The Zen Letters

ZEN LETTERS Master Zhong Fushi Foreword to The Zen Letters of Master Zhong Fushi Only a few letters were found after the passing of Zhong Fushi. Many of his writings were lost to time, scattered across the years and places he traveled, leaving only these traces of his guidance behind. It is with humility and reverence that I introduce the letters that remain, the remnants of a lifetime dedicated to preserving the heart of Zen—a Way that he sought to protect from fanaticism and rigid dogma. Master Zhong Fushi lived a life devoted to the quiet spaces of practice. Known by different names depending on the language of those he taught, he was fluent in Chinese, Japanese, and English, and he also spoke French, Russian, Vietnamese, and some Sanskrit. Yet, despite his ability to bridge language and cultural divides, he was profoundly private. Passing away alone in 2018 at the age of 98, he remained, to the last, a solitary presence, allowing his teachings to flow freely without needing recognition or following. In his view, Zen was neither a religion nor an opposition to religion. Rather, it was a way of life—a state of harmony with the whole of existence. Zen, he would say, "is the leaf, not the tree." He traveled sparingly but made journeys to support fellow practitioners who, despite their commitment, struggled against the tendency of any tradition, even Zen, to crystallize into strict form or ideology. Zhong Fushi, true to the spirit of Zen, encouraged us to remain open, unbound, to keep Zen alive by meeting each moment with a mind free from fixed views. These few letters offer glimpses into his teachings, reminding us of Zen's essential openness. Master Zhong Fushi held no rigid structure, and in these words, his message remains simple and clear, urging each reader to enter the path directly, to meet life with a fresh heart, ready to see through limitations and always in tune with the pulse of the present. Let these letters, humble as they are, serve as guides—a bridge between Zhong Fushi’s wisdom and our lives today, wherever we are. May they encourage us, as they did his closest disciples, to live each moment fully, in harmony with all things. Hasegawa Shinjo April 2024 外道 Gedō The moon does not struggle to reflect itself in the river, The bird does not chase after the wind, What is, simply is—form and emptiness, Distinctions arise, but no separation remains. The mountain is high, the valley is low, Yet both are part of the same earth. Venerable Master, Taisen Deshimaru From my quiet space among the mountains, where the mist clings to the pines and the wind carries the sound of the sparrow’s song, I write to you, dear brother, as the stream flows gently at my side. It is here, in the stillness, that I reflect on your teachings—on your insistence upon absolute oneness, the denial of all duality (niṣṭhadvaya). But as I contemplate this, I see a paradox forming. By rejecting all separation, do we not create a new duality between those who grasp this concept and those who do not? Our practice, rooted in the teachings of the great masters, has always warned us not to cling to any view too tightly. Dōgen Zenji once said, “To study the Buddha Way is to study the self (ātman), and to study the self is to forget the self.” In this forgetting, the boundaries of duality fall away on their own, without force. Zen, like water, does not move through rigidity but flows freely, finding its way around obstacles and embracing the shape of the container it is placed in. You speak of oneness, but I ask, do we not see the Dharma expressed differently in all things? When the temple bell rings, is it not distinct from the call of the sparrow? These differences are not a denial of oneness but an affirmation of the tattva pravāha—the flow of the essence of all things. Just as the sun shines through a single cloud, creating a rainbow, or reflects off ice as spring approaches, these moments show us how the One manifests in a multitude of forms. If the Buddha had adhered to such strictness, as you suggest, he would never have spoken of the Bodhi Tree or the Great Elephant. He would have only said "oneness" and nothing more. And if that were the case, none of his teachings would have reached us—nothing would have been learned, not even by the Buddha himself. Is this the Way? No, brother, this is not Zen. Shikantaza (just sitting) teaches us to rest in the natural unfolding of things, without trying to control or force them into a conceptual framework. Let us not become rigid and political in our teachings, for the Dharma is not a sword to wield, but a river that flows endlessly, without discrimination. Recently, the counsel of four masters asked me to reflect on Zen in this modern world. They asked me to observe how the flux has become fiercer than ever before, how the lives of monks have grown more chaotic, surrounded by distractions and complexity that our predecessors could not have foreseen. Yet, amidst all this chaos, the Dharma remains like the unmoving stillness in the heart of a whirlpool. We must find that still point in the turning world, for it is there that the true wisdom resides. I am 60 years old now, a leaf in the stream, carried by currents I never expected. Both in body and in enlightenment (bodhi), I have found myself in places I could not have imagined. For over 20 years, I sat in silence, not speaking a single word, listening only to the voice of nature. In that stillness, I emptied myself of desires, ambitions, and all that does not belong in the soul. It is through this emptiness that enlightenment shows the tattva pravāha—the flow of the essence of everything. When the practitioner becomes truly empty, he becomes passive to the prakāśana (illumination)—what we call fúshè (radiance) in China. In this state, the phenomena of the world appear as the radiant energy that spreads outward from the wholeness of things. The deeper the enlightenment, the Buddha soul encounters the prabhāva kṣetra (field of influence), or as the Chinese say, yǐngxiǎng chǎng. Here, without judgement or fear, the enlightened Buddha souls become aware of the subtle energetic reach of all things—some embody the virtues of Devas (divine beings), while others reflect the presence of Māras (tempters or obstacles). Yet in this awareness, there is no condemnation, only the understanding that all things arise from the same source. In my silence, I became one with you, with our master, and even with those five monks who drifted from the Way and became entangled in the darkness of the Yakuza. The Dharma flows through all beings, even those who walk in shadow. It is not for us to judge, but to understand. Yet, despite the non-duality we teach, duality persists in many forms within Zen itself. The relationship between master and student often creates a division, as though enlightenment could be passed down from above. We say all beings possess Buddha-nature (tathāgatagarbha), yet the hierarchy of the teacher and the student remains. And what of the tension between sudden enlightenment and gradual cultivation? The Southern School speaks of juéwù (sudden awakening), while the Northern School advocates for slow, deliberate practice. Both paths claim to lead to the same truth, yet they travel in different directions. Even in the teaching of emptiness (śūnyatā), we find duality. We are taught that form is emptiness, and emptiness is form, but in practice, do we not sometimes cling to the idea of emptiness as something separate from form? The distinction between monks and laypeople is another subtle division. We speak of the equality of all beings, yet we often see the monastic life as closer to the Buddha Way. But did not Vimalakirti, a layman, demonstrate the highest understanding of the Dharma? Action without intention—wu wei—is another paradox. We are taught to act spontaneously, without attachment, yet how does this align with our responsibilities in the world? The tension between acting and non-acting lingers. Even compassion and emptiness create a subtle duality. Some practitioners focus on the wisdom of emptiness, while others are drawn to the engaged compassion of the bodhisattva. Yet, as the masters have said, the two are inseparable—without one, the other cannot fully bloom. Brother, Zen is not about denying duality but about walking through it without becoming ensnared. The Buddha did not teach us to flee the world but to see through it, to transcend without rejecting. And yet, Zen often avoids deeper questions. We speak of the flux, but who set it in motion? We talk of oneness, but where did it come from? The deeper we go, the more we realise the limitations of human understanding. Change implies limitation, for something cannot be both its first form and its second form simultaneously. Some enlightened masters I have known glimpsed the beginning of the flux—something beyond even their comprehension, a mystery deeper than words. Zen is one path, but it is not the only path. There are others who have emptied themselves of distractions and found enlightenment in their own traditions. We must honour them, for the Dharma is vast and cannot be confined to one form. Let us walk humbly on this path, with open hearts and minds, for the Way is not fixed. As Hakuin Ekaku once said, “Meditation in the midst of action is a thousand times superior to meditation in stillness.” The world calls for us to live the Dharma fully, amidst chaos, and remain unmoved. In peace and stillness, Zhōng Fǎshī By the Flowing Stream My Hermitage, Ryūseian Winter 1978 創造主 Sōzōshu Year: 1980 My Hermitage, Ryūseian Dear Venerable Master Deshimaru, The mist, like the breath of an old friend, clings to the pines and flows down the mountains. In this stillness, I reflect on your letter as a river carries its flow. Your words bring gratitude, especially when you speak of unity that transcends the forms and boundaries we so easily cling to. You are right: Zen is not confined by philosophical or religious boundaries. Our practice, śūnyatā (emptiness), stretches beyond all words and concepts. In your letter, you mentioned Christians you met, Christians who live in that emptiness familiar to us. It reminded me of Russian monks I knew in my youth. These monks lived in oneness with Sōzōshu (Creator), the ground of being and the sustainer of all things. They were in perfect harmony with what Sōzōshu created, free from ego and desire. Their lives flowed like water, surrendering to the will of Sōzōshu, seeing Him as the source of all movement. In this, their path was close to our understanding of dharma as the cosmic order. When you shared the words of the Christian contemplative—"When we have agreed to lose ourselves in ourselves, to sink into the abyss of our nothingness, the Lord reveals Himself to us in His tenderness and entrusts our soul to the Holy Dharmapālas (protectors of the Dharma)"—I felt how close these words are to our Zen practice. We, too, seek the abyss of emptiness, not as an escape but as a return to what we already are. For Christians, this is an encounter with Sōzōshu; for us, it is the Great Void, the endless oneness of tattva (essence). Perhaps these are the same truths, spoken in different tongues. Yet, dear Master, there is a subtle duality that troubles my mind. In Zen, we seldom speak of Sōzōshu or the Mover of the universe. We focus on the present, on the flow of existence, like the goldsmith who knows only his craft and not the larger workings of the world. But do we not create a limitation if we do not acknowledge the One who set this wheel of samsara in motion? The Christians bow to their Sōzōshu, recognizing that this is not duality but oneness. To them, Sōzōshu is the source of all things. We may remain silent on this, fearing that to name Sōzōshu is to introduce duality. But can we truly live in oneness if we do not recognize the source of that oneness? The universe, as we know it, is intertwined with Sōzōshu, and by not acknowledging this, we risk falling into a false emptiness, like drinking what seems to be water but is, in fact, clear acid. We do not seek to theologize or philosophize, but in recognizing Sōzōshu, our enlightenment grows deeper, and we see the wholeness of existence in a new light. This question is like a koan that lingers in the heart. Perhaps Zen’s silence on Sōzōshu is not a sign of wisdom but an avoidance of deeper truth. Could it be that to acknowledge Sōzōshu is not to depart from Zen, but to fulfil its deepest purpose? If Zen is about liberation, why not liberate the mind from even the idea that Sōzōshu exists outside of us? Why not see that the Mover and the moved are one, that we are both the river and its source? Buddha, in his great wisdom as Tathagata (thus-gone one), did not deny the possibility of greater truths beyond his realization. If Tathagata walked among us today, would he not see the wisdom in these ideas? Would he not recognize that the source of all things is not separate from the oneness we seek, but is, in fact, its origin and sustainer? There is no contradiction here. Tathagata embraced paradox, and Zen has always welcomed the unresolved tension between opposites. Perhaps this is yet another koan for our path—a new edge for Zen to surpass, not by rejecting its past but by seeing deeper into it. Master Deshimaru, you have always taught us to move beyond strict tradition. Like water, Zen flows into new forms, yet remains true to its essence. To consider Sōzōshu as part of the Dharma is not to depart from Zen, but to expand its reach, to see that the Mover and the creation are inseparable. In doing so, we do not abandon our path; we walk it more fully, recognizing that the oneness we seek is already whole, already present in all things. I sit here in the stillness, and these thoughts flow like the stream beside me. Is Zen’s silence on Sōzōshu a deliberate form of wisdom, or is it an incomplete exploration? Zen has always embraced paradox and contradiction as methods of awakening. Perhaps this, too, is a paradox waiting to be fully realized. In the quiet of the hermitage, Zhōng Fǎshī By the Flowing Stream 受肉 Juniku “Each moment is a manifestation of the Dharma.” The Dharma, like the river that flows without pause, cannot be captured in any one form, for it shifts and evolves with each breath we take. Zen, too, is not fixed—it has never been bound to the past nor frozen in tradition. — Master Dōgen Venerable Master, Taisen Deshimaru, Your words, like the wind passing over a still pond, stirred ripples in my mind. At first, the surface of my thoughts was disturbed, but when the water calmed, the moon reflected clearly once again. The ripples revealed something deeper—an understanding that flows like a river, widening on its path toward the ocean. What seemed at first like conflict has now become part of the Way, for the stone and the stream are not separate, but one, as part of the same mountain. In the Christian tradition, they speak of Sōzōshu—the eternal Creator—who holds all things in being, as the sky holds the clouds and the earth cradles the trees. We in Zen do not often speak of such things, but we sense the movement of the eternal in every breath, every falling leaf. Yet the Christians speak of something even more profound: this Sōzōshu, who needs no enlightenment, emptied Himself completely, entering the flux of samsara. This act of kenosis—becoming one with the world—is the ultimate non-duality, the formless entering form, the infinite embracing the finite. Master Dōgen once said, "To study the Way is to study the self, and to study the self is to forget the self." In Christ, we see this teaching not just in words, but in action—Sōzōshu emptying Himself of divinity to take the form of a human, entering birth, suffering, and death. His enlightenment was not for Himself alone, but for all who open their hearts and empty themselves of ego, as we do in zazen. His self-emptying is the highest form of mu—emptiness extended not for the self, but for all beings, like a lantern lighting many others without losing its own flame. And though He entered death, Christians say He returned in the same body, yet now transformed. It is what we in Zen might call an enlightened body, no longer bound by suffering, yet still of this world. This is the completion of the flux, the full circle of the Way—form and emptiness becoming one, as Master Hakuin said: "Form is emptiness, emptiness is form." Christ’s resurrection reveals the Endo, the final moment where form, body, and spirit fully merge. Master Hakuin also said, "Meditation in action is a thousand times superior to meditation in stillness." Christ’s kenosis was the ultimate meditation in action—the Way embodied not just in silence but in the full embrace of suffering for others. His enlightenment was not kept within, but overflowed, like a river spilling over its banks, nourishing all around it. His body, once bound by pain, is now seen as fully awakened—the light that comes from complete surrender. In Zen, we often speak of the Buddha’s enlightenment, of how the Tathagata realized the truth and opened the path for all beings. Christ, in His kenosis, shows us a Way where enlightenment is not just a personal awakening, but a compassionate act that flows outward to others. His emptying reveals that true satori is not just the dissolution of self, but the transformation of suffering into liberation for all. It is the Way in its highest form, where mu is not static, but alive, moving through the world. Taisen, it is important to recognize that the rejection of other paths is itself a form of attachment, a subtle dualism that binds us to our own history and tradition. To cling too tightly to Zen as it was, to hold onto the past, is to stop the natural flow. As Master Rinzai said, "If you meet the Buddha, kill the Buddha." This is not a call to destroy the Buddha, but a reminder that attachment—even to our own Way—is a hindrance. Zen cannot stop the wheel, for Zen itself is part of the flux. The Zen of the present is not the Zen of the past, just as the river is not the same as it was yesterday, though it flows from the same source. There is no need for division between Zen and other paths when it comes to the perfection of the Way. The Way is beyond all boundaries. In Christ’s kenosis, we see the fullness of the Way—a perfect harmony between emptiness and form, action and stillness. In our practice, we can harmonize with this koan without losing our essence, for Christ’s enlightenment is a reflection of the same truths we seek in our sitting. The ultimate mu shown through Sōzōshu’s self-emptying is the same emptiness we touch in our silence. We are not separate from this truth, nor from the path Christ has shown. To reject it is to cling to dualism, to see separation where there is none. Zen is alive in the present, and in this moment, the wheel of the Way continues to turn. Let us sit with this koan and open ourselves to the fullness of the Way that flows through all things. In serene stillness, Zhōng Fǎshī 1981 Abhayagiri Monastery, India शू यता Shunyata “There is, O monks, an Unborn, Unoriginated, Uncreated, Unformed. Were there not this Unborn, Unoriginated, Uncreated, Unformed, no escape would be discernible from that which is born, originated, created, and formed.” — Udana 8:3 Dear Brother Walter, Like migrating birds, our brief meeting at Frankfurt Airport was filled with meaning. Your letter, thoughtful and reflective, reached me here in the mountains, where the mist slowly embraces the pines. It has raised important questions that have lingered in our conversations. Many consider Zen to be atheistic or pantheistic, but I wish to clarify this, though our path rarely engages in such discussions. Zen does not use the terminology familiar to Western philosophy. Our practice returns us to the present, to the experience of what is—what we call tathata (suchness). We do not debate the divine, but neither do we deny it, like the wind that moves through the forests, leaving no trace but bringing its presence. The Zen path is one of emptying oneself of attachments, desires, and ego. This is not a rejection of the world, but a way to understand its true nature. Shunyata (emptiness) is not literal nothingness; it is a liberation, like the clear sky after the rain. The concepts of anatta (no-self) and shunyata do not negate existence but reveal that all things are impermanent, like the mist that clings to the mountains. When I was younger, I met Thomas Merton, a Christian monk, who spoke of silence, self-denial, and becoming free for God. He described how Christian monks seek emptiness—through obedience, poverty, and celibacy—to open themselves to divine grace. In this, our paths align: Zen monks seek emptiness to see things as they are. Both paths lead to freedom from ego and to full presence in the world. You asked whether Zen is atheistic or pantheistic. Zen neither affirms nor denies such terms. We are like the wind moving through the forests, not seeking names or labels. Many, when encountering Zen for the first time, attempt to apply their philosophical categories, but Zen remains silent. We recognize the interconnectedness of all things, but this is not a unity of form or substance—it is the oneness of being (tathata). Mountains, rivers, people—all exist, and in this existence, we are one. Zen does not speak of a Creator (Sōzōshu), but this does not mean we reject Him. Our silence is a form of humility in the face of what cannot be comprehended. As Master Linji said, “The true person appears everywhere and nowhere,” meaning the highest truth has no form and cannot be grasped by the intellect. In my own practice, I often feel a deep sense of gratitude for all that exists. This feeling is not worship in the conventional sense, but rather a contemplation and reverence for the beauty of the world. Your tradition might call it worship, but in Zen, we simply sit with what is. Our silence on the divine does not mean Zen denies it. Perhaps, as Thomas Merton once said, this is a limitation of Zen—that we remain too attached to the Buddha’s teachings. Perhaps we are too silent when it comes to speaking of what lies beyond. But in this silence, we may be closer to the truth than words could ever express. In silence and respect, Your brother on the path, Zhōng Fashī Winter 1986, A Quiet Mountain of Japan स य - क याण सु दर Satya - Kalyāṇa Sundara "May we walk the path of emptiness and fullness, Seeing the beauty in all things, Recognizing the unity beneath the many." Dear Walter, I write to you from the quiet stillness of the mountains, where the wind carries the scent of pine and the streams flow as they have for centuries. Your recent letter, like a pebble dropped into the calm water, has stirred many thoughts. In these silent days, I have reflected deeply on the questions of good, evil, and the Zen path, much as I once did in long conversations with our brother monk, Thomas. His words often remain with me, as clear as the sky after a storm. Thomas shared with me a thought that continues to resonate: “Zen,” he said, “is a way of perceiving the substantial reality of all things—their goodness, their beauty, and their oneness (ichinyo).” Although Zen does not use the theological language you are accustomed to, it touches on the same truths. As Master Dogen once taught, “To study the self is to forget the self; to forget the self is to be enlightened by all things.” In enlightenment (satori), we come to see the truth of existence: all that is, is whole, is good, and is beautiful. In Zen, we do not speak much of transcendental categories, but we experience them. Thomas understood that Zen, in its silence and simplicity, leads to the recognition of the oneness of all things. Through practice, we come to see not only the unity of being but also the intrinsic goodness and beauty that flow from this oneness. As the Zen master Hakuin once said, "At the bottom of great doubt lies great awakening." In this awakening, we recognize that being itself is good, and everything that exists, even what is often called evil, still reflects the light of the whole—the transcendental goodness, beauty, and unity of being itself. I understand your concern, Walter, that Zen does not dwell on the distinction between good and evil as clearly as your tradition does. But Zen does not ignore these distinctions. Just as we choose clear spring water over muddy water, we also recognize actions that align with the way (dao) from those that cause discord. A person who falls into harmful actions is like a man wandering in the dark, unable to see the path. Yet, the way itself remains unchanged. The true nature of things does not vanish because of one’s failure to recognize it. Disharmony is like clouds passing over the sun—the light remains, even if unseen. Your tradition emphasises the clear lines between good and evil, sin and virtue, and I respect this greatly. Zen approaches from another angle, seeking to experience the being of things directly. It acknowledges that all being is good, and disharmony arises from ignorance, a kind of stuckness in the mind. Zen teaches that even in moments of delusion (muga), the underlying goodness of being is not erased. It is obscured, just as clouds obscure the sun but do not extinguish it. The ancient master Linji once said, "The true person of no rank comes and goes freely through the gates of life and death." Disharmony arises when we cling to dualities, to distinctions of good and evil, and lose sight of the deeper reality. But even in disharmony, the root of being—which is good, beautiful, and whole—remains. This is why Zen teaches us to return to the present moment, to see the wholeness of things, without denying the reality of discord. As Joshu once pointed out, "The cypress tree in the courtyard"—a simple statement of how all things, even the mundane, are part of the way. In your tradition, sin is a turning away from the Creator, a rejection of the good. Zen speaks more of delusion—a failure to see clearly the true nature of things. But even in delusion, the essence of being (tathata) remains untouched. The error lies not in being itself but in our perception. Disharmony is a form of darkness, undeveloped and immature, but it cannot extinguish the underlying goodness and beauty of being. It is the task of both our traditions to bring people back to that recognition, to clear the clouds, so to speak, and reveal the true sky. Thomas and I often found that, while Zen and Christian theology use different language, we are moving toward the same truth. You speak of the Creator as the source of all goodness, beauty, and truth. Zen may not name this source, but it points to the same oneness of being that reflects these transcendental realities. In enlightenment, the truth of this unity is revealed, and the enlightened mind (kensho) sees that goodness, beauty, and oneness are all aspects of the same reality. Walter, I believe the differences between our paths are not as vast as they seem. Zen focuses on the direct experience of being, while your tradition draws from the relationship with the Creator. But in both, the goal is to awaken to the fullness of reality, to recognize the goodness and beauty in all things. Disharmony is not denied but understood as a lack of development—a phase in the journey toward wholeness. The seed contains all the potential to grow into a tree, just as disharmony contains within it the possibility of reconciliation with the good. Let us continue our dialogue, like rivers flowing down the mountain, meeting at last in the great ocean. The truth we seek, whether through Zen or through the teachings of your faith, is the same. The transcendentals—goodness, beauty, and truth—are reflected in the sky above, and they are reflected in the way beneath our feet. With deep respect and friendship, Zhōng Fashī October 12, 1989 Mount Iwaki, Aomori Prefecture 地 chi "The spirit is like the wind—unseen, untouchable, yet it moves through all things, unbound by the weight of earth." — Attributed to Master Tōzan Ryōkai, often forgotten among modern teachers The Earth and the Circularity of the Physical World To the monks of Kosei-ji, From the quiet solitude of Ryōsō-ji, where the ground beneath me hums with the quiet presence of the earth, I offer these reflections on the element that supports us all—chi, the earth beneath our feet. This soil, these rocks, and the mountains that rise and fall are all part of the ever-changing tapestry of this shizen (world in which we exist). In Zen, we do not concern ourselves with scientific knowledge, yet it is undeniable that the world holds mysteries that can deepen our contemplation. We now understand that the earth is made up of fundamental elements—iron, silica, zinc, copper—all working together in harmonious complexity. These elements are not static but move in quiet flux, absorbed by tiny life forms within the soil, passed through the roots to the leaves and fruits of plants and trees, and ultimately entering the bodies of animals and humans. It is said that the air we breathe also carries these elements. We take them in, not knowing how they strengthen or weaken our bodies. In their harmonious balance, they nourish us; in imbalance, they create disharmony. As with the breath that sustains life, so too do these elements flow from the earth to us, and from us back to the earth. Yet even as we absorb them, they remain part of the great cycle of the earth, ever moving, ever changing. Master Dōgen once reminded us, "To tread the earth is to walk with the entire universe beneath your feet." The soil we stand upon, the rocks beneath us, are not dead or silent; they are in constant transformation. Rocks break down into soil, sediment is carried by rivers, and over ages, new stones are formed. Even the great mountains are not eternal. Through the upheaval of earthquakes, they rise; through time and wind, they are worn away. Volcanoes, with their fiery breath, bring minerals from the deepest reaches of the earth to the surface, enriching the land with fertile soil. The flux of the material world is different from that of water and air. It is slower, heavier, and yet it too circles through the earth’s bosom, rising up into our bodies. Just as water and air unite with our minds in our bodies, so too does that which comes from the earth—chi, the soil, minerals, and elements—find its way into us. And in time, what has passed through our bodies returns once again to the earth, becoming part of the cycle of life. The Circularity of Earth and the Body As monks, we are not here to study the sciences of minerals or tectonics, yet we should contemplate the deeper meaning of the earth’s movements. The physical world flows through its own cycle, heavy and slow, while our bodies and spirits (shin) are bound to that flux in a unique way. While we walk upon this ground, we are nourished by it, and when we pass from this life, our bodies return to it. We become part of the soil, the same soil that nourished us in life, that nourishes the plants, which in turn nourish the next generation. Master Hakuin said, "The body is like a dew drop, soon to return to the earth." In life, our bodies are sustained by the minerals of the earth, just as the water we drink flows from the mountains to the sea and back again. The air we breathe unites with the food we eat, and both return to the earth in the endless dance of transformation. But unlike the soil, the rocks, or the mountains, our spirit (kokoro) is of a different essence. It moves through the physical world, but it is not bound by it. The soul, like the wind, is unseen, untouched by the weight of the earth, and yet it is part of this world. Our spirit is awakened when we realize the interconnectedness of all things—the tathātā (suchness) of both spirit and matter. The Spirit and the Flux of the World While our bodies follow the slow, heavy cycle of the earth, returning to the soil after death, our spirits are not subject to the same circularity. As Master Tōzan once taught, "The wind passes over the mountain, but it leaves no trace." Our spirit, like the wind, moves through life without being weighed down by it. In Zen, we recognize the flux of the material world but know that the spirit transcends it. Yet, even as we transcend, we are united with this world. The elements from the earth flow through our bodies, and when we pass, those same elements return to nourish the world anew. This is the wonder of shizen—that we are both part of it and beyond it, connected to the earth yet untouched by its weight. Our spirit moves freely, recognizing the common tathātā of both matter and spirit, yet in that recognition, it is also liberated from the cycles of earth, water, and air. Oneness of Spirit and Earth In your practice, contemplate the ground beneath you. Feel how it supports you, but know that it does not bind you. The earth, in its slowness and heaviness, circles through its own path of transformation. Yet our spirits are of a different nature, free to move, to awaken. Just as the minerals in the soil are taken up by the roots of plants and flow into the fruits and leaves, so too does the earth support us, but we are not of it. In recognizing this, we understand the oneness of existence—not through attachment, but through the deep realization of tathātā. In stillness and clarity, Zhōng Fǎshī By the Ground Beneath My Feet 1993 水 sui "Water flows, taking any form, yet never stays. The mountain stands unmoved, knowing nothing of the current. The path of water is in its constant motion, not in stillness." — Teaching from Master Sekisa The Nature of Water and the Path of Understanding To the monks of Kosei-ji, Amid the hills where rivers flow and clouds gather, I send these thoughts from Ryōsō-ji, where the stream beside me mirrors the flow of the Dharma itself. In Zen, we often speak of water. It is not simply a symbol, but a direct reflection of the Dharma and the mind. Water (Mizu) flows effortlessly, finding its way through the solid earth, adapting to every obstacle without resistance. In the same way, the mind, when in harmony with the Dharma, flows naturally, without clinging or struggle. This fluidity is the essence of our practice. Yet, as we contemplate the nature of water, we see more than its surface. Water, in its many forms, teaches us about both the what and the why of existence. In Zen, we focus on the what—the immediate, present nature of things. We observe how the river (Kawa) flows, how water reflects the sky, and how it finds peace when still. But enlightenment brings us into union with the deeper reason behind this flow—the why. To reach enlightenment is to realize not only the river’s movement but also the unseen forces that cause it to flow. Master Dōgen once said, "To study the self is to forget the self, and to forget the self is to be enlightened by all things." This teaching reminds us that Zen invites us to merge with the flow of life as it is. However, in this merging, we also begin to perceive that the what and the why are not separate. The river does not move without gravity, without the pull of the earth and the incline of the land. In the same way, our minds do not move without reason, without the deeper currents of the Dharma guiding us. Consider the clouds (Kumo) that float across the sky. They are impermanent, constantly shifting, much like our thoughts and emotions. These clouds represent the fleeting nature of our mental landscape. Just as a cloud passes, leaving no lasting mark on the sky, our thoughts do not alter the essence of our true nature. But what of the clouds themselves? They are not independent—they form from the evaporation of water, carried by the wind, shaped by the heat of the sun. This is the deeper why behind the what. While Zen teaches us to focus on the present form of the clouds, we do not deny the importance of the forces that created them. Huangbo Xiyun, a revered master, once said, "The mind is like a mirror—it reflects everything but is not stained by any reflection." Clouds pass over the mirror of the mind, but they do not change its nature. In the same way, mist (Kiri) can obscure our view, clouding our vision. Mist signifies the delusions and attachments that distort our understanding. But even when the mist is thick, the mountain remains unchanged. Through meditation, we learn to clear this mist, not by analyzing it, but by allowing it to dissipate naturally—just as the rising sun burns away the morning fog. The why behind the mist is there for us to sense, once the mind has become clear. Master Hakuin reminds us, "At the bottom of great doubt lies great awakening." In the same way, beneath the mist of delusion lies the clarity of enlightenment. When the mind is clouded, we see only the mist and question what is behind it. But as the mist clears, we not only see the landscape but understand the conditions that created the mist in the first place. This is the union of the what and the why—to see both the form and its deeper cause. Rivers (Kawa), too, are part of this cycle. A river flows because of gravity, because of the shape of the land. In Zen, we focus on the flowing water, on the what—the immediate experience of the river as it moves, adapts, and nourishes all it touches. But the deeper realization comes when we understand that the river flows for a reason. There is a why behind its movement, just as there is a why behind our existence. Enlightenment is not merely about observing the flow but becoming one with both the flow and the force that moves it. In this way, while Zen often encourages us to focus on the what, it does not dismiss the why. The why is the unseen current, the gravity that pulls all things into motion. To truly awaken is to experience the river and the clouds, not just as they are, but to intuit the forces that guide their paths. The river flows not just because it is water, but because it is drawn by gravity—by a force we do not always see, but which is always present. Master Taisen Deshimaru, who passed in 1982, reminded us that "Zen is not intellectual, but neither is it ignorant." While we do not intellectualize the why, we also do not ignore it. Enlightenment is the point where we cease to differentiate between the water and the forces that guide it. The river does not ask why it flows, but in enlightenment, we come to sense the deeper unity between the movement of the water and the source of its flow. In your practice, let the mind be like water—adaptable, reflective, and without resistance. But also, allow the mind to become one with the deeper cause behind its flow. The clouds, the mist, the rivers—they all move with purpose. As you sit in meditation, focus on the present form of things, but know that enlightenment will bring you to a deeper understanding, where the what and the why merge into one. In stillness and clarity, Zhōng Fǎshī By the Flowing Stream 1996 風 fū "The wind moves freely and touches all things, yet leaves no trace. The stone, though unmoving, carries the weight of time. The path of air is not the path of stone." — Teaching from Master Yunmen The Circularity of Air and the Oneness of Life To the monks of Kosei-ji, From my hermitage in Ryōsō-ji, where the mountain winds sing through the trees, I send these reflections on the nature of air and the circularity of life. As the wind (Kaze) moves invisibly, filling our lungs with oxygen and bringing vitality to our blood, we in turn breathe out carbon that nourishes the trees and plants, which feed on this offering, releasing oxygen back to the sky. This is the sacred exchange between all life, a cycle of breath and nourishment. Yet the wind carries more than just the breath of life; it carries the teachings of Zen, the Dharma itself, moving silently yet touching everything without discrimination. In Zen, we speak of the unseen forces that bind all things together. Air is one of these forces, flowing through us and through all beings, seen and unseen. We breathe in oxygen, sustaining our bodies, and breathe out carbon, feeding the plants rooted in the earth. This cycle reflects the harmony between all life—the flora and fauna, united in the breath of existence. And in this oneness, we not only recognize the interconnectedness of all that exists but also the perfect order and beauty of the oneness of existence itself. Yet Zen teaches us not to ask where the breeze or the storm comes from or where it is going. We are not meteorologists, nor do we delve into the sciences of nature—nor the understanding of the beginning of movements of the flux, nor do we seek to know the end destination of the wind, nor the incomprehensible goal to which the flux strives to complete. As Master Mazu Daoyi, one of the most revered Zen masters of the 8th century, once said, “The wind moves through the trees not to reach a place, but because it cannot be still. The destination of the wind is forgotten even by the wind itself.” Although this teaching has faded from the lips of many Zen teachers, its wisdom remains: the flux is without end, without goal. We do not need to comprehend the wind’s destination, for in each moment, the wind fulfills its nature. Master Dōgen once said, "To study the self is to forget the self, and to forget the self is to be enlightened by all things." In this teaching, we see the way the wind, though unseen, reflects the essence of the Dharma. The air we breathe, the wind that touches our skin, cannot be held or contained. Yet, in enlightenment, we recognize that we are one with it. The enlightened mind (shin), like the wind, moves freely, without clinging to form, flowing through all things. In this way, those who are enlightened realize the oneness of all that exists, and the perfect order and beauty of the oneness of existence. They see that they are not separate from the world around them, but part of the totality of existence. This is not only true of our physical bodies, which are made of the same elements as the earth, but also of our minds (kokoro), which, like the wind, are unseen but deeply felt. Zen is not about a singular psyche or isolated mind. It is about recognizing that which is common to all—existence itself. In recognizing this existence, we come to understand that we are part of the totality of life, whether we perceive it or not. The Winds of Life and the Cycles of Air The wind (Kaze) does not cling to where it has been, nor does it wonder where it is going. It moves as it must, touching everything without attachment. The wind carries the air from one place to another, from the hot deserts to the cool mountains, from humid marshes to dry plains. In its movement, it brings transformation, yet it does not belong to any one place. Just as the wind does not attach itself to the lands it touches, we too must learn to flow freely, without attachment to the places, people, or experiences we pass through. However, the wind is colored by its journey. The sandstorms of the Gobi Desert carry dust across the sea to far-off lands, much like our own experiences shape us, even as we let them go. The air, while free of attachment, is not without influence. This is the second wheel of air—a cycle that is distinct from the circularity of water, yet deeply intertwined with it. The wind carries moisture from the oceans to the mountains, where it falls as rain, and the rivers return the water back to the sea. The air and water, though different in nature, flow together in the great cycle of life. Master Hakuin taught, "In great doubt lies great awakening." The winds of life, both gentle and fierce, are like this. A soft breeze may comfort us, while a harsh wind may strip away our illusions, clearing our mind. The cold wind may stir the old pains in my joints, reminding me of impermanence, yet in that reminder is the wisdom that all things are fleeting. The wind, like the Dharma, does not always offer comfort; sometimes it tests us, forcing us to deepen our practice. The Wind and the Path of Zen Zen is not a path of questions. We do not seek to understand the origin or the destination of the wind, nor do we ponder the science behind it. Instead, we recognize that the wind, like all things, is part of the great oneness of existence. Through enlightenment, we see that our minds are like the wind—unseen yet present in all things. The wind does not discriminate between what it touches, just as the enlightened mind sees no separation between itself and the world. This is the realization that Zen offers—not that we are separate beings, but that we are part of the vast web of life, connected to all that exists. It is easy to see this oneness in the material world—in the body, the earth, the trees. But to recognize the oneness of our minds (kokoro), our true nature, requires deeper insight. The wind is the perfect metaphor for this—something we cannot see, yet we feel its presence. It moves us, yet it is not something we can hold in our hands. Just as the wind moves freely between forms, we too must learn to move beyond the attachment to form and recognize the deeper reality of existence. The Oneness of Existence In your practice, breathe deeply and feel the wind moving through you. Know that the air you breathe is the same air that nourishes all life. The wind that moves across the mountains and seas connects all beings, just as the Dharma moves through all things. The path of Zen teaches us to see beyond the surface of life and recognize the oneness of existence. In enlightenment, we realize that we are not separate from the wind, the earth, or the stars—we are part of the great totality of life. So let your breath be like the wind—free, flowing, and without attachment. In each breath, know that you are part of the circle of life, connected to everything that exists, whether you can see it or not. And in that recognition, find the peace of knowing that you are one with the Dharma, with the wind, and with all of life. In stillness and clarity, Zhōng Fǎshī By the Winds of the Mountain 2001 一行三昧 ichigyo-zammai Embracing the Wholeness of the Dharma in Modern Times Abhayagiri Monastery, India Dear Sayadaw U Tejaniya, May this letter find you in the stillness of mind and the clarity of practice, as each step on the path unfolds like a lotus blooming in the quiet pond. It has been almost a year since we sat together with His Holiness at Tsuglagkhang Monastery, contemplating the delicate state of the Dharma in these ever-changing times. Though His Holiness treads the Tibetan path, while we walk the way of Zen, the concerns we shared about the growing disconnection from the Dharma—especially in the West—resonate deeply with both of our traditions. At the core, we are bound by the same truth: the unity and wholeness of all things. In our Zen way, as you know, we do not chase after rituals or words but instead point directly to the heart, to that moment of awakening—wù (bodhi)—when the mind breaks free of its illusions and the original nature is revealed. His Holiness spoke of compassion, a rain that nurtures all beings, and in this, our paths converge. Yet Zen takes us further into the silent recognition of zhēnrú (tathātā)—the suchness of all things—free from concepts and barriers. It is here that Western students often struggle, encumbered as they are by the weight of their own cultural conditioning, which clouds the directness of the teaching. The Body and the Cosmos: Reflections on Harmony As Dōgen Zenji reminds us, "To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be actualized by all things." Yet, many Western students misunderstand this profound teaching, mistaking the forgetting of the self for erasing the self. In truth, the self must dissolve its boundaries and flow into the greater whole, just as a river flows into the sea without losing its nature. The self, like the organs of the body, has its own purpose, harmonizing with the larger cosmos. The heart beats, the lungs breathe, the mind contemplates, and all are interdependent—none can exist in isolation. When I first came to this realization, it wasn’t in the quiet of a monastery, but rather while walking in the Himalayas, watching the sun rise over the peaks. There, in the simple act of breathing, I felt the oneness of the body and cosmos, the interdependence of every mountain, river, and breath I took. This moment, small as it may seem, anchored me deeper into the truth of non-duality, not as a concept, but as a lived experience. In the same way, we must recognize that the stars, the mountains, the rivers, and the body are all expressions of the same oneness. The individual self is not something to be destroyed but to be refined, harmonized with the great dào (dharma) of the universe. Without the individual, the whole would be incomplete. If the individual is not in harmony, dualism arises, and suffering persists. But when the individual aligns with the whole, perfect harmony blossoms, and the self, now empty of discord, becomes perfect with the perfection of the whole, free from suffering. The Influence of Protestantism: Distorting Zen’s Heart Our Western disciples, though earnest, often find it difficult to touch the true essence of Zen. As Thich Nhat Hanh once reflected, English translations of Zen teachings have been deeply shaped by the Protestant mindset. Protestantism, with its concept of nature as inherently evil, subtly influences the way Zen is interpreted. This leads many to mistakenly believe that the self must be destroyed, much like the Protestant desire to escape the body, seen as sinful. I remember vividly a conversation I had with a young student from a Protestant background. He asked me, ‘If the self is to be dissolved, is it because the self is inherently wrong or sinful?’ I smiled, recalling how many Westerners struggled with this misunderstanding. I gently guided him through meditation, not with words, but by letting him experience how the self, when refined and emptied of ego, becomes an integral part of the whole. This wasn’t about destruction, but about transformation. This unacceptable form of dualistic thinking distorts the essence of Zen, which teaches that the self is not evil, but illusory. The Western mind, shaped by Protestant ideals, often clings to the idea that the self must be annihilated. In reality, the self must be transcended, refined, and harmonized with the greater whole. This is why many Western students must undergo a process of "de-Protestantization" before they can truly engage with Zen. This process is not just about understanding the meaning of terms, doctrines, or methods; it is about cultivating the correct form of self-consciousness and awareness of the world. It is a lifelong journey of unfolding, like a flower continually blooming into the deeper truth. Prajñāpāramitā and True Emptiness In the Bōrěbōluómìduō Xīn Jīng (Prajñāpāramitā), as you would say or understand using the Sanskrit reference, we are reminded that all things, including the self, are empty of inherent existence. Kōng (śūnyatā) teaches us that awakening comes through realizing this emptiness, bringing freedom from suffering. But this emptiness is not non-existence—it is the detachment from all that causes disharmony, not the destruction of the self. I recall a conversation I had with a Russian Orthodox monk during my time in Sakhalin. We were discussing poverty—not just of material goods but of desires—and how both our traditions, though seemingly different, strive for the same simplicity of heart. He spoke of letting go of attachment, not to vanish into nothingness, but to make space for divine grace. This conversation deepened my understanding of śūnyatā as not void, but luminous openness. Marxist Nihilism and the Threat of Emptiness Without Meaning I am not interested in discussing philosophies or politics, but as I have mentioned Protestantism, and now Marxism, it is not to introduce non-Buddhist influences but to point out how these influences have entered unnoticed, like saltwater being poured into a stream. Even more concerning is how Marxist thought has crept into the Dharma in some places, denying the existence of xīng (ātman), the soul, or any divine principle. Marxism acts like a virus that clouds the mind, just as the Buddha said, "A mind clouded by wrong views is like a muddy pool; it cannot reflect the clear sky." In this way, Marxism infiltrates the teachings, erasing not only the individual but also the sacred whole. By rejecting the divine, Marxism leads to nihilism—a cold emptiness, devoid of connection or meaning. I saw this firsthand when I travelled through Mongolia and Russia. Many Zen teachers there, unknowingly, taught emptiness in a way that felt lifeless—almost devoid of warmth. I sat with one teacher who spoke of śūnyatā, but his words felt like a hollow void, lacking the compassionate heart of the Buddha’s teaching. This hollow interpretation can lead students to despair rather than liberation. A Lesson in Cold Tea: The Essence of Letting Go I recall a peaceful moment with Thich Nhat Hanh at Plum Village. After a long session of zuòchán (dhyāna), he poured himself a cup of cold tea. As he sipped quietly, he said, "When the tea is cold, it still holds its essence. It does not vanish into nothingness. In the same way, we, too, can retain our essence while letting go of attachment to the heat—the burning ego that separates us from peace." On that same day, I reflected deeply on the simplicity of his words, and how often we complicate the essence of Zen. That cup of cold tea became a mirror of my own journey—how the essence remains, even as the fire of ego cools. The quiet moments after that teaching session felt like the tea itself—cool, clear, and free. The Problem of Rigid Zen Teachers and Dualism Even within Zen, there is a subtle danger that we must be mindful of. Some of the most rigid Zen teachers, particularly those from sects like the Daruma-shū, create a kind of duality and disharmony through their strictness. This rigidity, though appearing in line with the teachings, is often a reflection of fear—the fear of suffering, the fear of losing control. In truth, it is a deeper disharmony that is covered by the outer forms of Zen practice. Such teachers, despite their reverence, are often full of self, building an identity through the very teachings meant to dissolve the self. In this way, they create an even greater separation, an unseen dualism, that hinders true harmony. Exploring Other Paths and the Harmony of Non-Buddhist Traditions I plan to spend some months visiting Telo Tulku Rinpoche, and Pandita Hambo Lama Damba Ayusheev, as well as to Ivolginsky Datsan and the temples in Kharkhorin, and use the opportunity to explore how different spiritual traditions might lead to similar insights. It is a mystery worth pondering: how non-Buddhists can reach the same depths of realisation, touching the same truths that the Buddha taught. Moving Forward with Right Understanding As we continue our work, my dear brother, we must remain mindful of the many influences that can distort the teachings of the Dharma. Whether it is the Protestant mindset in the West or the nihilistic shadow of Marxism in the East, our task as Zen teachers is to guide our students to the true essence of Zen. The path of bodhi is not one of negation but of refinement—a dissolution of egoic clinging, not of an enlightened self. In this, we see that the universe is, just as we are. Our existence is part of the greater whole, and without each of us, the whole would not be complete. The mandala of existence requires all its parts to function in harmony. Our task, as Zen teachers, is to help our students realize this harmony, to let go of their attachments, and to experience the vast, boundless oneness of the fǎshēn (dharmakāya). In doing so, we honor the teachings of the Buddha, the wisdom of our lineage, and the interconnectedness of all beings. I write this not to instruct but to share my own unfolding understanding, for the Dharma is boundless and continues to reveal itself to me, just as it does to you. In the Dharma, Zhōng Fǎshī 2007 知見 chiken "Sitting quietly, doing nothing, spring comes, and the grass grows by itself." – Zenrin Kushu Ryoso-ki, 2012 My dear friend and brother in the Way, Sayadaw U Tejaniya, It has been many cycles of the moon, and as I sit in the quiet company of the mountains, listening to the water that flows without end, I am reminded of the subtle current of the Dō. The wind carries with it the murmurs of the Dharma, and in this stillness, I feel the need to write to you, not as a teacher, but as one who has walked this endless Way for long, seeing the same sun rise and fall, each time a little different, each time the same. There is something I must share with you, a reflection on the essence of what it means to know and to be. In Zen, we often speak of emptiness and fullness, of the One and the many, but we must take care not to fall into traps of misunderstanding. Our journey is not one of intellect, nor can it be measured by words or theories. The Dharma (法) is beyond such limitations, and yet, we must use words to point toward what cannot be spoken. Many centuries ago, Master Huangbo Xiyun, who sat in contemplation like a mountain unmoved by the storms, became enlightened in a way that differed from most. He understood that the Way cannot be grasped with hands nor fully understood through the kanjin (senses), and yet, it is through these very senses that we begin to glimpse the infinite. There is an old saying, "A fish knows the ocean by the water on its scales, but the ocean is vast beyond its knowing." We begin, as you know, with kanjin, the senses. The hands that touch the earth, the eyes that see the moon, the nose that smells the incense. How often do we remind our students to be present, to taste the tea as it is, to feel the coldness of stone underfoot? We must experience the world before we can release it, just as a monk must hear the bell before he can forget its sound. This is the gateway to the Dō. To know emptiness, we must first know what it means to be filled. To know the One, we must first know the many. To know nothingness, we must first know somethingness. These are not contradictions, but necessary steps on the path to awakening. Master Rinzai Gigen spoke wisely when he said, "The true person of no rank appears everywhere and nowhere." It is not that we dissolve our individuality, but rather that we embody it fully, knowing that our true nature is shared with all beings. We are like the limitless sky, and yet, how can we know the sky if we have not first felt the wind upon our skin? Each of us is a part of the great Dharma, yet each expression is unique. The flower knows the soil, the tree knows the sky, and yet both are part of the same Way. The ancient teachings speak of sōzō, imagination, where the mind begins to shape the world it encounters. This is the flowering of phenomena, where we see forms and believe we have understood their essence. But we must take care not to mistake the shadow for the mountain. When I was young, I too imagined the nature of satori. I thought I had seen the truth, but it was only a reflection, a phantasm. Sōzō is a necessary step, but it is not the end. The Zen master must guide the student to see beyond the illusions, to master the illusions, not merely to destroy them. The words of Huangbo echo still: "If you meet the Buddha, kill the Buddha." This does not mean we must reject the Buddha, but rather that we must master the images and illusions we create, the false Buddhas we cling to in our minds. Only when we see through these forms can we approach the true emptiness. We walk a fine line, my brother. The danger is that we might be mistaken for those who worship matter, as though we are tied to the world of form, like the Marxists who mistake the visible for the real. Or worse, we might come to worship the enlightenment we perceive within ourselves, turning our own state of knowledge into an idol. Zen is not about this. We must be in harmony with the wholeness of the flux, but also open to the deeper truth that guides the flux, the one from which all things arise and to which all things return. This leads us to contemplate nen, fantasy, where students often believe they have grasped enlightenment, when in truth, they are still grasping at fragments of the whole. They see the moon reflected in a pond and believe they hold the moon itself. How often have we seen a student, caught in the illusion of understanding, clutch at the flickers of insight like a child grasping at fireflies? In this stage, many think they have reached the end, but they are still far from the beginning. Zen is about chi, the mind that is both active and passive. The teacher’s role is to be the active mind, guiding the student with kōans, not to provide answers, but to break down preconceptions. The student must be open, like a flower waiting for the morning sun. When the mind is still, free of preconceptions, only then can true awakening (kenshō) arise. I recall the words of an old monk who, though blind, attained kenshō. He told me, "It was like one continuous vibration, yet within it, many." Each of us experiences enlightenment differently, shaped by the world we have touched. Another monk, deaf from birth, described his satori as a blinding light, so strong it drowned out all other lights. And yet another, who was both deaf and blind, said it was like tasting a hundred flavours at once, with one herb dominating the rest. The deeper our experience of the world, the more we need to empty ourselves, but the richer our entry into the great emptiness, and the larger the emptiness to be filled with enlightenment. That if Zen is limited by its sensual experiences of the physical and human psychological aspects of the Dharma, it will not permit other realms that are not subjects of the senses or that are phenomena we experience in our lives. And yet, we must remain open to the Dharmapālas (Shànshén) who move between realms, enlightening us from unseen worlds. Just as a boat may be guided by the stars it cannot touch, these protectors of the Way guide us through what lies beyond our kanjin—what cannot be seen, heard, or grasped. As Master Fayan once said, “The truth is not within the reach of your eyes; it is like a dream in the night.” These protectors remind us that the truth itself is vast and limitless, existing far beyond the boundaries of what we know as the material world. Our kanjin is but the first gate; the Dharma itself flows without boundaries. It is important, then, to remember that the knowledge of deeper realms and the truths beyond what we know is the fruit of true enlightenment. This knowledge does not rise from the senses, imagination, or the workings of fantasy. It cannot be grasped like a stone or shaped like clay. Though the mind may seek to intellectualise these realms as if this were Kinhin or samu, intellectualising is not the Way nor the cause of enlightenment. The Way is being in harmony with the Dharma, resonating with the origin of the Dharma itself, beyond what the intellect or senses can offer. And not every practitioner will have the same intensity of satori nor will the clarity be the same, while not making one enlightenment higher or better than another, all enhance that of the other. As Master Dōgen Zenji reminds us, "Enlightenment is like the moon reflected in a thousand rivers—each river reflects it differently, but none may grasp it." Remember, enlightenment is given, like rain that falls from the sky—it cannot be forced or held. We are mere vessels, receiving what is offered but never able to control its flow. These, my dear brother, are reflections, not conclusions. The Way is vast and without end, like the sea, stretching far beyond the horizon, always moving, yet never leaving its own depth. Let us walk it with humility, knowing that each step is both the beginning and the end, each breath the fullness of the Way. May the Dō continue to unfold before you, as it does for me, in the quiet moments between breaths and the stillness of the setting sun. With deep reverence and endless gratitude, Zhōng Fǎshī 大心 daishin "All things come from one source, just as darkness vanishes with the arrival of light." Ryūseian, 2014 Dear Hoshin, Thank you for your letter, and I’m heartened to hear that you have arrived safely after your long journey to Keikō-ji, where I completed my koan practice fifty years ago. Please extend my greetings to your zenkyōdai (Zen brothers). It has been over fifty years since I was invited there by Shiho Yamada Kōun Roshi. Time may have passed, but the quiet resonance of that place still echoes in my heart, as does the lesson that not all monks, nor only monks, find satori (enlightenment). Consider this: satori is like the moon reflected in water. It cannot be caught by hands, nor shaped by effort. It simply appears when the water is still. We are like the water—when the mind becomes quiet, without ripples of ego or duality, enlightenment reflects itself naturally. As Master Dōgen once said, "Do not think you will necessarily be aware of your own enlightenment." The practice of Zen is not the moon itself, but the water’s stillness—only a preparation to receive that which cannot be forced. From my koan experience, I must tell you, Hoshin, that Zen is not a philosophy. It is the experience of satori itself. One might speak of oneness, emptiness, or the Way, but to call these things philosophical ideas misses the essence of Zen. Rejecting something, as many strict teachers do, often becomes its own philosophy. This is the danger: when Zen becomes about rejecting rather than experiencing. Zen is about experiencing the truth beyond concepts—from the flux we experience, and from the phenomena in human imagination. But even within Zen, everything has its limits, just as every path has a beginning and an end. The Zen way is like a path winding through forests, mountains, crossing streams and marshes. Neither the path nor the one walking it encompasses the entirety of the forests or mountains. When a Zen student crosses a river, he focuses on the crossing—he is not preoccupied with where the stream came from or where it will flow. Yet, it does not mean the student is unaware that the stream has an origin and a destination. Likewise, with Yuiitsu no Sōzōshu (the singular creator), we walk the Zen path of discipline and self-denial to prepare ourselves for enlightenment. We are not theologians or philosophers, just as a herdsman is not a surgeon. But to reject Mugen no Sōzōshu (the infinite creator), as some masters do, is like telling a librarian that the books have no authors, and this is still dualistic—there is an object of rejection. Many say Zen is atheistic, but this is not true. Zen neither rejects nor proclaims the Mugen no Sōzōshu. It is simply a way, a practice. Acknowledging Yuiitsu Mugen no Sōzōshu (the One Infinite) is not contrary to Zen but gives it deeper meaning. Just as before our present moment, there was a past, so too there is a mover and an end—an eternal fullness. To recognize this is to understand that Zen points towards a greater mystery. With regard to the Dharmapālas (devas), they too were enlightened, and like us, they had their path. But only Yuiitsu Mugen no Sōzōshu is self-enlightening. To deny this would suggest that there is no source of ultimate enlightenment, and therefore, no true enlightenment in our world. For did not the Buddha say in the Udana Scripture, "O monks, there is an Unborn, Undying, Unchanging, Uncreated"? Does this not confirm our thoughts? These days, young monks are distracted, especially by these new telephones. Their minds are scattered, losing contact with nature and the knowledge and experiences of the many manifestations of the whole. Their imagination is weak, and their thoughts are like the thousands of midges that swarm the halls of Myōshin-ji in summer—small, buzzing, and without direction. The discipline of zazen is difficult to maintain when the mind flutters like this. We must teach them again to see the leaves falling from the trees, the way the wind touches the surface of the water, the call of the mountain birds at dawn. Physical pain, sickness, or weariness are not obstacles to satori. They are like clouds passing before the sun; the light still shines behind them. If one becomes fixated on overcoming pain as a goal, they become ensnared in duality—self versus suffering. True suffering, or dukkha, arises not from pain, but from separation—from seeing oneself as apart from the wholeness of existence. Master Hakuin wrote, "At the bottom of great doubt lies great awakening." Those who escape into practices, thinking they can flee the world and dukkha, fall into the trap of duality. The self that seeks to escape is like a snake shedding its skin—merely a false layer. True Zen is often lived in the world, amidst suffering, without running from it. Reflect on motherhood: a woman endures great pain during childbirth, yet her focus is not on herself but on bringing life into this world. The moment the child is born, the pain fades, and she becomes one with her child in a new way—experiencing a mini-enlightenment, a dissolving of self into the whole. This is akin to Zen practice. The kenshō (glimpse of enlightenment) in daily life is not different from the great enlightenment of the masters, only in scope. Motherhood, in its selflessness, is a natural Zen expression. Now, many monks in their anjū seek to escape the world—to avoid family duties, suffering, and the demands of life. This escape is not true renunciation; it is running from the world. As we might say in Zen, "When the tiger appears, do not flee from it—ride it." Those who avoid the world’s suffering never truly empty themselves. They mimic the words and gestures of enlightened ones, but remain trapped in falsehood. You, Hoshin, must be wary of falling into the same illusion. Satori is not found in escape but in embracing the world fully. Go back to your father, who lies bedridden, not far from crossing the river of life into death. Do not let him suffer from loneliness or feel abandoned. Help him see that illness is but a phase, not the core of his being. By being fully present, you create a space where the Dharmapālas may offer enlightenment at the moment of death, when the soul is open to the eternal. In satori, we see the constancy of the universe, like watching the wind move through a field of tall grass. Each blade bends individually, yet the movement is one. So too, the Dharmapālas, with their clear bodhi (enlightened intellect), see the oneness in all things. This is the vision you must seek—the vision beyond duality, beyond the ego, beyond self and other. In time, when we quiet the ripples in our mind, this vision will be ours as well. Consider the analogy of a hungry man who desires rice. One hundred hours of lectures about rice—its different forms, cooking methods, and health effects—will not fill his stomach or remove his suffering. It is the same with enlightenment. By seeking it through emptying ourselves of worldly distractions, through the silence of thought and heart, we can be ready to receive the light from Yuiitsu no Sōzōshu, reflected to us through the Dharmapālas. But like the man who has eaten rice and is no longer hungry, understanding the Zen way and the world is not bad, but complementary. Mugen no Sōzōshu cannot be the object of our senses or imagination, and therefore the Zen way frowns upon philosophies that replace the thirst for enlightenment with discourses and arguments. Even one who has been enlightened cannot fully explain the infinite. Zen is about being enlightened. While we recognize the warmth and brightness of the sun and benefit from it, there is no need to be a solar astrophysicist. Regarding death, it is not death that brings enlightenment, but it is a moment where a person can realize their emptiness. It is a moment when attachment to things can disappear, and an openness like none before to enlightenment can occur in the life of a person. Master Hōnen once said, "If you are unable to find the truth right where you are, where else do you expect to find it?" Hoshin, I urge you to live this truth in your world. Do not flee from the difficulties of family life, from the challenges of relationships, or from the burdens of sickness. Be still, like the water, and let satori reflect itself naturally. The light of Yuiitsu Mugen no Sōzōshu, the ultimate creator, does not waver. It is our eyes that must be opened. In harmony, Zhōng Fǎshī 個性 kosei The Way is ever-flowing, like a river that knows neither beginning nor end, only the timeless now. Each step we take upon this path is like a stone resting in its place within the stream, effortlessly part of the greater flow. As in the mountains, where the mist clings to ancient trees and the wind whispers through the valleys, so too does Zen live within the smallest and the grandest of moments, seeking only to be as it is. Master Ryōkan once said, “The moon does not struggle to reflect itself in the river,” and in the same way, Zen does not seek to capture or contain truth. It lets each of us glimpse the light within, not by taking, but by simply being present. And so, with this heart of ease, may these reflections offer you a moment of stillness, a chance to look within as though seeing for the first time—into your own river, your own mountain. Dear Master Philippe Reiryu Coupey, In this season of winter stillness, thoughts rise and fall like waves upon a silent lake, inviting us to dive beneath them, into the heart of being itself. This journey inward is not simply an exploration of existence, but a path into the essence of your own unique nature. You, who have walked deeply upon the Way under the gaze of Master Deshimaru, know the importance of looking beyond surfaces, of seeing into the true substance of things. Yet I now offer you this gentle challenge: turn that penetrating gaze inward, and encounter not only the interconnectedness of all beings but also the singular, unrepeatable essence of yourself. How warm a memory it is to remember your early days in Paris with Deshimaru, sharing in the silence and presence of a true master. This meeting of friends upon the path, both with words spoken and with the shared spaces of silence, still echoes like distant bells in my mind. I hold the hope that, as winter carries life quietly beneath its snow, so too will your health and strength deepen, restoring you to the vitality of spring, like rivers swelling with snowmelt. Such an undertaking of inner reflection is no mere exercise; it calls for courage and an honest heart, like standing on the edge of a vast mountain range, with trails that lead not outward, but into the soul’s own depths. This inner world, like each unique leaf upon a tree, emerges from countless influences yet remains uniquely yours. As Master Dōgen once wrote, “To study the self is to forget the self; to forget the self is to be enlightened by all things.” Just so, your true personality, though touched by the world, is your own leaf on the tree of existence. When this growth ceases, like a river stilled, it becomes clouded and distant from its source. Yet many today live within such a clouding. The sharp light of screens, the hurried gestures of digital life—all contribute to a fragmentation of our being. The art of communication, once alive with pauses and silence, is now swift and shallow. Where once people gazed upon landscapes and entered their depths, now they encounter only images upon screens, living as spectators. When we no longer truly see the trees, how can we feel their roots intertwined with ours? Like water that has lost its spring, this narrowing leads only to stagnation. Consider this: in a world so full of connections, what we lack is true engagement. Relationships, like sunlight filtering through a forest, are essential for growth. Without these human encounters, the self becomes a flower denied light, a bird kept from flight, deprived of the opportunity to grow through both beauty and challenge. Just as the sun nurtures each branch uniquely, so do relationships enrich our inner landscape, helping us see ourselves with fresh eyes. So, I ask, who are you, truly? It is no idle question but an invitation to enter the depths of your own nature. Such a path requires time and presence. As Ryōkan once reflected, “The moon does not struggle to reflect itself in the river.” With this clarity, let us not seek to capture the self but to see it, as it is, in all its quiet dignity. Look deeply: not for a handful of words, but for the thousand nuances that color your soul. If you find yourself reaching only brief phrases, pause, and ask why this is. Perhaps modern life has dulled this mirror, or perhaps the tides of thought have kept you from seeing its depths. To begin, describe yourself—not just by words, but through the quiet reflection that names each aspect of who you are. Are you like a river, a gentle breeze, or a mountain rooted in stillness? Look beyond easy answers. Understand that your personality—your kokoro (soul)—is what makes you singular. And in time, as you see others in their uniqueness, you will know yourself more clearly as well. Remember, as Zenrin Kushū taught, “Sitting quietly, doing nothing, spring comes, and the grass grows by itself.” With unshaken faith in your journey, Zhōng Fǎshī Ryoso-ki Winter, 2015 歴史 rekishi 2016 In the beginner's mind, there are many possibilities; in the expert's mind, there are few. Zen Feast Day, 2016 Honoured Sayadaw U Tejaniya, As I sit here, the mountains are silent, save for the wind that whispers, seemingly carrying the voices of old masters. It reminds me of my early days of practice, how I too was caught in the noise of thoughts, searching for answers. Now, the stillness is louder, clearer. In this silence, I am drawn back to the roots of our tradition, back to the first stirrings of Zen, carried into China in the 6th century by Bodhidharma, The First Patriarch. I recall this not with attachment, but with a deep sense of presence. As Zen flows through time, its essence remains unclouded, like a mountain spring that reflects the sky unchanged, no matter the storms that come. It is in remembering the origin of Zen that I find clarity in the now. The teachings of Bodhidharma remind us that the path to juéwù (enlightenment) is always before us, untouched by the world. The Development of Zen and My Personal Journey However, this journey is not marked by a single revelation but by the steady, humble daily practice. I learned this not in monasteries, but in the streets, in moments when a beggar’s laugh or a child’s cry would shake me awake more than any scripture ever could. It is in these daily practices—mindfulness, meditation, and small awakenings—that the path unfolds. These are the 'mini-enlightenments' that guide us. Each awakening is like a strike of the bell on New Year’s Eve—each sound distinct, yet all part of the same sequence. It is not the differences in the strikes that matter but the way they bring us closer to the same kōng (emptiness), the same wánzhěng (wholeness) that lies beneath all things. I am reminded of an ordinary morning in the camp after the great war, when the mist hung low over the fields of Karafuto (now Sakhalin Island). The kyōsei shūyōsho, an educational camp, was a harsh place, filled with abusive criminals and political prisoners. The guards, more brutal than we could imagine, seemed to take pleasure in our suffering. Yet, amidst this darkness, four Russian monks lived in a state of deep detachment, embodying something I could not yet grasp—a grace that went beyond mere religion. It was their cien (grace)—a living, breathing grace that transcended suffering. I still recall their laughter on the coldest of mornings, as if even the biting wind could not reach them. It was in this place, amidst criminals and political prisoners, that I too experienced my first true awakening, perhaps even sparked by the cien of these monks. I remember vividly a conversation I had with one of them. We spoke of juéwù, of enlightenment, and he shared his view that grace—what I understood as cien—was not separate from us but was in all things, just as God, in his view, was not other but with us. He challenged my understanding of non-duality, saying, "Your juéwù is limited by your view of it. God, as I see Him, is both the storm and the stillness. Can you find juéwù there?" This question lingered with me long after I left the camp. After escaping to Japan, I spent over two decades there. Japan was a place of refuge, but also of learning. It was during this time that I became a teacher to two Americans—zokugakusha (US Army)—who came to learn the way of Zen. These men were strong in will, full of questions, but their questions were not the issue. It was the place these questions came from, a deep cultural beginning so different from our own. Zen is like water—it finds its way into the cracks and flows in, regardless of the shape of the vessel. Teaching them, I realized that Zen must adapt, even as it remains unchanged. I recall a moment in our training when one of them, in frustration, asked why his practice felt 'stuck.' I looked at him and simply said, 'Your practice is not stuck, you are.' We laughed together, and in that laughter, something shifted for him. In teaching them, I learned their language, though it was not the words that mattered, but the essence of what we shared. And yet, I also learned the limits of language. They asked about the 'truth' of Zen, and I could only smile, for how could I explain that truth is not found in words, but in silence? The Schism and Flux in Zen The division between the Northern and Southern schools of Chan, led by Shenxiu and Huineng, was both doctrinal and political. But more than that, it reflected the tension within the human heart—a tension between gradual and sudden enlightenment, between those who seek to perfect themselves through effort and those who realize that perfection is already here, waiting to be seen. Even now, I see this struggle alive in modern practice. There is an underlying dualism that persists. Zen has always survived in the face of such challenges, not by resisting but by yielding, like coal in a fire, enduring and sustaining the flame, even as the larger flames flicker and die. The persecution under Emperor Wuzong in 845 CE was a test not just of endurance, but of spirit. Schools were crushed, temples razed, and monks forced into the secular world. Yet Zen, with its simplicity and reliance on direct experience rather than wealth or power, endured. Of the Five Houses of Chan, only two have survived to prominence—Linji (Rinzai) and Caodong (Sōtō). The other three schools, though once vibrant, have faded, like the parts of a gemstone left unpolished. Linji and Caodong, however, are like two topaz stones—one darkened and deepened by time and pressure, the other brightened in the fire. Both are valuable, but each expresses its beauty in its own way. Zen in Japan and its Transformation When Zen was brought to Japan by monks Eisai and Dōgen, it found fertile ground, not because the land was empty, but because it was ready. The warrior class—the samurai—embraced the discipline and simplicity of Zen, finding in it a mirror of their own ethos. Over time, Rinzai and Sōtō became the natural expressions of Zen in Japan, like two rivers flowing from the same mountain, each carving its unique path through the terrain. However, the Zen masters of Japan, like their counterparts in China, faced a unique challenge. The emperors were considered divine beings, and while the monks did not openly challenge this, they knew that there is no divinity in form. A man is a man, and enlightenment does not bow to crowns or titles. An old Japanese tradition holds that a certain monk, named Ryōkan, was asked by Emperor Go-Daigo how he could become even more perfect. Ryōkan, ever humble, responded simply: "Perfection is not yours to own, but yours to realize." Enraged by this, the emperor tortured Ryōkan for 108 days. Yet, in all that time, Ryōkan showed no anger, no tears, only peace. The emperor, seeing this, ordered the execution of the soldiers who had tortured him, fearing that they too had glimpsed the true way of Zen. This episode reminds us that Zen is not about resisting the world, but about transcending it. Just as we cannot stop the five streams of the great Himalayan mountains from flowing into the Ganges, so too should we not fear the river Ganges entering the sea, or the sea merging into the vast ocean. The water remains water, no matter where it flows. The Future of Zen But we must not be afraid to let Zen grow and change, as all things do. To let go of what Zen 'should' be and allow it to become what it needs to be. Just as Zen entered the samurai's heart, so too must it flow into the hearts of those in new lands and new cultures, adapting without losing its essence. Therefore, it is important to contemplate Zen entering the sea, Zen in new cultures and religious traditions, and the Zen phenomena in other ways of the soul. Zen needs to preserve its purity while adapting to the milieus of other traditions and using the languages and thought structures that new students bring. I am reminded of Master Ryōjun, who once said: 'The river does not lose itself when it becomes the sea. It merely becomes more.' This is not duality—duality is not found in nature; it is in the mind of a person who harbors two desires, two thoughts, and two ways. The inability to allow these two awarenesses to merge into one reflects a limited juéwù, like water held in small cups, unable to flow freely into the vastness beyond. For now, let us walk the path with open hearts, free from fear, embracing the grace of juéwù as it moves through us all. Let us sit with the uncertainty, knowing that in every moment, the way reveals itself. Zen, like molten rock forming into basalt, is a process, not an end. We are all part of this unfolding, and in this, we are already home. Please do not take my thoughts as a criticism of our brothers With deep respect and gratitude, Your friend and co-Zen master, Zhong Fashi