel College, Cambridge. He will lead another journey to Ladakh in September. His book, with James Low on The Yogins of Ladakh is nearing completion. Last October he was asked to join with Reb Anderson, Abbot of the San Francisco Zen Centre, in presenting Zen teachings in relation to Ecology during a study course at the new Schumacher College at Dartington. The Bristol Chan Group pays tribute to its teachers. This is Part One of a translation of an article written by the modern patriarch Master Hsu-yun (1839-1959), who is also known by his English name, Empty Cloud. Reprinted by permission of The Institute of Chung Hua Buddhist Culture, New York, from the Chan Newsletter No.86 June 1991. THE ESSENTIALS OF CH'AN PRACTICE by Master Hsu-yun. THE PRE-REQUISITES AND UNDERSTANDING NECESSARY TO BEGIN CH'AN PRACTICE. 1. The Objective of Chan Practice: The objective of Chan practice is to illuminate the mind by eradicating its impurities and seeing into one's true self-nature. The mind's impurities are wrong thoughts and attachments. Self nature is the wisdom and virtue of the Tathagata. The wisdom and virtue of Buddhas and sentient beings are not different from one another. To experience this wisdom and virtue, leave behind duality, discrimination, wrong thinking and attachment. This is Buddhahood. If one cannot do this, then one remains an ordinary sentient being. The prerequisite for Chan practice is to eradicate wrong thinking. Sakyamuni Buddha taught much on this subject. His simplest and most direct teaching is the word "stop" from the expression "stopping is Bodhi." From the time when Bodhidharma transmitted Chan teachings to today, the winds of Chan have blown far and wide, shaking and illuminating the world. Among the many things that Bodhidharma and the Sixth Patriarch taught to those who came to study with them, none is more valuable than the saying, "Put down all entangling conditions, let not one thought arise." This expression is truly the prerequisite of Chan. If you cannot fulfil this requirement, then not only will you fail to attain the ultimate goal of Chan practice, but you will not even be able to enter the door of Chan. How can you talk of practicing Chan if you are entangled by worldly phenomena with thought after thought arising and passing away? 2. Put Down All Entangling Conditions: "Put down all entangling conditions, let not one thought arise" is a prerequisite for the practice of Chan. Now that we know this, how do we accomplish it? The best practitioner, one of superior abilities, can stop all thoughts forever, arrive directly at the condition of non-arising, and instantly experience Bodhi. Such a person is not entangled by anything.The next best kind of practitioner uses principle to cut off phenomena and realises that self-nature is originally pure. Vexation and Bodhi, Samsara and Nirvana - all are false names which have nothing to do with one's self-nature. All things are dreams and illusions, like bubbles or reflections. Within self-nature, my body, made up of the four great elements, as well as the mountains, rivers and great earth itself are like bubbles in the sea, arising and disappearing, yet never obstructing the original surface. Do not be captivated by the arising, abiding, changing and passing away of illusory phenomena, which give rise to pleasure and aversion, grasping and rejecting. Give up your whole body, as if you were dead, and the six sense organs, the six sense objects and six sense conciousnesses will naturally disperse. Greed, hatred, ignorance and love will be destroyed. All the sensations of pain, suffering and pleasure which attend the body - hunger, cold, satiation, warmth, glory, insult, birth and death, calamity, prosperity, good and bad luck, praise, blame, gain and loss, safety and danger - will no longer be your concern. Only this can be considered true renunciation - when you put everything down forever. This is what is meant by renouncing all phenomena. When all phenomena are renounced, wrong thoughts disappear, discrimination does not arise, and attachment is left behind. When thoughts no longer arise, the brightness of self-nature manifests itself completely. At this time you will have fulfilled the necessary conditions for Chan practice. Then, further hard work and sincere practice will enable you to illuminate the mind and see into your true nature. 3. Everyone Can Instantly Become a Buddha. Many Chan practitioners ask questions about the Dharma. The Dharma that is spoken is not the true Dharma. As soon as you try to explain things, the true meaning is lost. When you realize that "one mind" is the Buddha, from that point on there is nothing more to do. Everything is already complete. All talk about practice or attainment is demonic deception. Bodhidharma's "Direct pointing at the mind, seeing into one's nature and attaining Buddhahood" clearly states that all sentient beings are Buddhas. Once pure self-nature is recognized, one can harmonize with the environment yet remain undefiled. The mind will remain unified throughout the day, whether walking, standing, sitting or lying down. This is to already be a Buddha. At this point there is no need to put forth effort and be diligent. Any action is superfluous. No need to bother with the slightest thought or word. Therefore, to become a Buddha is the easiest, most unobstructed task. Do it by yourself. Do not seek outside yourself for it. The vow to deliver all sentient beings, made by all the Buddhas, Bodhisattvas and patriarchs, is not a boast nor is it a baseless, empty vow. The Dharma is exactly that. It has been elucidated again and again by the Buddha and the patriarchs. They have exhorted us with the truth. They do not deceive us. 4. Investigating Chan and Contemplating Mind: Our sect focuses on investigating Chan. The purpose of practising Chan is to "Illuminate the mind and see into one's true nature." This investigation is also called "Clearly realizing one's self-mind and completely perceiving one's original nature." Since the time when Buddha held up a flower and Bodhidharma came from the East, the methods for entry into this Dharma door have continually evolved. Most Chan practitioners, before the T'ang and Sung dynasties, became enlightened after hearing a word or half a sentence of the Dharma. The transmission from master to disciple was the sealing of Mind with Mind. There was no fixed Dharma. Everyday questions and answers untied the bonds. It was nothing more than prescribing the right medicine for the right illness. After the Sung dynasty, however, people did not have such good karmic roots as their predecessors. They could not carry out what had been said. For example, practitioners were taught to "Put down everything" and "Not think about good or evil," but they could not do it. They could not put down everything, and if they weren't thinking about good, they were thinking about evil. Under these circumstances, the patriarchs had no choice but to use poison to fight poison, so they taught the method of investigating gongans (ie. Koans) and hua-t'ous. (1) When one begins looking into a hua-t'ou, one must grasp it tightly, never letting go. It is like a mouse trying to chew its way out of a coffin. It concentrates on one point. The mouse doesn't try different places and it doesn't stop until it gets through. Thus, in terms of hua-t'ou, the objective is to use one thought to eradicate innumerable other thoughts. This method is a last resort, just as if someone had been pierced by a poison arrow, drastic measures must be taken to cure the patient. The ancients used gongans, but later on practitioners started using hua-t'ou. Some hua-t'ous are: "Who is dragging this corpse around?" "Before you were born what was your original face?" and "Who is reciting the Buddha's name?" In fact, all hua-t'ous are the same. There is nothing uncommon, strange or special about them. If you wanted to, you could say: "Who is reciting the sutras?" "Who is reciting the mantras?" "Who is prostrating to the Buddha?" "Who is eating?" "Who is wearing these clothes?" "Who is walking?" "Who is sleeping?" They are all the same. The answer to the question "who" is derived from one's Mind. Mind is the origin of all words. Thoughts come out of Mind; Mind is the origin of all thoughts. Innumerable Dharmas generate from the Mind; Mind is the origin of all Dharmas. In fact, hua-t'ou is a thought. Before a thought arises, that is Mind. Before a thought arises there is the origin of words. Hence, looking into a hua-t'ou is contemplating Mind. There was Mind before your parents gave birth to you, so looking into your original face before you were born is contemplating Mind. Self-nature is Mind. When one turns inward to hear one's self- nature, one is turning inward to contemplate Mind. In the phrase, "Perfectly illuminating pure awareness," pure awareness is Mind and illumination is contemplation. Mind is Buddha. When one recites Buddha's name one contemplates Buddha. Contemplating Buddha is contemplating Mind. Investigating hua-t'ou or "looking into who is reciting Buddha's name " is contemplating Mind. Hence contemplating Mind is contemplating pureawareness. It is also illuminating the Buddha- nature within oneself. Mind is nature, pure awareness, Buddha. Mind has no form, no characters, no directions; it cannot be found in any particular place. It cannot be grasped. Originally, Mind is purity, universally embracing all Dharma realms. No in or out, no coming or going. Originally, Mind is pure Dharmakaya. When investigating hua-t'ou, the practitioner should first close down all six sense organs and seek where thoughts arise. Practitioners should concentrate on the hua-t'ou until they see the pure original mind which is apart from thoughts. If one does this without interruption, the mind becomes fine, quiet, tranquil, silently illuminating. At that moment the five skandas are empty, body and mind are extinguished, nothing remains. From that point, walking, standing, siting and lying down are all done motionlessly. In time the practice will deepen, and eventually practitioners will see their self-nature and become Buddhas and suffering will cease. A past patriarch named Kao-feng (1238-1295) once said: "You must contemplate hua-t'ou like a falling roof tile sinking endlessly down into a pond ten thousand feet deep. If in seven days you are not enlightened, I will give you permission to chop off my head." These are the words of an experienced person. He did not speak lightly. His words are true. Although many modern day practitioners use hua-t'ou, few get enlightened. This is because compared to practitioners of the past, practitioners today have inferior karmic roots and less merit. Also, practitioners today are not clear about the purpose and path of hua- t'ou. Some practitioners search from east to west and from north to south until they die, but still do not penetrate even one hua-t'ou. They never understand or correctly approach the hua-t'ou. They only grasp the form and the words. They use their intellect and attach only to the tail of the words. Hua-t'ou is One Mind. This mind is not inside, outside or in the middle. On the other hand, it is inside, outside and in the middle. It is like the stillness of empty space prevailing everywhere. Hua-t'ou should not be picked up. Neither should it be pressed down. If you pick it up, your mind will waver and become unstable. If you press it down you will become drowsy. These approaches are contrary to the nature of the original mind and are not in accordance with the Middle Path. Practitioners are distressed by wandering thoughts. They think it is difficult to tame them. Don't be afraid of wandering thoughts. Do not waste your energy trying to repress them. All you have to do is recognize them. Do not attach to any wandering thoughts, do not follow them, and do not try to get rid of them. As long as you don't string thoughts together, wandering thoughts will depart by themselves. 1 A classic hua-t'ou is a brief pithy sentence or question which is the main point or "punchline" of a koan story. (JHC) THE PAI CHU YI VERSE. These verses are reproduced by kind permission of Richard Hunn who has written a commentary on them. The verse appears in the Chuan Teng Lu - the first large Chan collection (compiled 1004). Although the verse has a strong T'ien T'ai influence it has been read and admired by generations of Chan practitioners. Pai Chu Yi's Linked Verse: Pa Chien Chi Kuan (Contemplation) Contemplating by means of the mind's-eye, One looks to external forms; From what do they spring? And where do they return...? Examine this point again and again. Distinguish the difference between Truth and falsehood. Chueh (Awakening) Although the true nature is always there, It is concealed by falsehood. Yet by discerning the difference between the two, One can awaken to the 'mean' And attain insight into true emptiness Without abandoning this illusory existence. Ting (Samadhi) If one's view of the real never fades, Then falsehood no longer arises. And the source of the six sense roots Becomes as clear and as still as water. Such, then, is dhyana-samadhi, The means to escape samsara's hold. Hui (Wisdom) However, if samadhi alone is taught, Then there will be attachment to it, Thus saving-wisdom is required For with wisdom - there are no impediments. It is like holding a pearl in a bowl; When the bowl is held still, The pearl of wisdom shines. Ming (Illumination) When samadhi and prajna are harmonised, There is the illumination. It shines upon the myriad phenomena, Leaving nothing hidden or concealed. Like a vast, round mirror, Reflecting all dispassionately. Tung (Penetration) When wisdom leads to illumination, There is no more confusion, So illumination becomes all penetrating. Pervading everywhere, without hindrance. But 'who' is it that meets no hindrance, Sovereign amid a myriad transformations? Chi (Saving Living Beings) Wisdom's penetrating power has no fixed form, It is modified in response to momentary needs, Yet such changes are themselves 'non-existent,' They are but expedients to match an enquirer's views. By means of this great compassion, The myriad beings are ferried to salvation. She (Abandonment) When sentient beings are saved from their afflictions, Great compassion is abandoned too; Since the afflictions are not real, Compassionate (deeds) are also illusory. Thus out of all the sentient beings, Not one, is truly liberated. Trans.(c) Richard Hunn, 1991 A SERMON AMONG THE STONES AND TREES These talks were spoken originally to a tape recorder in open countryside. They were prepared for a Zen group that wished to hear them when I was not personally available. Later it became a habit and I have recorded a number of such meditations. NO PATH AT ALL! There comes a moment in Zen training, a moment both shocking and surprising, when one realises intuitively that there is no path at all. Ho! What then is Zen practice? Practice is the realisation that there is no path at all, yet one keeps on going, going on, going on beyond, always becoming being. Listening to a talk on Buddhism on the radio I heard speaker after speaker extolling in his or her own way, the advantages and benefits of Buddhism. Here, it would seem, is a club well worth belonging to! The beginner joins the Buddhists, she finds a new identity, becomes a newly enrolled member. There is a certain relief in belonging. In a lonely world, clubs have a certain value. Whether it be in a city, a small town or in the countryside there are many reasons for starting a club. Most of all we want some sort of togetherness, some feeling of travelling to a destination that offers some security, some way out of the morass in which our society is stuck, some way beyond the alienation, heartlessness, criminality and carelessness. Some explanation to make it all feel safer. So we have clubs, lists of members, buy a building, set up a programme, invite speakers, cajole the reluctant, persuade the unbelievers, reject those who come once and never again. We appoint a secretary, president officials and obedentiaries, find ourselves spiritual advisers. Something like a lay monastery gets set up in our midst and we start worrying about membership, payment of subscriptions, the next speaker. Soon some of us begin to wonder whether the spiritual adviser in the town along the way might not be better for us than the one we've got. After all what's s/he doing for us? A year has gone by and I haven't changed! A hint of divisiveness creeps into the air. Democracy and muddle might be better, more modern, than faith and authority: yet which is right for the times? Do we even know enough to judge? However benevolent we think we are, all clubs are exclusive. Social psychology tells us that even minimalist groups discover adversaries. If you split an encounter group for half an hour you can easily generate factions. Belonging to one's club, one has a distinctive path, a distinctive teacher. Certainly we have a better practice than those along the way who only sit, pray, talk, sing mantras, have intellectual interests, follow a guru, dance all night or sleep with one another - and so on. Otherwise why join this group rather than the other. Anyway I am investing in it. It had better be good. Krishnamurti told us repeatedly that creating institutions is divisive. Amongst Western Buddhists this remains subtly, even dishonestly, so. We find it hard to get out of our culturally determined emphasis on competition and individualism. Yet even Western Buddhists don't usually throw stones at one another, at least not very accurately. Dharma gossip is the secret vehicle for dissent, disappointment, frustration irritation, thinking oneself important or merely put in one's place. And the more I am a proven party member the more addicted I become and the more divisive are my biased thoughts. Even Krishnamurti could not stop his followers following. What would he have done if he had? There are dangers here; following the way of the club you may miss the Buddha's message entirely. As he lay dying he said "All component things pass away. Work out your own salvation with diligence." He did not say "Set up churches!" He did not say "Wear robes, dog collars, create ranks and files, make yourself distinctive. Let it be known who is the wise and who is the unwise". He did not say "Argue your case with the Muslims, the Christians, the Marxists." He simply said "All component things pass away. Go work out your salvation with diligence. Find out for yourself!".. The creation of an outer path is easy. Creating our clubs, we need to examine what is happening to us in the heart. What is the quality of our relationships when we meet. Is it beneficial for us all? Do we pass our merit, if any, on to others? Do we share? Do we give as well as take? Do we focus on the faults and peculiarities of our teachers or do we sometimes manage to catch glimpses of what it is they are trying to convey to us. However irritating or adorable, a teacher who has received transmission may well have something to tell us that goes beyond words. Can we catch the hidden meaning? We, who so naturally form clubs, need to understand our motivation for doing so. We need to know not what we can get but what we can give. Do we persist in participation when we join or do we just have a look around and then run off somewhere else where the tea is stronger or the teacher more sexy? What is our level of understanding in all this? Clubs are only as good as the self awareness of the members. It is always good to look at what is happening in the heart, to place it there in zazen and wait until one can see it truly. Don't be in a rush. One evening in 1986 I was standing on the mountain path above the little monastery of Bo-Lam on Lantao Island in Hong Kong. I was looking at the full moon rising over the forested mountains and the distant ocean. As I watched, a monk came down the path returning from his work constructing stone by stone and rock by rock an extension to the mountain track. Smiling I pointed to the moon. He looked at me and gently shook his head. Extending his hand in the air, he seemed to grasp the moon out of the sky and in one movement placed it in his heart. He smiled. I bowed. As he walked on, he shrugged his shoulders. If one looks to external things, there is only the path of following. Taking the moon and placing it in the heart is the same as taking the atmosphere of a room or temple into oneself, discovering the uniqueness of the presence of the moment. Breathing in the air, the sound and feel, the ambience of the place becomes one with an inner being, the quiet space where there are no judgements. When the spirit of place simply hangs in the air about you and you go deeply into it, you will find there is no need to move. There is nothing particular to know. There is no need for elaboration. It is as it is. Even if there is something to be done in due course; in that moment of reflection, when the thing is in the heart, there is nothing to be done. Just see it as it is. Maybe you will see it as you have never seen it before. Now it is Soho, now it is SOHO, yet now it is Soho once more. Was it Soho that changed? Can the flag blow the wind? Out of moments of tranquillity comes all that you need. When the opposites arise, Dogen tells us, the Buddha mind is lost. When you try to create Buddhism on a path that is outside the heart then the Buddha mind gets lost too. Be wary of officious Buddhists or those with opinions. Look more closely. Salvation with diligence is an inner matter which only gradually takes on external expression. This happens naturally without artifice. There is nothing you can do about this. If you become clear, others will notice it. There is nothing for you to proclaim. Take the opposites and place them in the heart, let the molten moon dissolve in the blood stream. The evening air comes naturally in on the breath. There is no path and you will never know an end to it. Homage to the Buddhas of All Worlds. Homage to the Bodhisattvas of All Worlds. Homage to the Scriptures of Great Wisdom. John Crook MEDITATION ON THE SEVEN-TWELVE Cars converge on Swindon station, Strained commuters clamber on, Briefcase, mala, travel passes, "Sorry, power unit problems." I take refuge in the jewels, Generating Boddicitta, Through the virtues I, by giving, "Train departing, Platform one." Free from hatred and attachment, "Passengers who've just got on, Please, your tickets for inspection." Offer objects of attachment, Visualise, arrayed before me All the Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, Turn the wheel of Dharma for us, Craving and delusion gone. Walls of "Times" and "Independent," War and famine from afar, From my heart a dazzling radiance Streams towards the Holy Beings, They and I become Chenrezig, Mists give way to morning sunshine, "This is your conductor speaking, Coffee in the buffet car." Sentient beings, endless suffering, Love, compassion, emptiness, Surely turns Chenrezig's mantra All the ego's forms dissolving In the bliss of calm abiding. "Your next station stop is Reading; Change for Heathrow, Slough and Gatwick." Calmness, insight, selflessness. May I merits now deriving With all sentient beings share. "Tickets ready for collection." Slowing down, the train approaches Journey's end at Brunel's station, But the Mandala, unending Changes to another vista, Circle line, and Russell Square. J M Senior TRANSCENDENCE IN MY LIFE David H. Clark I am a seventy year old physician and psychiatrist and a life long agnostic. For the last fifteen years I have been aware of and have cultivated transcendent - mystical - peak - spiritual experiences in my life. I was reared in a non-religious home. My parents had been drawn together by agnosticism; she was in flight from a rigid, oppressive Anglican upbringing, he from a Philistine and unimaginative Quaker home. I was early taught to scoff at the foolish beliefs and odd behaviour of the religious. We lived in a Scots city dominated by a sour Presbyterianism which was mostly concerned with stopping people doing things, especially on the Sabbath, so I found many of the Presbyterians' activities and beliefs absurd. I was taught to respect science, rationalism and clear thinking and in due course became a student of science and then of medicine. I qualified as a doctor, served in the Army, became a psychiatrist and for thirty years was a mental hospital administrator. I undertook some psychotherapeutic training and had a personal Freudian psychoanalysis which confirmed me in my rationalism and materialism. In the 1950's I was an active member of the Cambridge Humanists, a group of people chafing under the tyranny of the Established Church. For many years my life and work went well. My professional work prospered; my patients did well and the hospital became famous; I published articles and books, gained recognition and some honours. Our home was cheerful and our three children grew into lively adults. My wife and I had many friends and acquaintances and a lively social life. I had little to do with religious activities or spiritual concerns, though persecution by Scientologists (over psychiatry) and occasional brushes with the local church heirarchies, served to strengthen my distaste for irrational beliefs and those who held them and persecuted others in their name. Then some fifteen years ago, in the mid-seventies, I went through a period of personal crisis. My work went awry. My professional ambitions were blocked and I had to face a restricted professional future. Our marriage broke up and I left my wife after twenty-seven years. I began a period of life on my own - an exciting period of sexual affairs and new beginnings. I began to explore "Alternative Life Styles", to attend strange gatherings and read unusual books. I took up Yoga and found many of my chronic physical ailments much improved. I began to try to meditate by myself and to attend meetings and courses. I attended various services, especially Quaker meetings and began to read about Mysticism. It was at this time I had my first clearly recognized transcendent experience. It was during a Quaker meeting, at Hartington Grove, Cambridge on 20th November 1977. During the Silence I started to meditate. At first it was much as usual. Then suddenly I was filled with Bliss. It was not intense, but very good, very warming. I felt exalted, filled with goodness. This, I thought, is what being in touch with God must feel like. It went on for some ten minutes then someone began to talk and it slipped away. Afterwards I was delighted - I called this "Samadhi". The following Spring, I went to my first Vipassana course of meditation with John Coleman at Oakenholt in Oxfordshire. I had many psychological experiences there, some of them horrid, but also good blissful episodes. I particularly remember sitting at the edge of Wyvern Wood looking Eastward as the dawn slowly strengthened and a fox sneaked home from hunting. After that course I meditated in many places and every now and then had Bliss Experiences. I recall one on the Roman road, near Cambridge; I had been walking and stopped to rest in the sunlight. I sat in the meditation posture, I looked at the ground and an ant crawled up a blade of grass. Suddenly I was the ant and the blade of grass and the wind blowing across the fields; I was filled with a glorious feeling of openness, expansion, bliss and delight. After each of these experiences I would not only feel good and happy but also greatly strengthened. I felt that I was "on the right path" - that I was following a good line, that this was good and it might lead to something better which might be "Enlightenment." I began to wonder about these experiences and the amazing feeling of Oneness with the World, of Bliss and the aftermath of happy certainty. I recognized that these were like some of the accounts of ecstatic religious conversions of which I had read. Of all the many books, I found Richard Jeffries' "The Story of my Heart", Marghanita Laski's "Ecstasy" and Alistair Hardy's "The Spiritual Nature of Man" the most helpful, though many other supplemented them. Amongst professional psychologists only Abram Maslow seemed to recognize what he called "peak experiences". The description seemed to match what had happened to me. On reflection I realized that I had had "peak experiences" before in my life. Quite often when resting during walks, on high hills overlooking fine views, I had had periods of uplift. I remembered clearly one such moment on a Lakeland hill on a bleak January day in 1943 when I was suddenly filled with the wonder of the world. But I had attached little importance to these moments until now. I realised that these experiences of mine were not uncommon; that this had happened to people in all ages; in many lands and in many different religions. Some people had come to it unexpectedly, without preparation, but many had been holy men who had undergone years of training, of study and often deprivation (of food, sex, sleep etc.) and even self mortification. All had stressed the Joy, the Bliss, that had filled them. Many had seen, or heard the Deity in whom they believed - Christ, the Virgin Mary, Allah, Jehovah, Isis. All had emerged from the experience confirmed in their belief. They knew now they were on the right path; their God had spoken to them, and told them they were right. Many were thus strengthened in their Faith and enabled to go forward into sufferings and even martyrdom. All religions had had people who proclaimed such experiences - Mystics. Often they were a great nuisance to the Established Church because they were liable to announce that their personal revelation had shown the Church to be in error. The Catholics had to burn quite a few ecstatics and in more modern times have had to excommunicate them; the Muslims had to execute a number of Sufis. The Puritans in England and America had to persecute and even execute early Quakers. I found, too, a few people who spoke of Bliss Experiences free of any religious content; Richard Jeffries was the most notable and I adopted him as my exemplar. I welcomed these experiences, and sought to reproduce them. I soon found that though I could easily attain a meditative state, the Bliss Experience was far less easily produced. Sometimes it came; more often it did not. I came to know what factors made it more possible and what factors worked against it but it was still rare - and the more delightful when it came. In 1979 I had my first "out of body" experience. I was taking part in a group meditation in a room in Trinity College. We were sitting in the gathering darkness of a winter afternoon. My meditation was progressing; my body was still, my breathing settled, my mind almost empty when quite suddenly I felt myself moving from my body up through the room, through the ceiling, up into the air above the quadrangle. I looked down and saw my body sitting; I looked around, and scanned Cambridge from the air. It was pleasant, interesting, intriguing but not particularly delightful and not blissful. I have repeated this "Levitation" many times since. One of the clearest occasions was one winter's evening in Suffolk in 1980. I had been trimming a hedge and had made a fire of the cuttings. As the fire burned down to a mass of embers and dark fell I settled down and started to meditate. I took off and soared into the darkened sky. I scanned Suffolk and saw the sea (some fifteen miles away) and the layout of Southeast Anglia. I floated for a long time and then came down reluctantly to my chilling body beside the dying fire. On June 3rd 1980 in Hatfield Forest, I had an important experience. I had had a bad day and a bad night. I had got away from the hospital to a meeting at Claybury which I had addressed. After lunch and a good sleep, I started home. As I rushed up the motorway in my motor caravan I realised that I did not have to hurry back, I turned off at Stanstead and went into Hatfield Forest. I stopped and rested. I slept for a time. I meditated. Then I reflected on my life and decided to make meditation a regular part of my life. This incident I call "The Hatfield Happening". In fact I did not keep up the regular daily meditation but ever since then I have felt meditation to be a major part of my life, an essential part of what I called my Search for Enlightenment (since 1988 when I read Sinetar I call it My Path of Self-Actualization). Over the last ten years I have meditated whenever I found myself in a good or delightful place. I have always found rest and clarity, and at times have experienced Bliss. I recall Bliss Experiences in a German Forest, on a Swedish headland, during a New England sunset, in a Japanese Temple in Kamakura, on the clifftops of Lundy Island, in the yard at Maenllwyd after cutting logs and many other more mundane places, especially on viewpoints around Cambridge. It has become an occasional, but deeply important part of my life. Nowadays, I do not meditate regularly; I do twenty minutes Hatha Yoga on rising every morning, I relax deliberately in the Savangasana pose for half an hour every midday, and I meditate whenever I find myself in a situation or a mood when it seems appropriate. These practices I believe help me to a more balanced, more reflective, happier and more contented life than I had twenty years ago. How much further I may go on my "Path of Self- Actualisation" I cannot tell - though I am always hopeful for Ultimate Enlightenment. CH'AN RETREAT REPORTS These reports are written within a few days of the end of a retreat and are a unique expression of the writers experience. We should like to thank the authors. It is our policy that such accounts remain anonymous. 1) Maenllwyd Chan Retreat, May 1991 HOW TO BE ME? Lurching up the steep approach road to the Maenllwyd, I liked the feel of a cottage tucked up in the hillside - a Zen mountain temple. Perhaps, not so surprisingly, I instantly recognized one of the participants as an old war-horse from other sessins. John appeared and made me feel immediately at home. He had a sort of swashbuckling pirate look about him which I rather liked, and an immediate warmth, without it cloying. We were soon invited to say why we had come and I threw myself into the ring saying I wanted to be in charge of my life and that maybe I still gave over some of the charge to my mother. I felt I had taken a step into the unknown, being so upfront, but felt rather rattled too. It felt as if everyone else was a spiritual person who had gravitated along for the joy of it all. I was a bit staggered to find, even though I had been warned of this, that there wasn't a spare moment in the day - it was an endless treadmill of exercises, services, long hours of sitting and, thank God, meals. I didn't sleep too well the first night, yet remained curiously alert, somehow knowing what it is like just to remain watchful of all the twists and turns of the restless mind - like seeing through an open doorway into the room inside. I dreamt eventually of catching fat fishes - on a mackerel line. Most of my days were spent enduring the pain in my knees. Somehow this brought all my energy forth. If I could hang on in there, I gradually discovered a steely determination to continue. I came up against the strength of the integral flow of energy which began to reveal in its depths the clarity and luminosity of something that makes it all worthwhile. The next night I felt painfully clear, as if a part of me had been condemned to a hell too low for anyone to reach. I had been so glued to seeing myself through the eyes of my mother when I was a child, that I daren't trust my own heart mirror. I began to despair, knowing how many times in the past I could sit for long hours and yet be unable to give myself room enough to experience some of the flood of force from the core which longed to flow freely. I thought that John was probably too flippant to help me, even though I was also attracted by his humour and humanity. I felt a surge of energy and I began to growl softly - breathing a little of the fire of the dragon. Then I thought, "To hell with it all and how any of them see me" and I started to do some old bioenergetic exercises and felt a wave of the power surge down into the emptiness where so often in the past I had aborted its flow by disgorging it or by keeping it trapped down. With this I felt a touch of steel and the space I longed for. To have both together was my heart's dream. I stood there feeling a bit like the silent samuri in the Kurosaw film, like a heron on one leg, intensely alert, free and alone in the universe and on the metal of a warrior. Later that day I led the exercise group into the field. I remember swinging my legs feeling my heavy boots acting like the weight on the end of a pendulum so I was literally goose stepping and feeling like a small boy, released into the joy of an undivided body-mind. I loved giving the exercises, feeling the energy to do that working through me, something I had stopped myself from doing in the past, as I habitually hid the energy I was ashamed of. The retreat unfolded moment by moment - moments of throbbing pain, moments of rebellion, "fuck you I am going to leave, I can't stand it any more", moments of surrender, feeling the world flowing around me, nothing left inside but the one who mysteriously knows it is all the mind. For me the most potent medicine is the living through of previously disowned heart energy: of sitting in fear, feeling ghastly, not enough left of the conventional mind to even muster up a good intention to sit still, feeling the knots in my muscles being dismembered by the Buddha; weeping for the way I had cruelly tormented the Buddha in me, condemning the beauty, simplicity and atributelessness of my native being to a dark cellar surrounded by coils of suspicious thoughts hissing like snakes whenever something, the hero in me, dared to move to the treasure and declare it free of all the catastrophic judgements the little boy had used to surround my core. I visualised plunging a dagger into my belly and committing the act of a Hari Kiri. This brought up a lot of fear - suddenly I thought "Perhaps this is mental Hari Kiri." It slashed through the story line with which I have kept myself tied up. Interviews with J.C. followed smoothly, he soon caught on to where I was and I didn't feel that he at all tried to lord it over me. We discussed how I had interrupted his, to my ears, rather academic talk and he was honest about his irritation and his recognition that somewhere this had got at him. One time, I caught him looking at me after I had made an illicit joke in the Zendo as if he saw me from his heart and I felt touched and pleased by this non-threatening meeting. I also loved, and not least because my knees were screaming with relief, going on guided walks, leaning into the countryside, becoming one with the trill of the larks, the shrill heart-touching bleats of the lambs, the deep and more resigned baahs of the adult sheep, the laments of the cows, and even the roaring of the farmer's motorbike and the scream of the RAF jets. There were times I asked myself "How would Dogen be?" Suddenly I was at the bottom of all things and everything flowed through me, yet I had the surety and the fullness of being at one with it all. In a way, this resolved my deepest quest. How to be me? In touch with another, something I knew before but urgently needed reminding of, not by someone's words, but by that apotropaic testimony of the universe witnessing to the truth of oneself. 2) Chan Retreat, Maenllwyd, May 1991. A CHINESE IN WALES. When the plane began to descend on Heathrow I was wondering how I should explain to the immigration officer the purpose of my trip to the UK. Would he feel it strange that a Chinese living in Hong Kong should have come to the UK for a Chan retreat? Would he be suspicious of my words? For several years I have been looking for an opportunity to receive authentic training in Chan meditation which I have not been able to find in Hong Kong. Some years ago I wrote to Shifu's Chan Centre in Taiwan to ask for permission to join one of their seven day Chan retreats. They promptly replied that they had stopped admitting people from outside Taiwan because the retreats were always over subscribed by local people. They advised me to try Shifu's Chan Centre in New York. I wrote to New York and received a programme and an application form but, for various reasons, I was rather apprehensive of attending a retreat there. The news that my old friend, John, had been authorized by Shifu to conduct Chan retreats in England made me feel quite sure that I would one day attend his Chan retreat. But events moved faster than I had expected and before I realised it I was already at Maenllwyd, all set to "hit a Chan Seven," which is a Chinese way of saying attending a seven day Chan retreat. All the effort I took to get to Maenllwyd for Chan reminded me of an incident thirty years ago. I was then studying in London. One day I went to a camping equipment exhibition and spotted a metal mess-kit which was good and cheap but never seen in Hong Kong. I took the trouble to order a set and after days of waiting it eventually arrived by post. I opened the package only to discover that the contents were made in Hong Kong! I started the retreat without any apprehension. John and I know each other well. I knew I was in good hands. He would be sympathetic, understanding and would not let me suffer too much. I was not a stranger to Maenllwyd either, having attended a Western Zen retreat there a few years ago. Despite all this, the first four days were full of struggles, frustration and suffering. The change of climate and time zone made me very sleepy during the sittings. The struggle to keep awake and the pain in the legs and the back made concentration impossible in spite of my persistent efforts. The crisis came on the second day. I became quite cynical and everything looked ridiculous. Then I remembered one of Shifu's lectures which I had read He says that when one is captured by the pirates, the only way to survive is to join them. I was captured at Maenllwyd for another five days. What else could I do other than continue the retreat and make the best of it? I had two interviews with John during the first four days. He was very understanding, sympathetic and flexible and above all infected me with optimism. He allowed me to skip some sessions in order to have some more sleep. But these concessions did not improve my condition. Both the sleepiness and the pains did not go away. On the fourth day, by sheer effort I experienced a momentary sensation of concentration and good sitting but this did not repeat for the rest of the day. On the fifth day I was getting more desperate and determined to overcome the odds. Despite John's suggestion that I should use a stool I stuck to the orthodox method of sitting. I felt it was a posture that gave a sense of dignity and greater satisfaction. But a small incident triggered off a series of changes. During one early afternoon session, sitting took place in the open field - to gaze at the scenery. The sky was bright but the wind was quite strong. I chose the stony ground behind the two big oak trees to shelter from the wind. As the ground was uneven I had to sit on a stool. Towards the end of the session I experienced a moment of stillness, first with respect to the scenery and then in relation to the body. I reported this to John and suggested using the stool for indoor sitting. He agreed. Sitting on the stool was much more comfortable and the pains did not return though the sleepiness did not go away. I sat with my eyes wide open as I had done in the open field. Towards the end of the session I began to experience a form of stillness. But this was soon interrupted by the sound of the bell which signalled the end of the session. Remembering John's previous advice of the importance to "keep the one", I managed without effort to maintain the stillness of the mind while listening to his brief for the following session which was a forty five minute walking meditation in the hills around. During the whole walk I could easily maintain concentration and stillness of the mind by repeating silently the counting from one to ten. I was surprised at my ability to concentrate on the counting exercise. Never before had I been able to continue counting for forty five minutes without any interruptions by strayed thoughts. I began the following sitting with a clear and quiet mind without worry of pain or sleepiness. I started counting my breath slowly. After about a minute, I felt the heart beat louder than the breath. I had to stop counting the breath and let the heart beating take over. Gradually I lost the sensation of the hands and the feet - only a feeling of warmth at these extremities was present. I felt pleasantly surprised and increased my concentration. A surge of energy followed. I was very alert and all the tiredness was gone. The blood vessels on both sides of the neck joined the heart beat, then the back of the skull, and finally both arms and legs. The whole body was now beating like the double base in an orchestra while the mind was fully aware of the surroundings and the thoughts which came and went without interrupting the awareness. Occasionally, there was the feeling that the wall, the stool and the floor were beating in the same rhythm with the body. The noises and the movements of people during the recess did not disturb me at all. I had an exciting feeling throughout the long sitting and the sensation that the body rhythm was faster than the breathing. When I finished the sitting I immediately reported to John and checked with him whether that was normal. He confirmed that it was normal and encouraged me to continue. He said it was the Chi which had raised the energy. I had often heard stories about meditators becoming crazy because of deviation. This the Chinese call " the fire goes out and the devil comes in". With reinforced confidence, I started the evening session. As soon as I sat down the same bodily rhythm appeared and the sitting was immediately shifted to automatic gear and continued straight through the second session without a break. Half way through the second session the breathing sensation returned and replaced the heart beat sensation. There was a feeling of softness, quietness, calmness, brightness and the horizon seemed to open wider. I reported this discovery to John and this time I was calmer. John said it looked like a form of "silent illumination" which appeared to be a suitable method for me. Driven by self-confidence and curiosity, I spent the remaining few sessions of the retreat experimenting. For example, I tried to direct the movement of Chi, sometimes with success but often not. I also tried to hold the Chi in the dan tien which the Taoist advocates, but this effort disrupted the body rhythm. These experiments often spoilt a session. I eventually realised that it was a risky indulgence and returned to the natural sitting; just allowing the body to take over, as Shifu says in one of his lectures. I stayed behind at Maenllwyd for another night after the retreat had ended. I sat with John for an hour in the evening, practicing naturally. The result was good. Nevertheless, I was somehow not completely satisfied with sitting on a stool even though this had achieved good results. It was simply not proper zazen to me. The following morning I awoke at 4.00am as usual and tried out sitting on the floor. I sat for two 40 minute sessions with a short break in between. The result was good. Other than some mild pain in the right leg which did not disturb me, the rest was similar to sitting on a stool. I cherish no illusion that it will be plain sailing from now on. I anticipate more obstacles ahead but I am determined to continue the practice, not on the stool but on the floor. I won't be satisfied until I can sit in the half lotus position. I have learned a lot from the retreat, most of which was quite unexpected. I learned that facing the wall with my eyes open helps my concentration. I have experienced the application of the theory that although there is no fixed method to meditation and Chan flexibility is necessary, self indulgence is dangerous in Chan practice. The guidance of a qualified teacher is essential. I believe I have been promoted from an armchair Chan student to that of a practitioner. Finally I am most grateful to my friend and teacher, John, for making this pleasant and important experience possible. I am also grateful to Shifu for his lectures which I have read and found helpful during the retreat. I cannot close this report without thanking Caroline and Hilary for making my trip from Bristol to Maenllwyd possible, and Simon for providing me with the ginger tea for each meal to keep my stomach in balance. 3) Chan Retreat Report, Maenllwyd 1991 ON MEETING A MONSTER. This was my first Chan retreat and I was so excited. My life felt calm and stable and I hoped to be able to work through whatever the Universe presented. I also hoped I would learn greater concentration in sitting to deepen my novice practice. On a previous retreat I had perceived the futility of living solely under the influence of my ego states and it seemed pointless not to search further for life's deeper meaning, to discover what lies beyond the realm of self. The first day felt good. Events on the schedule flowed naturally into one another. I felt a lightness of spirit, a naturalness at being on retreat again. I remembered the glowing inner space of focused oneness that I had experienced on my last WZR and I was eager to know it again. I felt as though I was looking for a spiritual lover. Day 2: Sitting began to get difficult. Scattered thoughts and conflicting voices began to take over the meditation and there was a dreadful sleepiness. Day 3: Battle raged. One part of me wanted to sleep, the other wanted to stay awake and was furious with the sleepiness of the other part. One part was desperately trying to "calm the mind" while the other ridiculed my efforts. I began to weep with distress. A vehement hatred welled up. "I hate you. I hate you" I hissed inwardly. "You are nothing to do with me!" This was a familiar thought even though I did not know who or what I hated. Inside me, the belittling voice became stronger and more dominant as the day wore on. Sneering, jeering, devaluing the work I had done on previous retreats, telling me it was all nonsense. By evening I was convinced I was hopeless at Zazen and I went fearfully to bed where I was haunted by visions of the rotting corpses of my children. I was consumed by a sense of futility and failure. I was just one big selfish ego which was more powerful than I had ever dreamt. I was wasting my time. Day 4: Although the sleepiness was wearing off, I had to make extreme efforts to control the vicious voice. By afternoon I was wearily resigned. The voice was like a monster that had become fully manifest in the forefront of my conciousness. It was a cruel monster, dominant and evil. It laughed and sneered, telling me that I had created him and that he now controlled me. All my previous insights had been him in disguise. My spiritual journey, my quest to seek the truth were both tossed maliciously aside. The monster, proclaiming that he was in charge, now dared me to confront him. I did so, for there was nothing else to do. It was a fight to the death. Indeed, I was actually prepared to die. I was crying out to John to help me yet, as I continued my practice, I felt I was beginning to recover some ground. The monster seemed to be slipping to the back of my head. Fortunately it was time for an interview. I was stopped in my tracks when John told me firmly that this monster was not my ego but a voice from childhood. Furthermore, he assured me that I had the power to overcome it. I was comforted but still very afraid that the monster might reappear in a different guise. Even so, by the time I returned to my cushion, the monster had shrunk considerably. As I sat I began to feel a growing sense of my own power and a feeling of compassion for the monster appeared. I had no wish to hurt him but needed to remove him so that this terrible inner voice could no longer trouble me. As the compassion grew the monster receded and, prostrating gently before the Buddha, I returned him to the Universe. Yet, even as I did so, a smaller, more insidious, voice whispered from below saying that I must get things right or otherwise I am nothing. Intuitively, I realised the monster had been my fear of failing. I had fed it over the years with aspects of my fathers personality that I had found difficult. This insight at last allowed the monster to slip away quietly and, later as I was meditating beside the stream, I had a powerful sensation of him whooshing out of my body and away into the blue sky. The gratitude and peace that followed was all the more precious for the struggle that had gone on before. Day 5: It was not long before my new found inner quiet was once again disturbed. This time a rather virtuous little girl, still working very hard to get things right, was scornfully criticising all those other members of the group who were late for bells or who broke the silence unnecessarily. Seeking approval and attention, she welcomed the discipline of the retreat in order to show off how good she was. I knew this little girl was just as big an obstacle to practise as was the monster. I took her to John for advice. Gradually I came to realise that the little girl did not need to be good. The reason why she tried so hard to be so was to keep the monster under control. Look how good I am, I cannot be that bad. Indeed I had clung to her when battling with the monster and vowing to continue my practise. The joy when I realised she was actually free! I nearly burst with happiness. I let her out with such tenderness. The joy of her freedom left me reeling. It seemed as though I had at last begun to love those locked in parts of myself enough to let them go. The joy radiated into an all consuming compassion for my parents. Was I not whole and complete and filled with gratitude to them for having given me life? At that moment I knew I was The Mind that Seeks the Way. What else could I possibly be? My parents, who had given me birth, were quite separate individuals from me. I no longer needed them inside me. It was as if I had existed timelessly long before becoming their child. The Mind that Seeks the Way was uncluttered now by voices. I experienced a wondrous gratitude. The compassion of the Universe filled me with awe. On the last evening I was deeply moved by the chanting of the Litany to the Great Compassionate One. The words seemed to spring from my own heart. The Bodhisattva of Compassion seemed to be my spiritual lover. I left the retreat feeling exhausted, reflective and strangely different. I had passed through a gateless gate and somehow had miraculously discovered the signless signpost pointing the way home. With every breath I take the Universe pours out its compassion. I am unable to avoid it. I look into compassion and see that it is empty. That is its nature. It arises out of nothing, and yet it is everything. The compassion of the Universe is my compassion. I discovered on the retreat that when The Mind that Seeks the Way looks into the mind, then there is no self. WHO IS COOKING? Simon Zadek and Miche Lewin Sitting in meditation vexations pour through the mind like wet sand. Cooking is a major feature of my seemingly endless mental gymnastics. What will be the next meal? Is the bread rising? Could there be cream in the tomato soup? Cooking seems to oppose meditation; an urge to cook, just cook, on and on, to abandon sitting. Sitting can be interesting, painful even peaceful, but never seems spontaneous and creative like the time spent cooking. Destiny lies not in spiritual enlightenment, but in the role of Cook. White rice swirls in cold water. The water turns grey, the rice invisible; confused combination. Six times before the water remains clear. The rice simmers gently in clear water for a long time, with a touch of salt once the water becomes hot. Then soft and slightly sticky, a bed of rice spread out on wood to cool. There is no pre-set menu; it is a known rhythm of breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner and sweet snack, and a general order of volume and type of foodstuffs that makes up each, smoked tofu, spiced patra leaves, white miso. The vegetables are those available at the time. Each day the unknowns arise: the weather, the overall feeling on the retreat, the spectrum of anxiety, depression, peacefulness and anger. Then there is the Cook, who moves through rhythms in this role, and also appears as the one that is practising. Each dish must arise from these circumstances, reflecting them in the balance of colours, tastes, smells, textures; in the combinations of raw, fried, boiled, steamed, baked and pickled. The cooking neither leads nor follows. Carrots - bright orange, dense and heavy - and daikon - white and porous - washed and stripped of skins. Each the size of a little finger, cut to represent both length and breadth of the original forms. Steaming to soften briefly. Sitting quietly on the third day, vexing about how many spicy patra leaves to place in the bulghar wheat for the evening meal. The question arises. "Who is it that is cooking?" A sudden alertness; observe. The mind begins to crackle. No one is cooking because I am sitting here; cooking is not thinking about cooking, but being cooking; not ruminations or anxieties about past evaluations or future possibilities. Who is cooking in the pot? A particularly strong image to a Vegetarian. But also the carrot and the mustard seed. "The food and the Universe partake of the same nature." Who is it that is I that is cooking? In interview, the question is identified as a hua-t'ou. It is mine and I adopt its use, feeling a sense of pride in traversing a gateless gate. Preparing the surface. Each sheet of nori seaweed moves lightly over the flame, softly toasting. A moment's pause and it would explode into flames; too flighty in movement and the nori would remain raw, tough like fibrous asparagus. Each crinkled sheet, turned light green by the heat, sits with nine others. The morning ceremony of filling the bowls with porridge, rich with soaked prunes, vine fruit, crushed walnuts and apple juice. One bowl after the other passes down the table, a mechanical ritual. At midday, the bowls arrive once again for servings of soup. As the first ladle is drawn, it is covered with a vast web of green bean noodles that threaten to fly over the table. The ladle is replaced and carefully redrawn. This time a bowl is filled. On the third draw, the trailing noodles once again rise from the pot as if from the grave. Exasperation and laughter. With experiment, it is found that first swirling and then deftly drawing the soup brings noodles in the cup of the ladle. This requires considerable attention. No more mechanical ladling. Yellow English mustard powder, powdered ginger and French garlic mustard combine. Most of the paste separates and sits in small pot. Shoyu mixes into the remainder in high sided container. Separates equally into three identical serving bowls. Cooking encourages forgetfulness. After a day, menus all but forgotten; after a meal, the ingredients unknown. In cooking, each tasting raises new possibilities. A soft alertness in the air. Being alone whilst aware of the intent of the participants on the retreat. There is ambiguity in the contribution of the Cook and food. They test attachment and celebrate awareness through the simple sensuality of combination and display. A service to the group and to each individual alone. To sustain the physical, to offer support and celebration. Parts combine to make the whole cylinder. Ricebed from mid-point in the sheet to within a thumb width of the bottom edge of toasted nori, and right across the width. A rutted spine across the bed with smeared mustard paste, carrot and daikon. Roll towards the horizon, the end of the nori watered to bind the cylinder as it comes together with the carrot and the daikon along the centre. Playing with time by making things destined for different meals on different days. In one pot sits the mixture for a carrot and date cake for tomorrow's pre-lecture pause. Onions gently bubble away in margarine and mustard seed on the coal stove in preparation for the cracked wheat dish for that evening. On the side are the bowls with chopped coriander and spring onion to mix into the hummus and olive paste for lunch that day. Against the window, racks of alfalfa and mung beans are watered to sprout in uneven rhythm over the week of the retreat. The water heats on the gas flame for the forthcoming afternoon tea. Stale wholemeal bread bakes in the oven, transforming into melba toast for many lunches. Cutting the cylinder. Any lack of clarity and the nori tears at the cut, dragged inwards by the knife. The knife must be clean and watered, regularly renewed after each cylinder is completed. Pause on the outer surface, a small incision and then down and away. The base is cut straight and the second cut angled. The hua-t'ou has become rotten and useless since its formal adoption. It hangs there, limp, lifeless, not able even to keep out the fresh pourings of thoughts that have returned to haunt after two days of relative peace. A desire to escape the kitchen, to knead dough, to hear, touch and smell the sizzling creations of my labour. Feeling inadequate, again the would-be enlightened one and Cook seem opposed. Using the hua-t'ou for a while as a mantra, like using a delicate instrument as a blunt hammer to bash a path through my tangled vexations. A shift and there is some peace. Thoughts remain - but hang like white puffs of cloud against blue sky. A sense of indifference between meditation and cooking. Not indifference, but no difference. Not Me thinking about value and equivalence, but no difference without viewpoint. It doesn't seem to be a thought or an experience, almost a sense without the sensory. Confusion in trying to explain this in a feedback session. The suchi pieces sit in pattern at each end of three wooden boards, each with a small bowl of shoyu mixture. The boards place along the centre of the table, in symmetry with bottles of shoyu, juice, melba toast, tubs of margarine, glass jars of chopsticks, and containers of flowers - white bracken, daffodils and bluebells. After the retreat, in a kitchen in Bristol, another sitting, drinking tea conversing with three other cooks. Quiet and gentle, they are aware of my peace and excitement, of my tiredness and desire to communicate, of my intensity and separateness. The need for new knives, why the bread was too dry, the arising of menus; subjects that maintain a gentle rhythm of voice and smiles. Going to the retreat to be Cook, not to sit, to be cooking. There should be no ambiguity, and then it is simple. Imagine you cutting a carrot. Now imagine the carrot-cutting. Very simple really. DHARMA HUNGER A Western Zen Retreat Poem The Universe is as the Boundless Sky, I should have had another piece of bread and jam As lotus blossom above I wonder if we'll have tea after this meal unclean water, Pure and beyond the World is the mind Bloody Buddhist Ceremonials of the trainee, O Silence of Nature Don't like him We take refuge in Thee Here we go again. Calm and Clear Eddy Street [END]