There is a reality even prior to heaven and earth;
Indeed, it has no form, much less a name;
Eyes fail to see it; it has no voice for ears to detect.
To call it Mind or Buddha violates its nature,
For it then becomes like a visionary flower in the air.
It is not Mind, nor Buddha;
Absolutely quiet and yet illuminating in a mysterious way,
It allows itself to be perceived only by the clear-eyed.
It is Dharma, truly beyond form and sound;
It is Tao, having nothing to do with words. (Dai-O Kokushi: On Zen) PSC
We do not exist as separate beings. All our efforts to rid ourselves of ego are doomed to fail, because, well, we cannot use the self to rid ourselves of “self.” But through work in placing attention on each moment just as it is, we come to experience an interconnectedness, the realization that we are not what we thought we were, but simply a result of causes and conditions (if that) . . . and that, oddly enough, all we have worked to shape and defend as our identity this whole life long—just isn’t; it does not exist. There is nothing to defend. There is no self to get rid of! We are a changing process, not a fixed being: rather more like a waterfall than a stone (though stones too are merely processes, just slower ones than we normally perceive).
When we truly sense the interconnectedness and emptiness out of which all beings arise, we find liberation and a spacious joy. Discovering emptiness brings a lightness of heart, flexibility, and an ease that rests in all things. The more solidly we grasp our identity, the more solid our problems become.
So while purification, kindness, and attention can certainly improve our habits, no amount of self-denial or self-torture can rid us of a self, for it was never there. How then, to reach or experience the “interconnectedness and emptiness out of which all beings arise”?
Once upon a time, a dear, distant member of our sangha brought her cat home from the vet after a tooth extraction. Of course Jolene (the cat) carried on as cats will, just acting as normally as possible under the circumstances. Later that morning, her person noticed that Jolene was crouched down among a planting of Mexican Feather Grass, a xeriscape feature of the landscape. At first, she thought her kitty was taking a bathroom break. But the cat was so still, not moving a muscle, not even her tail —odd, because cats usually like to leave their toilet area a.s.a.p. Looking more closely, Barbara saw that the feathery flower-heads of the grass were delicately woven in among Jolene’s whiskers. A slight breeze could be seen, gently moving the tips of the grass, and thus very lightly moving Jolene’s whiskers, and through them, her soft muzzle. The cat’s eyes were nearly closed with apparent pleasure, and the stillness of body was so complete throughout this episode, that Jolene’s human could hardly look away—what was going on?
It may have been a natural response to stress—Jolene may just have been taking a break from humans. Now notice how she did that: she took refuge in the earth-and-her-grasses, seeming to deeply enjoy the movement of the breeze. When we are stressed, quite often, we seek out distractions—our human ones are more likely to be screens, entertainments, or books, though. How often do you notice yourself drawn to the outdoors, to a favorite plant or tree, a stretch of grass? Or maybe the gentle swaying of maple leaves—not thinking of another activity, but just watching the leaves and feeling the movement of air? Why might this be comforting to us in a time of stress?
Well, what is “stress”? a state of mental or emotional strain or tension resulting from adverse or very demanding circumstances: and “distress”? extreme anxiety, sorrow, or pain: its vivid origin ultimately from the Latin distringere, to stretch apart. We’ve all felt so maximally stretched at times, that’s why the phrase “they were really torn up,” no doubt exists.
And to counter (or endure) this stretching-apart, Jolene offers a model of settling together into this total moment. Her embodied response to stress from the visit to the vet, plus the residual bodily response to anesthetic clearly outlines Jolene’s situation (at least, in my imagination . . .).
I think that, in the context of our cats, imagining they are more at home in their bodies than we tend to be, going out into the garden and opening awareness—their entire bodily awareness—to the earth, the plants and breezes may be a more natural response than we two-legs tend to know about or allow, under the circumstances. If, right now, we were each of us to pause, and find out what our embodied state is, ignoring social norms as best we can. . . Just right now, sense as deeply and non-critically as you can, using the whole-body feeling (rather than thought) of being present in this zenkai, in these clothes, on these cushions, on this day, and see what you might learn. This includes emotional sensing as well: a feeling is not a thinking, though a train of thought may give rise to a feeling. Feeling is a physical experience, like sensing where your hands are, from “inside,” and what that feels like right now, this Sunday afternoon—and the feeling of your reaction is part of it.
Now consider Dogen’s phrasing in the Genjo Koan:
When you see forms or hear sounds fully engaging body-and-mind, you intuit dharmas intimately. Unlike things and their reflections in the mirror, and unlike the moon and its reflection in the water, when one side is illuminated, the other side is dark. 2
What is this “one side” that is illuminated? And what is “the other side” then?
When we are able to allow a totality of noticing, as approached in the exercise we just did, without judgment of what is there experientially, including feelings; and when there are words, to notice them without evaluation, (noting, but not believing evaluative words when they arise), we are close to Dogen’s “fully engaging body-and-mind.” When body and mind are fully engaged, rather like Jolene’s reverie, we’re in the place of illuminating “the one side.” This is the side empty of self, where the “other side” constitutes our ordinary word- and object-mediated perception and evaluations. That side is dark, empty, simply gone.
This resembles Jolene’s moment in the garden, a totality of noticing, or ‘just being.’
In a feature of the online Lion’s Roar3 magazine Larry Yang wrote: Many times, with conflict, difficulty, and even pain, turning toward the unpleasant sensations is a beneficial practice; we can explore our relationship to the situation and what our wisest response might be. . . However, sometimes that hopeful aphorism “God never gives you more than you can handle” is flatly incorrect. Sometimes the unbearable enters our lives and the distress is on the level of trauma or extreme injury; we might experience such suffering as grief, abuse, or loss. … one can get flooded and overwhelmed. It is not helpful to feel paralyzed—physically, mentally, emotionally, or spiritually.
Yang continues: When we are overwhelmed, we must skillfully address not just the issues facing us but the experience of being overwhelmed itself, perhaps through the practice of strategic withdrawal: withdrawing attention from the flooding of the senses due to something devastating. (not) with the intention of escaping or pushing away; (but) with the compassionate intention to be aware of our own limitations and abilities in the moment. We also do not withdraw with the purpose of obliterating, repressing, or denying the experience. We withdraw strategically so that we might be able to re-engage and return our attention when we have the strength, the skills, and the capacity to turn more fully toward a particularly staggering first noble truth.
So at this point, Jolene Of The Grasses may stretch and go back to the house.
References:
- Jack Kornfeld. AWAKEN (online) “Examining Buddhist notions of identity and selflessness…” Lion’s Roar, accessed online 4/27/25
- Dogen, Eihei. Dogen’s Genjo Koan: Three Commentaries, commentary by Nishiari Bokusan, (p. 57). Catapult. Kindle Edition.
- Buddhadharma: Ask the Teachers section, Setsuan Gaelyn Godwin, Larry Yang, and Dungse Jampal Norbu Lion’s Roar, n.d., online, accessed 4/27/25.