No Words or Phrases
Leland Shields – September 18, 2026
Musō … went to Yishan and said, “I still have not clarified the matter of self. Master, please, directly point the way.” Yishan answered, “Our school has no words or phrases, and nothing to transmit to anyone.” “That may be so,’ responded Musō, “but be compassionate and at least teach me an expedient means.” “There are no expedient means,” declared Yishan, “nor is there any compassion.” From then on this is all that Yishan would say to Musō.
Musō Soseki, trans. Thomas Yūhō Kirchner, Dialogues in a Dream, p. 10
Zen has no words or phrases and nothing to transmit…and yet, here we are reading that Zen has no words or phrases. There are no expedient means. Though the story doesn’t end with Musō laughing, poking Yishan, or bowing in gratitude as some stories do, Yishan had kindly given Musō all that he asked for. Moved by what Yishan said, but still unsatisfied, Musō continued along the Way.
Musō is me and Musō is you, looking for a turning word, an idea, or a method that will free body and mind. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? Yishan twice refused to blind Musō with anything that Musō thought he could use. He walked away as empty handed as he started, though what would you give to someone who longs for empty hands? In his autobiography, Musō suggests he perceived there was value here, nonetheless.
Prior to meeting Yishan, Musō began his own training by taking the precepts at 17 and dedicating himself to zazen. Sometime later an older monk encouraged and advised him, saying:
The enlightened words of the ancient masters are published and read so that young monks may study them and receive guidance in their quest for awakening.
(Dialogues in a Dream p. 7-8)
Musō took that advice and dedicated himself to study the words of our ancestors, compiling notes that he carried along on his pilgrimages.
The exchange between Musō and Yishan occurred around 1303, just after the last of the four traditional koan collections we use in our lineage were written. The first three were written in China and would likely have been available to Musō.
Before the story of Musō and Yishan I read at the start, Musō had practiced with Yishan for years and had already hit bottom on what he could glean from study. This is not to say that he hadn’t benefited by study, but he recalled the words of an ancient master saying, “…having entered the gate, do not tarry in intellectual understanding,” Musō went on to say this:
I had left the school of doctrine and entered the school of Zen, yet my studies, although different in content, were equally based on conceptual knowledge. If I go on like this, I thought, I’m simply obscuring the light of my spirit. I therefore took the bag filled with the notes I had accumulated over the years and threw it into the fire.
Isn’t this what happens in every period of zazen? Our intent is to exhaust our words, and yet it is difficult to breathe this breath without mediating with an idea of breathing this breath, and of one who is breathing. What else could Musō do but beseech Yishan to give him the secret.
Meeting Yishan, words and phrases were instead ripped away. The concept of compassion, too, was ripped away, though leaving untouched the acts of compassion undeniably blooming all around us all the time
Doesn’t this sound like your own steps on the Way? No need to be frustrated by it, it’s the only way to do it – blind alleys are not blind, they are the path of our feet in each moment and the only way to be here, in the dojo today.
Returning to Musō, we don’t know what mythology would have been added to the story had it been around a few centuries before being recorded in a collection. What we do know is that Musō went from Yishan to see Kōhō Kennichi, where Musō told Kōhō of his conversation with Yishan. Quoting from Musō’s autobiography again:
Kōhō laughed and responded, “Why didn’t you say to him, ‘Master, aren’t you getting a bit confused?” Koho then spoke as follows: When I was sixteen I was ordained … and placed under the tutelage of an old monk. The monk directed me to read the Zen records. Every time I read a line I would ask him the meaning, until he said, “The writings of Zen are unlike those of other Buddhist schools—they are not to be explained.”
“But how can they be understood,” I asked, “if they are not explained?”
“Only with enlightenment does one understand the meaning,” he replied. [Musō asked,] “If I persevere in my reading, will I naturally enlighten?”
If you wish to attain enlightenment,” he replied, “you must directly investigate the self.” Upon hearing this I [Musō] read no more, devoting myself instead to zazen in the meditation hall.
(Dialogues in a Dream p. 9-11)
Kōhō offered his own response to Yishan, “Master, aren’t you getting a bit confused?” Confused indeed – I should hope so! Yishan and Kōhō share one mind, though each has his own song to sing.
Not stopping there, Kōhō met Musō where he stood, spoke fully as Kōhō, and again directly addressed Musō by speaking personally, warmly, opening his life and encouraging Musō by telling him that when he was young, an old monk directed Kōhō to the writings of the ancestors. Kōhō too wanted the words of the texts explained, but the same old monk told Kōhō that they can’t be explained by another. Clearly this is a different kind of study than we’re used to from our own education – read the words without seeking explanation- but that’s not quite it…without seeking an explanation from the outside.
As presented, I’m encouraged that Kōhō seems to me to be talking like people I know, engaged as a person and still discussing the dharma. Apparently, one can make it into a Zen story without always speaking in an inscrutable manner.
When Musō courageously asked again for direction, Kōhō said:
If you wish to attain enlightenment…you must directly investigate the self.”
Remember, in Musō question of Yishan he asked Yishan to directly point the way. This is what Musō sought all along. Did Kōhō violate Yishan’s teaching and offer words and phrases? Frankly, I don’t care. I do care how you and I receive Kōhō:
“…you must directly investigate the self.”
Every blunder along the way is still along the Way. Every adept’s question of a master in a koan story is an adept blundering along the way, feeling for the walls in a dark room.
Leaving Kōhō, Musō built a hut in a secluded part of the mountains and vowed to himself to, “either clarify this matter or molder away with the grasses and trees.” For encouragement he placed his only possessions on a table, the books Essential Teachings of Meditation Master Foguo Yuanwu Zhenjue, the Letters of Meditation Master Dahui,” and the Zen Forest Records of Meditation Master Juefan Huihong.
Notice the word, “directly” in that sentence. We are advised not to learn about the self, but to meet the self here, free from intermediary ideas of description and categorization. Take heart, it was no easier in the 14th century than now to find the darkness without thought. And yet here we are; it’s our turn.
Blundering along the way. Musō heard all the words of encouragement over the years and sang his song, now with isolation, meditation, and still a couple of books. He found his own manifestation of the Dharma. For the next several years Musō wandered and did periodic solitary retreats. He recorded episodes of kicking over the age old nest of delusions as he made the statements of his old teachers his own. Then one day he fell asleep meditating against a tree and woke after the sun was down. He went into his dark hermitage and reached his hand to brace against a wall that wasn’t where he thought it would be. He lost his balance, fell over and released everything in laughter.
Did Musō take any wrong steps? He began dedicated to zazen; when advised that zazen alone was insufficient to carry him through the fading of passion, he studied deeply; finding that study was insufficient to lead him to the free mind he knew was available, he implored his teacher for guidance. Yishan affirmatively offered nothing. Confused but undeterred, his feet took him to Kōhō, where he again asked his questions. Kōhō recognized Musō’s longing for enlightenment and said he must “directly investigate the self.”
Musō did so in hermitages and retreats. Then one day, stumbling in the dark he was surprised to meet his own laughter. There was no curriculum to follow and nothing predictable, but for the free mind that was always there – and is here still.
Later, Musō wrote a verse about the experience:
Year after year
I dug in the earth
looking for the blue of heavens
only to feel
the pile of earth
choking me
until once in the dark of night
I tripped on a broken brick
and kicked it into the air
and saw no mind
smash the bones
of the empty sky
– translation by W.S. Merwin and Soiku Shigematsu (modified)
As we dig in the dirt to seek the sky, there is much to trip us and send us tumbling head over heels, losing track of which way is sky. Whether up or down, dirt or sky, there is no denying the surprise when our idea of a supporting wall turns out to be just that – an idea. No matter that we take the walls for granted. To wonder whether this is a wall or an idea of wall is distraction from directly investigating the self.
To directly investigate the self simply requires attention. I could stop there and say no more, but taking Kōhō’s lead, I’ll risk turning on the light and add: attention to breath as breath, to mu as mu, to this as this, and that as that.
And so here we are, investigating. If you took my suggestion all week to forget all the words I’ve spoken, you may not have noticed I had a theme this retreat: Simply release all thoughts and engage directly with each thing. Simple to say, but not easy to do, of course.
Fire has no strategy, it does not answer to its name and is always in accord. Fire does not burn fire, it is fire and has no self-consciousness. You and I are no different, no different from each other no different from fire. We cannot help but respond in accord with air, water, wood, wind and spark. There is nothing to do but burn.
When Musō died at 77, he left this final poem:
Thus have I rolled my life throughout
Inside and out, reclined, upright.What is all this?
A beating drum
A trumpet’s blare
No more.Compiled by Yoel Hoffman, Japanese Death Poems
Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death, Rutland, Vermont, Charles E. Tuttle Publishing, 1986