A few days later, Wu Aizhen left City A. Shouldering her pack, she set out on her cultivation journey once again, resolved to systematically organize, practice, and realize each of her teacher’s daily teachings. In the year that followed, Mount Tai, Mount Wutai, Tibet, and the Zhongnan Mountains all bore witness to her brief retreats. Then, a year on, she returned to a mountain of scenic beauty and a remote little monastery. At this moment, she was sitting in the monastery, silently leafing through Buddhist scriptures.
“Wu laywoman, I need to go into town. I won’t be back by noon, so please cook lunch and feed the dogs.” Master Liaokong was calling from outside her room.
“All right,” she responded quickly, and heard Master Liaokong’s heavy footsteps tramping away from the monastery.
Wu Aizhen checked her watch—nearly eleven. She hastily closed her book and headed to the kitchen. There was also a Master Cisheng in the monastery, who did not eat after midday, so she needed to have the meal ready by about half past eleven.
The little monastery was called Wuzhuo Temple. It was said that its original structure had been no more than a thatched hut. During the Tang dynasty, an enlightened dhyāna master had lived and practiced here. He was a skilled physician who often gathered wild herbs in the mountains and, according to the circumstances, would treat the ailments and injuries of villagers nearby; the local people regarded him as a transformation body of Guanyin Bodhisattva. After he passed into nirvana, the villagers who had benefited from him missed him deeply and pooled their money to build a Guanyin Shrine on the site of the crumbling hut, placing inside a statue of the Thousand-Armed and Thousand-Eyed Guanyin Bodhisattva. Legend had it that incense once flourished here, and that mountain folk would sometimes hike dozens of li along the trails to burn incense and bow to the Bodhisattva, praying for healing. In more recent times, a resplendent great temple was erected some ten li away. Reportedly, it housed a gilded statue of Guanyin Bodhisattva over ten feet tall, and a donor had also funded a road from the temple out to the world beyond the mountains. Gradually the faithful shifted their worship of the Bodhisattva to that larger temple, and this little shrine was slowly forgotten; its incense dwindled, and the temple fell into disrepair.
During the Cultural Revolution’s campaign to destroy the Four Olds, that big temple was smashed and its monks driven out. This small temple, however, perhaps because it was too remote and the roads were bad, saw its ancient Guanyin Bodhisattva statue and murals remain perfectly intact.
After the Cultural Revolution, the temple was somehow remembered again and, classified as a “cultural relic,” was taken over by the Huaishui Town government two li away. The township carried out a comprehensive renovation, renamed it Wuzhuo Temple, and had a local elderly gentleman, the town’s best calligrapher, write these three characters on a plaque that they hung over the gate. Thus the temple was formally opened to the public. Devout men and women from the town would gather here to celebrate on Buddhist holidays, but on ordinary days, with few tourists and little incense, it was kept locked and empty.
In recent years, the number of Buddhists in the town had gradually increased, and the Huaishui Town Residents’ Committee decided, after a meeting, to use town funds to invite two ordained monks to reside in the temple. Finding two monks was not hard, but finding two who kept the precepts strictly and had some genuine attainment in their practice was much more difficult.
After a long search, they finally settled on Masters Cisheng and Liaokong. Master Cisheng had left the home life at Mount Emei in Sichuan; he was twenty-five and, while on his wandering pilgrimage, had been willing to stay a while and practice here. Master Liaokong had left the home life at a large monastery in Zhejiang province; he was thirty-three, didn’t care to remain in a large monastery, and had come on the recommendation of a lay Buddhist in the town.
The town mayor signed a three-year contract with them: they were to reside in this small temple for at least three full years. The township would annually offer each of them three hundred yuan in cash, two sets of monk’s robes, and a monthly offering of rice, flour, cooking oil, and a few bags of Chinese cabbage; everything beyond that they’d have to manage on their own.
Wu Aizhen had come here once before while making a pilgrimage to various mountains, and she had been immediately captivated by the monastery’s deep quiet and the natural beauty of the surrounding landscape.
The little monastery was embraced by hills on three sides, whose slopes were thickly layered with all kinds of trees year-round. Among the woods lived many birds whose names she didn’t know, their feathers beautiful, their songs rising and falling with the first rays of morning sun. Outside the low southern wall of the monastery, a stream trickled from the mountains, babbling joyfully down the slope toward the valley below.
The monastery compound wasn’t large. Once through the main gate, there were two rows of side rooms, six on each side. At the far end of these rooms, a flight of a dozen or so steps rose in the center of the courtyard, at the top of which stood a main hall housing only the Thousand-Armed and Thousand-Eyed Guanyin Bodhisattva. The four walls of the hall were painted with the “Eight Aspects of the Buddha’s Attainment of the Way.” To the left of the hall were two more small single-story rooms.
The entire layout of the monastery was like a four-sided courtyard nestling in a hollow among the hills. With its low walls and grey-tiled roofs, if not for the three characters “Wuzhuo Temple” hung high outside the gate, one would surely mistake it for the residence of a wealthy family.
Wu Aizhen had little trouble moving into this small monastery; she simply paid a visit to the mayor, presented her ID card and lay Buddhist certificate, paid two thousand yuan, and moved in without a hitch.
When she first arrived, besides the two monks, there had been an elderly laywoman in her sixties living there, doing the cooking for the masters free of charge. But a few days earlier the old woman had to leave on personal business, and now the monastery held only Wu Aizhen and the two monks.
Wu Aizhen looked through the kitchen. Apart from Chinese cabbage, there was a bag of dried black fungus. She poured the fungus into a bowl and covered it with warm water to soak, then began cooking rice.
Huaishui Town was a small settlement of fewer than three hundred households, and the residents were not well-off. Most lived by farming. The lay Buddhists were mostly elderly women, hoping the Bodhisattva would bless them with both good fortune and long life, a house full of children and grandchildren, freedom from disaster and illness, and prosperous families. Some also prayed for the safety of their grown children working in a city a few dozen li away. Though poor, these old laywomen were devout. Each time they came to the monastery they brought not only incense but also vegetables, rice, or home-cooked food for the two masters. So the monastery’s food supply was absolutely guaranteed, and occasionally on a Buddhist holiday such as Guanyin’s birthday, the table would be bountiful. The kitchen would often be piled with offerings from the faithful, enough to last for many days. But it had been raining for several days, and the mountain path outside the monastery was muddy and slippery. No devotees or tourists had come by for a stretch, so the kitchen stores were beginning to run low. She figured Master Liaokong had gone to town today to do some shopping.
Wu Aizhen stir-fried the black fungus with Chinese cabbage and found a package of pickled mustard greens, then called Master Cisheng to lunch.
A few minutes later, Master Cisheng appeared with “solemn” bearing at the door of his room across from the kitchen. His grey monk’s robe was always worn neat and clean, not a wrinkle out of place. His monk’s shoes and the white monk’s socks peeking out seemed untouched by dust, always looking brand new. With measured dignity, he paced in, holding his alms bowl, and seated himself at the table. He lifted the small square cloth from the top of the bowl, and Wu Aizhen ladled two big scoops of rice into it, then transferred most of the vegetables from the plate into his bowl as well. Master Cisheng pressed his palms together, closed his eyes, and murmured the scripture of gratitude and dedication of merit. Then he ate his food in silence, slowly. From start to finish he said not a word to Wu Aizhen across the table and never even raised his eyes to glance at her.
Wu Aizhen also chewed her rice carefully, afraid of making any noise. Master Cisheng set great store by dignified deportment: no chewing sounds during meals, and certainly no smacking or slurping. And when walking, one’s feet should not make too heavy a sound. Because Master Liaokong paid no attention to such trifles, he had been reprimanded many times by Master Cisheng. Although Master Cisheng had never said anything to her, in his presence she also tried to give careful attention to matters of dignified bearing.
After Master Cisheng finished eating, he washed his bowl at the tap in the courtyard, then carried it back to his room. Wu Aizhen mixed the extra rice she had deliberately made with some cabbage leaves and went to feed the two dogs, Flying Snow and Treading Snow.
The dogs were already very familiar with her. At the sound of her footsteps, they crawled out of their kennel and stood looking at her. When she dropped the food into their respective pans, they didn’t rush to eat but wagged their tails furiously and flung themselves against her affectionately. She gave them a gentle scolding, and only then did they settle down and begin eating.
These two were strays that Master Liaokong had taken in. Flying Snow’s black coat was scattered with sparse white spots. Treading Snow had only his eyebrows, chest, and all four paws in white, the rest being black. Master Liaokong had once said that he had never seen a snow-covered landscape. When he read Liu Zongyuan’s poem—From a thousand mountains, birds have taken flight; on ten thousand paths, human tracks are gone. A lone boat, a straw-cloaked man, alone he fishes the cold river snow—the image in the poem of a vast world blanketed in white filled him with wistful longing. And so, when he saw the white markings on the dogs, he thought of snowflakes, and the names came from that. But although the names were romantic, lacking good nutrition at the monastery, and sometimes going hungry between meals, both dogs were on the thin side, and the fur over their bodies was a tangled mess—they didn’t look pretty at all.
Master Cisheng did not like these two dogs. In the month and more since Wu Aizhen arrived, she had often seen Master Liaokong feed and play with them, whereas Master Cisheng seemed unwilling even to look at them. Whenever he went out or came back, the two dogs would stand wagging their tails beside the kennel to welcome him, just as they did with Master Liaokong, but their efforts had apparently never moved this “dignified” master. He never responded to their friendly gestures, and whenever tourists arrived and the dogs barked loudly, he would harshly scold them, sending Flying Snow and Treading Snow cowering back into their kennel, too scared to show their heads for a long while.
On one occasion when the town mayor visited the monastery, Wu Aizhen overheard Master Cisheng at the entrance to the main hall suggest that the mayor put a stop to Master Liaokong’s keeping dogs in the monastery, arguing they would scare away tourists who came to bow to the Buddha. But the mayor thought it over: there were wild boars in the mountains behind the monastery, and having two dogs was good for the monastery’s safety. Besides, the kennel was some distance from the main gate, the dogs were on leashes, and there weren’t many tourists anyway—most who came were old laywomen from town who were already familiar with the dogs. Since Master Liaokong had already taken them in, better to keep them. Master Cisheng had returned sullenly to his room. Wu Aizhen wondered whether Master Cisheng was afraid the dogs’ barking would disturb his sitting meditation. But the two dogs rarely barked, and aside from needing feeding, they caused the residents of the monastery little trouble. If they were driven away, both were so ugly that surely no one would want to take them in. Master Liaokong loved them, had given them such lovely names, and had even performed the Three Refuges ceremony for them. She could only hope that this little monastery would become a warm home for them.
After Wu Aizhen finished feeding Flying Snow and Treading Snow, she tidied up the kitchen. At that moment, two tourists arrived in the courtyard, a man and a woman. Master Cisheng, hearing the voices, came out and led them to the main hall. When the tourists left, Wu Aizhen was about to return to her room when she saw Master Cisheng standing in his doorway doing chest stretches, his face glowing as he looked at her. “Wu laywoman, when will Liaokong be back?” he asked.
Wu Aizhen was a little surprised. Meeting his cheerful face, she smiled slightly and said, “He didn’t say when he left, only that he wouldn’t be back for lunch. I assume he’ll return sometime in the afternoon.” “Oh!” Master Cisheng turned and went back into his room.
Wu Aizhen suddenly understood why Master Cisheng was so pleased: those two tourists must have put money into the merit box, and not a small amount.
The money in the monastery’s merit box was at the disposal of the two monks. Master Cisheng and Master Liaokong had already been here over two years. Master Liaokong had said that when Master Cisheng’s contract expired this year, he wanted to leave and go on a wandering pilgrimage, but he needed some money. Yet the incense at the little monastery had never been strong, and sometimes ten days or half a month would pass without any tourists. After two years, he couldn’t even scrape together the three thousand yuan he wanted, and he was getting anxious. When Wu Aizhen heard this, she had always intended to leave whatever money she had left over to the two masters when she departed, but she wouldn’t mention it until she did it.
Another tourist arrived, a boy of seventeen or eighteen. He looked exhausted, his hiking shoes nearly encased in mud; he must have walked a very long way. A big pack was slung onto his back. He stepped into the monastery, glanced around, spotted the water tap in front of the kitchen, and headed straight for it. Master Cisheng, seeing yet another visitor, had already come out and was standing in the courtyard, ready to lead him into the hall to bow to the Bodhisattva, ring the hand bell for him, and explain the murals on the walls.
With his pack on, the boy bent over the tap, drank a few mouthfuls of water, and washed his face. When he straightened and turned around, he suddenly saw a dignified monk standing in the courtyard silently watching him. At once he set his pack down, moved toward Master Cisheng in excitement, and, with practiced ease, performed a full prostration before him, his five points touching the ground. Master Cisheng seemed momentarily taken aback, but then composed himself and with calm authority stood still, silently and somewhat loftily accepting the boy’s three prostrations.
Wu Aizhen watched Master Cisheng lead the bowing boy into the main hall, then returned to her own room to read scripture. She thought to herself: three visitors in one day—in her time at this small monastery, that was truly rare.
A moment later she heard the boy’s stubborn voice from the courtyard: “Master, please take me as your disciple…” She also heard Master Cisheng’s voice, already betraying impatience, as he explained that he himself had not yet perfected his cultivation and could not accept disciples. Through the window Wu Aizhen saw Master Cisheng stride briskly back to his room and pull the door firmly shut. But the boy simply knelt stubbornly outside the door.
Wu Aizhen smiled and went on reading. She did not go out to dissuade him. There was nothing to worry about; she thought the boy’s momentary fervor wouldn’t last long, and he would leave.
An hour later, however, the boy was still there. A faint ache stirred in Wu Aizhen. She poured a cup of plain boiled water, carried it over to the boy, and silently held it out. He took it and murmured, “Thank you, Auntie.” Two trails of tears slid down his face without a sound. Wu Aizhen glanced at Master Cisheng’s tightly shut door, not knowing what to say to comfort the child.
Master Liaokong returned, and Yufen entered with him. Yufen was a laywoman who had been studying Buddhism for a few years. After finishing high school in the county seat, she came back to town and opened a small supermarket, becoming the town’s famously literary-minded young businesswoman. She was only twenty-one, with a dewy, vivid prettiness, and she had, so everyone said, no shortage of admirers, but her standards were high. She was fond of a high-school classmate, but the boy was now in college and had never given their relationship any clear shape; they only exchanged letters. Sometimes Yufen had little confidence in the attachment, yet her heart went on waiting for him. Wu Aizhen had learned all this from the old laywoman who did the cooking here. The town was so small that people knew one another too well for much privacy.
That day Yufen wore a thin hand-knitted wool cardigan with lovely woven patterns, a red gauze scarf floating at her neck, blue jeans, and white sneakers. Before she even stepped through the temple gate, her silvery laughter could be heard. Once inside, the moment she saw Wu Aizhen she called out brightly, “Wu Laywoman.” Wu Aizhen walked over to open the kitchen door, and Master Liaokong and Yufen set all their purchases down on the kitchen floor. “Are you getting on all right here?” Yufen asked solicitously as she lowered her bags. “Quite well. And you?” Wu Aizhen looked at her kindly. Yufen’s face colored faintly, and she stole a glance at Master Liaokong, who was sorting vegetables nearby, as if she wanted to say something but held it back. A vague, shadowy awareness stirred in Wu Aizhen’s heart, but she did not dwell on it.
“Who is that boy kneeling out there?” Master Liaokong asked. Yufen looked from the kitchen toward the boy, still kneeling, the cup of water Wu Aizhen had given him beside him. Wu Aizhen briefly recounted what had just happened, and Master Liaokong went out and led the boy into his own room. Yufen stayed only a short while before taking her leave, saying there was business at the shop, and that she had only come to help carry things back because Master Liaokong had bought so much.
At supper Master Liaokong brought the boy to the table. The boy was now brimming with energy, his eyes shining with barely concealed excitement. Over the meal Wu Aizhen learned that Master Liaokong had agreed to let the boy stay here for the time being, though the questions of leaving home-life and becoming a disciple would wait; the plan was to take him into town the next day to speak with the town head. She also learned that the boy was an orphan from Shandong, and his name was Gao Shui. Master Liaokong teased him at the table: “People say water always flows downward; high places cannot hold water. Yet your name is High Water. You should change it to High Mountain.”
The boy was drinking a bowl of plain congee. He set it down at once and said cleverly, “Thank you, Master. But I think that it is precisely because High Water is rare that it stands out.”
Both Master Liaokong and Wu Aizhen laughed.
Wu Aizhen suddenly noticed that the ring finger and little finger of Gao Shui’s left hand were each missing a joint. She could not help asking, “How did your hand get hurt?”
“I chopped them off myself before the Buddha. I wanted to imitate the Second Patriarch of the Chan School, who cut off his arm to seek the Dharma. And didn’t many Bodhisattvas of old burn their fingers or arms as offerings to the Buddha?”
Wu Aizhen’s heart clenched painfully. She drew a sharp breath. “Did you attain Awakening after cutting your fingers?”
“No. I nearly passed out.” Gao Shui looked at her with an easy indifference and grinned.
“How foolish of you. Don’t you see that when the Second Patriarch cut off his arm, nearly all the causes and conditions that could bring his Awakening had ripened? At that moment the amputation could serve as a supporting condition for his Awakening. Trying to imitate him is even sillier than blind imitation. The sutras say that a Bodhisattva burns his arms as an offering to the Buddha for tens of thousands of years, but that is done in the fire-light Samadhi, not here in the human world.”
“But didn’t the Elder Master Xuyun also burn off a finger before the Buddha?” Gao Shui fixed his eyes on Wu Aizhen, puzzled.
“Master Xuyun understood many causes and conditions throughout the Three Realms. He burned his finger out of filial devotion, to clear away his parents’ karma. Most importantly, he clearly knew in his heart the purpose and the result of that act. Do you? You neither grasped the various causes and conditions nor knew the consequences of what would happen, yet you went and mutilated your body. That was wrong. We need this body in the human realm to attain enlightenment.”
“Some master said that doing this before the Buddha can clear away a great deal of karmic obstacles.”
“Gao Shui, every dharma door fits different people differently. There are many ways to clear karmic obstacles — repentance practice, wholehearted repentance and reform, upholding and reciting the sutras, lecturing on the sutras and expounding the Dharma for others — why must you injure yourself? Many of the accounts in the scriptures of ‘self-injury’ for cultivation and realization refer to what is done within Chan samadhi in order to break a practitioner’s ego-clinging. I myself, under my teacher’s guidance and protection, once practiced the ‘body-offering practice’ in meditation, giving my physical body away to all the flesh-eating beings throughout the Six Paths of Rebirth, watching myself in samadhi as I was devoured until not a shred of bone remained… Even just within meditation, the first times required my teacher’s empowerment and guidance, for fear I might not return from samadhi. And yet, here I sit before you, not a hair harmed! My teacher once told me that in order to liberate sentient beings, a Bodhisattva sometimes goes out of his way to adorn his dharma characteristics, because sentient beings cling to appearances.”
“Another master said I shouldn’t have done it, but he didn’t tell me why. If only I had met you sooner.” Gao Shui spoke with regret.
“What’s done is done. Gaining clarity on right and wrong is a harvest in itself. Don’t torment yourself with regret. Your resolve to cultivate the Way is worthy of our admiration. Put aside all your worries, and from now on, cultivate and study with vigor.” Master Liaokong had already finished eating. He patted Gao Shui’s shoulder with tender sympathy and encouraged him. “Your master is right. Hurry up and eat,” Wu Aizhen added kindly.
“Yes. Thank you, Master, and thank you, Wu Laywoman.” Gao Shui looked gratefully at Master Liaokong, then at Wu Aizhen. He lifted his bowl and shoveled the remaining half-bowl of rice into his mouth.……
“Let Gao Shui stay in the old laywoman’s room. I went into town today and saw her; she said something came up and she can’t return,” Master Liaokong said.
Of the six rooms on the right side of the temple, only three were habitable; the other three leaked when it rained. Master Liaokong and Master Cisheng each occupied one. On the left side, one large room had been made into the kitchen and another was piled with odds and ends. Wu Aizhen stayed in the room near the steps of the main hall; the old laywoman had lived next door.
The rooms were quite dilapidated. Although they had undergone a major repair a few years earlier, the walls were still packed earth and the surface plaster was flaking. Several days of unbroken rain had left the walls damp and the bases wet. After supper Wu Aizhen escorted Gao Shui to his room and checked the bedding, which was slightly clammy. “We’ll air it in the sun tomorrow,” she said, looking at him. “It doesn’t matter. I’m strong. It’s no problem.”
Gao Shui seemed completely unbothered. With a careless toss he flung his backpack beside the bed. “Wu Laywoman, go and rest. Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” Wu Aizhen glanced around the room. Seeing that there really was nothing more she needed to settle for him, she withdrew, heart at ease.……
The lamp in Master Cisheng’s room had long been out. Wu Aizhen knew that he did not eat after noon and never lay down at night; he would now certainly be sitting in meditation in the pitch-dark room. His vigorous effort earned Wu Aizhen’s genuine admiration, yet she always felt that Master Cisheng was somewhat lacking in loving-kindness and compassion. A light still burned in Master Liaokong’s room; she knew that at this hour he was usually reading the sutras with deep concentration. Master Liaokong belonged to the Chan School and often sat in meditation, investigating Chan. Beyond his “mouth-Zen,” he also had now and then small realizations that made Wu Aizhen look at him with new respect. She often borrowed sutras from him. In his room stood a bookcase that held the principal texts of Buddhism. Because the journey had been long, Wu Aizhen had brought few books. The first time she saw that bookcase in Master Liaokong’s room, she was overjoyed — she felt she was tremendously blessed. More importantly, the books Wu Aizhen wished to read at this stage were all in Master Liaokong’s collection. Imagine it: a bookcase in a remote little temple like this — in Wu Aizhen’s eyes, it was like stumbling upon an enormous treasure in the deep mountains and old-growth forest. Seeing her wonder, Master Liaokong laughed and said he had discovered another book-fool like himself.
Back in her own room, Wu Aizhen looked at her watch: only nine o’clock. But the little temple was already submerged in the mountain night. She washed up briefly, then began to write in her diary.
XX year XX month XX day, overcast
When I got up this morning, I saw a line of ants crawling up the side of the wastebasket. Yesterday some grains of rice had been tossed into the basket, and the ants were laboring to carry them away grain by grain. The basket is tall and its surface is smooth; watching them clamber up and down, I sensed how difficult the journey was for them. So at breakfast I deliberately flicked a spoonful of rice onto the floor near the door, far from the basket, hoping the ants could help themselves easily without having to trek deep into my bedside. But a few ants went over, sniffed, and then turned back to climb the basket again. Watching all those busy ants on the wall of the basket, I suddenly felt they resembled busy human beings. Perhaps, for some people, life is exactly this kind of laborious climbing up and down. Perhaps in the act of climbing there is effort and struggle, a display of self-worth, and upon reaching the top, the joy of “when I stand atop the peak, I see how small the other mountains are” — though, seen from the Three Realms, it is still only as high as a wastebasket.
Eventually some ants of higher intelligence discovered the food outside the basket. They may have swaggered with pride, perhaps even mocking their fellow ants still toiling on the basket’s wall. Such easily obtained food — why seek the distant and shun the near, why spurn the low and chase the high? How foolish! And they preened themselves for spotting the easy prize so quickly, not only seizing it for themselves but also believing how rich in wisdom, how clever they were! Little did they know that they had merely happened upon an accident, a chance encounter with luck. And perhaps they would never understand the states experienced by the ants on the basket’s wall, the breadth of heart, the courage, and the strength of body those journeys had forged. Gain and loss — how could they be measured by the wisdom of ants? The food on the ground will be exhausted, and so will the food in the wastebasket. Then the ants will begin a new march, and it will be time to seek a new opening. The moment that tests them again will arrive. But however wise, however intelligent, however strong, however blessed an ant may be, in human eyes it is too insignificant to mention; its life is as fragile as that of any tiny insect.
Do they have the will and the wisdom not to be ants?
The story of an ant who cultivated the Way
One day, an ant grew bored with its life. It had already experienced everything an ant could experience. Life was so brief and fragile — a single drop of water could drown it, a puff of wind could blow it away into nothingness. Finally, when the colony it belonged to was once again flooded by a child’s stream of urine, and it alone struggled out, it made a vow: it wanted to become a human being. It no longer wished to be an ant, because in its eyes, humans were the most powerful creatures in this world. But how could an ant become a human? It had long heard that in the forest certain animals who shared its wish were practicing the Way, and so it resolved to seek them out and learn from them a method of turning into a human.
Overcoming countless obstacles and after a long, hard journey, it at last came upon a troop of monkeys practicing in the mountains. At first sight, a monkey king impressed it with an air of extraordinary dignity. This monkey walked upright like a human, and when it “ate,” it sat properly on a stone with elegance, using a knife and fork to cut its fruit, just as humans do. What astonished the ant even more was that this monkey had no tail.
After the ant kowtowed to the monkey king with the utmost reverence, it asked to be taught the method of becoming a human.
The monkey king forked the last slice of fruit into its mouth, wiped its lips with a white handkerchief held by an attendant on its left, and rinsed its mouth with water brought by an attendant on its right. Only then did it unhurriedly begin to deliver its teaching to the ant and the assembly of monkeys.
“If you want to become human, you must first imitate everything about human behavior, speech, and manner of living. Though humans have many strange behaviors we cannot understand, since we cannot understand them, we must not recklessly speculate—we must simply imitate. For instance, they walk upright, eat with knives, forks, and chopsticks, and instead of hanging in trees to sleep, they spread a cloth on the ground. A human who understood our language once told me that the most important difference between humans and us is not behavior but character and thought. He said humans have many moral standards, responsibilities, and obligations. Even when conditions permit, they do not simply act on impulse, doing whatever they please. They also keep pondering and learning many things they do not yet know, thereby enriching themselves. I have yet to fully grasp what he said, but I believe that as long as we keep observing how humans speak and act, imitate them, and through imitation reflect on why they act that way, then find the reasons, convince ourselves and convince other monkeys, and form shared principles of conduct—then we will not be far from becoming human.”
At that moment, a little monkey listening to the lecture suddenly seemed to grow delighted, and in its glee it lifted its tail high, exposing a bright red bottom. This displeased a larger monkey nearby, who pounced and raked the little one viciously with its claws, baring its teeth and snarling, “How many times has the Master said that you must not lift your tail when pleased—humans do no such thing. How do you still make this mistake?”
The little monkey, its face crumpling miserably, hastily clamped its tail tight and muttered under its breath, “Humans don’t have tails, but we do. Forbidding us to lift them—how miserable is that!”
Hearing this, the old monkey reflected that its own behavior just now was rather coarse. It seemed the Master had said that civilized people do not go around scratching others and baring their teeth to curse. At this thought, it felt no better than the little monkey. A trace of sorrow rose in its heart, and it said mournfully to the Monkey King, “Venerable Master, you have no tail now—you will never lift a tail again. Yet we always fail to notice these details. Would you tell us how you managed to cultivate your tail until it fell away?”
The Monkey King was silent for a long time. Then, all of a sudden, the ant saw two clear streams of tears roll from the Monkey King’s eyes. In a voice of utter desolation, he said, “I do not wish to lie to you. My tail was not cultivated away—it was cut off by a human. Once I entered a human dwelling. I was not there to steal; I only wanted to see how humans live at home. But I accidentally knocked over a vase on a table, and a woman who was cooking in the kitchen charged out with a knife, bristling with fury. As I leaped through the window, the woman slammed it shut on my tail, and all the while shrieking curses she sliced my tail off with the blade.” At this, not only did the Monkey King choke with sobs, but several little monkeys also began to weep.
“Master Monkey, do not be sad. In truth, the Master has turned disaster into blessing. With no tail, the Master looks even more like a human, I think. That being so, should we disciples not follow Master’s example and cut off our tails? Then we too would never lift a tail again.”
“Right! How did we not think of this? Since we have cultivated all these years and our tails still haven’t fallen away, why not simply chop them off like Master—wouldn’t that be far more straightforward?” The horde of monkeys began to buzz with chatter, some in favor of cutting, some opposed.
The Monkey King drew himself up, swept a commanding gaze across all his disciples, and cleared his throat. The monkeys fell silent at once. “Disciples, there is no need to argue. Although I lack a tail and in your eyes look more like a human, I will not hide the truth from you: whenever I feel pleased, I still sense a surge of energy rushing instantly to where my tail once was. Behind my rump there is still an impulse to stir—you simply cannot see the tail I would be lifting. I know that in my mind a tail has not yet fallen away, yet humans have no such sensation. Therefore, cutting off the tail is useless. A monkey with its tail cut off and a human who never grew a tail have very different sensations of the tail.” At this, the Monkey King closed his eyes and began his meditation practice. The monkeys ceased their wrangling, fell into a collective silence, and scattered to practice their human movements. The ant had no tail and felt scarcely any stir of feeling or impression from the monkeys’ dispute over tails or the Monkey King’s teaching on the matter. Indeed, it found the whole argument utterly pointless. And so the ant left the monkeys and continued its search for a teacher who could guide it. At last, after overcoming many hardships and undertaking another long, arduous journey, it came upon a herd of elephants who were cultivating in hopes of becoming human. The Elephant King accepted its prostrations, patiently listened to all it had seen and heard among the monkeys, then stretched out his great trunk and said, “Arguing over whether one needs a tail, or whether cutting off a tail makes one more human—none of this has any meaning. This is not the key to cultivation.” Hearing this, the ant felt that the elephant’s view better matched its own thinking, and it fixed its gaze upon the elephant with even greater reverence and earnestness. “If one wants to become human, the crux of cultivation lies not in behavior but in the mind. For consider: for this body of ours to become human, we would need to shed our fur and tails through cultivation, walk on two legs, and so on—this is terribly hard, and would take a very, very long time. Yet there is a shortcut: our minds can sometimes connect with those of humans. For example, we too have feelings. As Elephant King, I must also shoulder many duties and responsibilities for the welfare of my herd—this, too, is the human spirit of devotion. And once, I even dreamed I had become human; in the dream, I lived entirely as a human does. I have heard that humans sometimes dream they have become elephants. This shows that we elephants and humans share the same mind. If we locate this common ground and apply our cultivation there, we will achieve twice the result with half the effort.” The ant pondered the Elephant King’s words for a while but found the ideas of feeling and the spirit of devotion somewhat hard to grasp. And as for becoming human in a dream—it had never once dreamed of such a thing. It felt a little lost. Idly, noticing that one of the Elephant King’s tusks had a broken tip, the ant asked about it with some curiosity. It supposed that, like the tale of the Monkey King’s severed tail, this too might have a story behind it. Listening to stories or legends, after all, could briefly rest body and mind. The Elephant King said, “When I was young I had a fierce temper. Once during the mating season, I fought a great battle with a bull elephant over a female. This wound came from that fight. That bull elephant lost an eye and suffered severe internal injuries. I heard he died soon after.” At these words, the Elephant King lowered his proud head, as if mourning his dead rival.
Puzzled by this gesture, the ant said, “You were only slightly wounded, and since your opponent is dead, you have won a complete victory. Why still be so saddened, even now?”
The Elephant King replied, “After that great battle, I encountered a human who understood our language. He told me that humans possess a sense of shame and compassion. Since I wish to become human, I must nurture the finer qualities of the human spirit. For two elephants to fight to the death over such a trifle, and then, after one has died, to feel not the slightest pity or sympathy but only gloating delight—that is not a human quality. I once argued back, telling him I had also seen humans kill one another in the forest and slaughter elephants. He said that at times a human mind can sink to the level of an animal’s—cruelly harming its own kind and other beings for selfish desire. In learning to be human, we must not imitate these base qualities but learn the nobler side of humanity. Only then is it possible to transcend our animal nature, so that after becoming human we do not inadvertently fall back into animal form and waste all our previous efforts.”
When the Elephant King had finished, many elephants began buzzing with discussion, debating and examining what he had said. The ant still felt no particular stir or impression, and could not bear the elephants’ clamorous noise, so it slipped away alone.
Still undaunted, the ant pressed on with all its might. There would surely be a teacher suited to it somewhere, it thought. Along the way, it encountered a yak. It asked the yak whether it had seen a teacher who could show the way to becoming human. The yak said, “Not far ahead there is a white yak with the head of a yak and the horns of a dragon. The breath from its mouth and nostrils is suffused with the colors of the rainbow. I’ve heard that its teacher could once transform into human shape. Though the white yak itself cannot transform, it has still received its teacher’s lineage. Many yaks follow it to study the Dharma, hoping to become human one day.”
The ant’s faith surged, and it urged the yak to seek the teaching together. But the yak replied, “I just came from there. I’ve given up cultivation now—I no longer want to become human. What’s the point of being human, anyway? A few days ago, a man was painting in the forest. When he finished, he stood back and gazed at it from a distance, looking very pleased. A little curious, I thought that if he was so delighted by those grasses and flowers on the cloth, they must be extraordinarily delicious. When he wasn’t looking, I decided to have a taste, but as soon as I bit down—I swear, I have never tasted such dreadful grass and flowers in my life. The most infuriating part was that I had eaten only a tiny patch, and it was so vile, so hard to swallow, that by the time I was chewing it I already bitterly regretted it—and yet that man was so miserly and petty, beating me savagely with a wooden club, cursing me, and wailing and shrieking hysterically. The forest is full of grass, full of flowers, and no yak has ever been beaten or cursed for taking an extra mouthful. I find the human perspective unbearably narrow, the human heart far too small. I will not cultivate. I do not wish to be human.” With that, the yak stalked off in a huff and paid the ant no further attention.
The ant had no choice but to set out alone in search of the white yak with dragon horns.
On a high rock, the white yak reclined with an air of divine dignity, its head wreathed in many-colored clouds of vapor. After a painstaking effort, the little ant scaled the rock to where the white yak lay. It raised itself upright like a human and stared, eyes brimming with wonder, unblinkingly at the white yak.
Just then a cow asked the white yak how it had cultivated its dragon horns. The white yak said, “My teacher was once also my husband. He was a dragon. He cultivated for twenty thousand years and produced a pearl within his mouth. Relying on that pearl, he could transform into any form. He told me that humans are not the highest order of life in this world. Humans share many behaviors with animals, and after death they may also be reborn as animals. He said that in a past life I was a dragon and that his past life was that of a human cultivator. In this life we became companions in cultivation. His level of energy is high, and through his blessings of body, speech, and mind—and my own diligent study and rigorous cultivation—the energy of the dragon gradually took root in my body and mind, and so I came to have this appearance, half yak and half dragon. My state of mind, too, is sometimes like a yak’s and sometimes like a dragon’s. My dragon husband has now been reborn as a human. He is cultivating in a cave in the mountains just ahead. When he has completed his cultivation, he will come back to liberate me. I am waiting here for him.”
One cow said, “Master, first give us a blessing of body, speech, and mind as well. We want to grow dragon horns too. Whether we can become human can be dealt with later.”
The white yak said, “I cannot. My energy is not of a high enough order. I am still half yak, half dragon. Though you regard me as a dragon, sometimes when I see tender grass I still want to eat it, and dragons do not eat grass. I still have many of a yak’s habitual tendencies and desires. I cannot yet abide steadily as a dragon. Therefore I cannot bestow a blessing as my husband did. But I do possess the dragon’s lineage. If you practice according to the methods I teach, sooner or later you can grow dragon horns and, like my husband, produce a pearl and transform your form.”
Hearing this, the ant reflected: a dragon becoming human is only a transformation—it is still a dragon, not truly a human. Studying this dharma door could never make it a genuine human being. At this thought, it withdrew from beneath the white yak’s rock. It was weary now. It began to doubt whether this idea of wanting to become human was simply too absurd, and whether it had been a waste to spend so much time and energy on it—nearly its whole life consumed on this journey—and still not even found a teacher. At this thought, it crept into a crevice in the rocks and refused to take another step. Perhaps it would be better, it thought, to find a nest nearby and live out the rest of its days; the forest did not lack for food. Yet then it suddenly recalled the high ambitions with which it had set out, the countless ants drowned in the waters, and an inexhaustible compassion welled up in its heart. If it could become human, it thought, the fate of ants would one day be transformed. It was striving not only for the sake of its own vow-power but for the fate of many, many ants. It could not rest here. It must, within this lifetime, find a teacher. At this thought, it resumed its endless trek. Crossing mountains and ridges, it came at last to a cave, and there met a human it could talk to.
With great loving kindness and compassion, that person listened to all that was in the ant’s heart, then gently told it that humans are not the mightiest life in this world, either; human life is short, and humans too suffer much pain, many afflictions, and the helplessness of birth, aging, sickness, and death. The mightiest, most indestructible order of life in this world is the Buddha—Neither Arising Nor Ceasing, eternally present in the universe—and every living being can become a Buddha.
The little ant heard the name “Buddha” for the first time, but it no longer had time to follow this teacher in cultivation. Its life was drawing to a close, and it gazed weakly at the teacher, unable to speak. The teacher understood its heart and told it: Please trust me, and with your whole heart and mind recite “Namo Amitabha Buddha.” The ant could not understand what this phrase meant, and the sounds were strange, nothing like the language of ants. Yet with utter sincerity, it used the last shred of strength in its life to voice, in a single tone, the heartfelt utterance of “Namo Amitabha Buddha.” A point of golden light flashed forth, and the little ant, carried across by the vow-power of Amitabha Buddha, was reborn as a human being.
At this point Wu Aizhen smiled and closed her diary. She sat quietly in reflection for a while, then began reading The Great Treatise on the Stages of the Path to Enlightenment, setting down her insights and what she had gained in light of her own experiential realization. From eleven to one o’clock was her sitting meditation time. Every day, at the zi hour, she roamed the realms of Chan samadhi with the right view of the non-duality of emptiness and existence…
The days slipped by one after another. Gao Shui had obtained the town mayor’s permission to stay at the temple, where he followed Master Liaokong in reading sutras and cultivating Chan samadhi. Master Liaokong had once helped in the kitchen of a large monastery, cooking for several hundred people, and had thus developed an excellent knife hand for chopping vegetables. And Gao Shui, who had dropped out of school after junior high because his family was poor, had actually taken a short training course in a culinary program; the flair with which he tossed a wok when stir-frying truly had the air of a master chef. More importantly, both of them were happy to offer their services in the kitchen. Having two men do the cooking—one of them an ordained monk—made Wu Aizhen feel slightly ill at ease. She went to the kitchen a few times to offer polite help, but there was never an opening for her to lend a hand, and she only annoyed them and got shooed out. She had no choice but to enjoy sitting back and being fed, settling her mind comfortably and devoting all her time to reading the scriptures and to cultivation. Master Cisheng remained neither warm nor cold toward Gao Shui, wearing an expression of dignified aloofness that left Gao Shui not even a chance to curry favor. Only once, after the midday meal, Master Cisheng did not return immediately to his room but sat at the dining table sunning himself and remarked offhand that the food today was very well stir-fried; he hadn’t expected Master Liaokong’s kitchen skills to improve so fast. Master Liaokong was drinking a cup of tea, his eyes looking elsewhere as if he could hardly be bothered with Master Cisheng, and said flatly, “It wasn’t me. That was Gao Shui’s handiwork.” Master Cisheng smiled and looked at Gao Shui, his face showing a flicker of approval. Wu Aizhen saw Gao Shui flush red with excitement…
It was clear that although Gao Shui had taken Master Liaokong as his teacher and was earnestly reading the scriptures and earnestly investigating Chan, and although he treated Master Liaokong with due respect, a monk like Master Liaokong was simply too ordinary, too commonplace. But Master Cisheng, who took no food after midday, who never lay down to sleep at night, whose cultivation in the strict observance of the precepts and whose independent, solitary, taciturn manner of doing things gave him an air of greater mystery, held a greater allure for him. If he could also take Master Cisheng as his teacher and learn something from him, that had long been a hope he dreamed of. Yet Master Cisheng seemed to show him little warmth and more than a little coldness. He had no offerings to give the teacher; if he could earn even a moment of the teacher’s approval through his own words and deeds, that might still give rise to some hope and faith in his heart. Wu Aizhen understood Gao Shui’s heart, but she was powerless to help him fulfill this wish. She could only offer him an occasional pointer on the path of Dharma cultivation and realization. But because Liaokong was his teacher, some of those pointers might differ from Liaokong’s views, and she feared that this might cause Gao Shui to doubt Master Liaokong’s cultivation and realization and lose respect and faith in his own teacher. She felt that Master Liaokong, with his present capacity, was already fully able to guide Gao Shui. Sometimes when the three of them debated together, Wu Aizhen would not speak as freely as she did when she was alone with Master Liaokong; she was afraid that if she refuted him, the teacher would lose face before his disciple. She knew Master Liaokong was broad-minded and free-spirited, certainly not petty enough to take such things to heart. But it was precisely because she so admired Master Liaokong’s character that she was even more unwilling to let her own words and actions cause the disciple to harbor even the slightest misunderstanding or distrust of his teacher. Yet these things were unavoidable, because when Wu Aizhen faced the look of thirst for the Dharma in Gao Shui’s eyes, she forgot everything else and thought only of pouring out as much as she could of what her own teacher had transmitted, so that he too might benefit from it.
One day, Wu Aizhen was just about to take an afternoon nap when the door was rudely pounded, bang bang bang.
“Laywoman Wu, come out. I have something to ask you.”
Outside was Master Liaokong’s voice, furious beyond restraint. Wu Aizhen scrambled up from the bed, not knowing what had happened. She hurriedly opened the door, only to have Master Liaokong grab her by the arm and pull her into the courtyard, to the dining table that had not yet been cleared after the meal. Gao Shui was sitting there with his head lowered, like a student caught making a mistake and being scolded by his teacher.
Wu Aizhen pulled free of Master Liaokong’s grip and steadied herself. She had never seen Master Liaokong lose his temper like this. “What is the matter?” she asked uneasily.
Master Liaokong showed no deference because Wu Aizhen was a laywoman, nor did he blush over his own rough behavior. He smacked a sheet of paper on the table and demanded angrily, “Did you say this? Did you tell Gao Shui that even from the view of an Arhat one can realize Buddhahood? Do you want to cut off a person’s wisdom-life?”
Wu Aizhen looked at the paper on the table, puzzled. It was a diagram she had sketched the day before while organizing the mind-dharma of the Chan School. Gao Shui had asked to look at it, so she had let him take it.
She gently smoothed the crumpled paper back out on the table and said calmly, “Master Liaokong, I hope you can quiet your mind and look at this diagram, and see what it is I am actually trying to express, rather than dismissing it based on a question Gao Shui raised.”
In the face of Wu Aizhen’s calm, Master Liaokong suddenly reflected that his behavior just now had been excessive. He steadied his mind a little, sat down, and fixed his eyes on the paper on the table. All at once he grew excited. The dark and heavy expression on his face a moment before cleared like clouds parting to reveal the sun. His entire body and mind were seized by the two characters for “mind,” written in red on the diagram. Those two “minds” revolved on the page, and he could no longer tell which was “the mind of sentient beings” and which was “the Buddha-mind.” “Mind itself is Buddha, mind itself is Buddha.” Holding the paper in his hands, he called out in a low voice with excitement. He felt his whole body and mind suddenly open through and through. In a flash, he felt himself become a lotus flower, lightly drifting up into midair and bursting into brilliant bloom. He had awakened to this phrase. “Mind itself is Buddha” was the huatou he had been bitterly investigating for so long. He had not known where the mind was or what Buddha was; he could not cast off the confusion of concepts. Seeing these two identical minds drawn in red on the diagram, his mind seemed to plummet from the four dhyanas and eight samadhis, from the unreachable heights of the clouds, and land with a thud back in his own chest. His mind had returned! This mind was the Buddha-mind; this mind was the mind of sentient beings. One flower, one world; one leaf, one Thus Come One. So all along he had been doing ordinary things, yet his mind had never truly dwelt in the ordinary. It had dwelt in the concepts of the Buddhist scriptures; it had dwelt in Chan samadhi; it had dwelt in the large and small affairs of the monastery; it had dwelt in discrimination; it had dwelt in afflictions. Never had it dwelt, free of all entanglements, solidly and steadily, right here in itself. It had come back. In that instant, he suddenly leapt up, let out an “Ah!”, slapped the paper onto the table, and then, facing Wu Aizhen, dropped to his knees with a thud and, right in front of Gao Shui, knocked his head on the ground three times—bang, bang, bang. Wu Aizhen hurriedly tried to stop him; in the Buddhist precepts, this was not permitted. Having finished his prostrations, Master Liaokong rose as if no one else were present and said to Wu Aizhen, “In my eyes, all sentient beings are Buddhas!”
“You are an ordained monk. Sentient beings cling to appearances; they cannot understand behavior like this. For the sake of sentient beings’ accomplishment, I hope you will strictly observe the precepts and conduct yourself according to the regulations.” As Wu Aizhen spoke, she glanced at Gao Shui, who was staring blankly at all of this.
Master Liaokong was taken aback, a glimmer of tears welling in his eyes. He pressed his palms together and said with reverence, “I will remember, Laywoman Wu. Thank you for your guidance.” Wu Aizhen felt like crying too. Looking at this ordained monk, so unconstrained in his nature, so heedless of petty conventions, she knew the tears stirring in his eyes came from compassion. Yet even aside from working for the accomplishment of sentient beings, there were certain precepts he had to strictly uphold. Otherwise, he would be unable to truly realize and sustain the awakened state of “mind itself is Buddha.” His path of experiential realization was still long; with the protection of the precepts, he could avoid many detours. But she no longer had any doubt that Master Liaokong could “realize and enter the Buddha’s wisdom.” He would deepen into it in time, and reach perfect attainment. At this thought, a smile of gratified relief bloomed on Wu Aizhen’s face.
“Laywoman Wu, could you explain this diagram to me? For instance, can an Arhat of the four fruits also directly awaken into the Buddha’s wisdom? According to my previous understanding, Arhats do not generate a sufficiently great aspiration; they set out with the aim of ‘realizing nirvana.’ Therefore, after they attain the fruition of Arhatship, they destroy the body and extinguish wisdom, or they abide in samadhi, with body and mind returning to the primordial state of the universe—to cessation—and taking cessation as bliss. But from the perspective of the Dharma Realm, this kind of cessation is only a temporary ‘appearance of cessation.’ One day there will be ‘a single movement’—also called ‘a single awakening’ or ‘a single return of the yang’—and after this movement, the Arhat will emerge from samadhi and return to the myriad existences of the Dharma Realm. If they are unable to see emptiness within all the wonderful existence of the Dharma Realm, they will fall back into the dualistic temporal and spatial discriminations of movement and stillness, and thus fall back into the cycle of rebirth in the six paths—only that, by the power of their samadhi, they will not descend. Therefore, Arhats who abide in the samadhi of cessation and take cessation as bliss still cannot transcend the Three Realms, nor have they reached the state of the transformation body Buddha.”
“You are quite right,” Wu Aizhen said, taking up Master Liaokong’s point. “But look at the diagram: for an Arhat of the four fruits to awaken into the Buddha’s wisdom, there is still the condition of ‘the non-duality of compassion and emptiness.’ In fact, once an Arhat realizes the fourth fruit, compassion arises simultaneously. It is only because the aspiration was not sufficiently broad and the insight into emptiness not sufficiently deep that the compassion appears insufficiently great. That is speaking in terms of realized measure. Speaking in terms of mind-dharma, during the Buddha’s time in the world, there were also many Arhats of the four fruits who, through their insight into the non-duality of compassion and emptiness, directly entered the state of the transformation body Buddha and awakened into the Buddha’s wisdom.
Take the first patriarch among the twenty-eight Indian patriarchs of the Chan School, the Venerable Kasyapa. At the Vulture Peak Dharma assembly, when the Buddha held up a flower and remained silent, Kasyapa was able to break into a subtle smile—his mind sealing with the Buddha’s mind, apprehending the Buddha’s wordless wisdom and receiving the Buddha’s mind-transmission. This is ‘Chan.’ (This is what the Buddha-dharma, through the Tripitaka and the twelve divisions of the scriptures, has sought to elaborate, illustrate, annotate, and expound again and again, wanting to explain, wanting to tell people—yet it is without form or mark, beyond words. All the written texts, all the Dharma doors, are its preparatory practices, all the groundwork laid to reveal it. Chan has no trajectory, no stages, no cultivation and realization. In the moment of your sudden awakening, everything ever done for it vanishes without a trace in the mind, like waking all at once from a long, long dream.)
Nevertheless, because of their aspiration and because the entire process of their cultivation—leaving behind emotion and cutting off desire—formed insufficient virtuous connections with sentient beings, and further constrained by the Hinayana precepts, Arhats of the four fruits in whom compassion has arisen are still unable, like the practitioners of the Mahayana and Vajrayana, to perfect themselves even as they deliver sentient beings. Nor can they cause the Buddha-dharma to spread more widely in different social environments and reach sentient beings of varying faculties and capacities. When the Buddha first began to teach the Dharma, the vast majority of his disciples in the human realm had only planted virtuous roots in past lives and had no awakening. Therefore, in that first lifetime, he could only begin by teaching the Hinayana Dharma. Yet throughout Shakyamuni’s entire life—from his birth, his leaving of the home-life, his cultivation of the Way, his realization of the Way, his propagation of the Dharma, to his entry into nirvana—although he dwelled in the world in the form of an Arhat, his wisdom already manifested the accomplishment of the three bodies. Thus, after the Buddha and his disciples successively entered nirvana, those Arhats of the four fruits who had already entered the Buddha’s wisdom would still return to the human world to perfect the Dharmakaya and the Sambhogakaya and to demonstrate, in the human realm, the Buddha-wisdom of the three bodies in full perfection.
The emergence of the Mahayana and the Vajrayana was therefore inevitable—not merely required for the propagation and continued presence of the Buddha-dharma, but also required by those compassion-arising Arhats who needed to realize the perfection of the three bodies. So I believe that Shakyamuni, from the moment he first appeared in the world and began teaching his disciples, used the teaching of the three bodies all along, leading them through the human realm over a span of a thousand years to complete the Hinayana, the Mahayana, and the Vajrayana, and together with his disciples perfectly demonstrated the path to Buddhahood through the accomplishment of the three bodies. The primary demonstration of the Hinayana was in India; the Mahayana spread over a wider area, with a greater scope of manifestation. But the true demonstration of his disciples’ attainment of Buddhahood occurred in China—it was the emergence of the Chan School. Chan is the ultimate truth that the Buddha, in the human realm, ultimately wished his disciples to awaken to. It departs from language, departs from all appearances. It is the sudden awakening and perfect attainment at the fruition stage of all the vehicles. It is the mind of all Buddhas.”
After Wu Aizhen finished, she looked at Master Liaokong. His face was solemn, and he had been thinking seriously as he listened. “I’ll need to verify this slowly. On some points, my view differs from yours. May I take this diagram?”
“Of course,” Wu Aizhen said. Gao Shui, sitting beside them, had been listening to Wu Aizhen’s words too, but he seemed not to have understood very much. His eyes were full of confusion, utterly lost…
The next day after lunch, Master Liaokong said to Master Cisheng with a cheerful grin, “Cisheng, from now on you must give me more guidance on the rules of deportment. If you see me doing anything wrong, you must point it out, and I will certainly correct it.” Wu Aizhen and Gao Shui were both stunned, for they knew full well that Master Liaokong had always believed Master Cisheng cultivated only the surface and not the mind — to use Liaokong’s own words, he was stuffed full of Greed, Anger, and Delusion and only knew how to put on a good show. Liaokong had always dismissed Cisheng’s cultivation with contempt. Sometimes when the two sat together, each wore his own look of arrogance, neither yielding to the other. So to hear Liaokong speak so earnestly today, saying he wanted to receive Cisheng’s instruction, left them momentarily unable to tell whether he was serious or not. Sure enough, Master Cisheng also mistook it for mockery. He gave a thin, embarrassed smile, his solemn mealtime expression instantly shifting, and said, “Liaokong, we’ve been together here long enough. If you have any complaints about me, please just come out with them. Don’t be so polite and so modest — I don’t deserve it.” Liaokong immediately grew serious, his face almost rigid, and said, “Cisheng, I’m in earnest. I’ve done a lot of reflecting these past few days. I feel that even if I haven’t attained realization, I should at least look the part of a monk, and I think you’ve always been better than me in that regard. Do I need to make a full prostration before you’ll believe me?”
Master Cisheng waved his hand at once and said, “No need to stand on ceremony, no need. I’ll speak up. But if I go too far at times, you mustn’t lose your temper. For example — could you lighten your footsteps a little when you walk? Not too light, though. Your soles drag along the ground like your shoes have no heels.” Master Liaokong was taken aback. He hadn’t expected Cisheng to be so blunt, launching straight into instruction, and this particular fault was already the third time he had been told about it. He looked into Cisheng’s eyes and thought to himself, how is it that his eyes are always fixed on my feet? He had long ago resolved to fix this habit; he only forgot whenever he was in a rush and never quite managed to correct it. Did Cisheng possess any “wisdom” capable of spotting other problems of his? Surely he wouldn’t just keep harping on this one issue forever. He felt rather dispirited.
“All right, I’ll be mindful of it,” said Master Liaokong, taking his bowl and going back to his room. Master Cisheng gathered his own bowl and left as well. Gao Shui wanted to laugh but was afraid it would burst out, so he covered his mouth and scurried back to his room. From that day on, however, the sound of Master Liaokong’s heavy footsteps was never heard in the temple again.
Gao Shui gained a great deal at the small temple. Although he had taken Master Liaokong as his teacher, he essentially learned from all three masters. Even though Master Cisheng had never accepted him as a disciple, the everyday words and conduct and the debates among them all benefited him immensely. One could see that he often felt deep gratitude; he threw himself into all the temple chores, practically taking over the cooking, sweeping the courtyard, and feeding the dogs entirely on his own.
Master Liaokong and Wu Aizhen had several more debates on Chan. His actual experiential realization had advanced considerably compared to before, and he had also begun attending to the rules of deportment in walking, standing, sitting, and lying down, hoping to restrain the mind through the discipline of conduct.
Ever since Gao Shui arrived at the temple, the two dogs grew plumper by the day. Aside from Gao Shui feeding them diligently, every morning just as Wu Aizhen got up she would hear Gao Shui calling the dogs’ names as he took them for a run in the hills behind the temple. The running in the mountains, combined with a little wild game they caught, made the two dogs stronger day by day, and their coats grew glossy and black, as though ugly ducklings had suddenly grown into swans. One day a visitor crouched in front of the doghouse studying them for a long time, then said to Wu Aizhen that the two dogs were a fine breed, their bloodline apparently from France. Wu Aizhen knew nothing about dogs, so she asked Master Liaokong and Gao Shui to clarify the breed. Liaokong said he had known all along that Flying Snow and Taxue were no ordinary dogs; they belonged to a very famous French breed. “But such valuable dogs are worth a lot on the market. How did they end up as strays?” Gao Shui asked, puzzled. Only then did Master Liaokong tell the story of how Flying Snow and Taxue had come to them. It turned out that not far from Huaishui Town, a Boss Zheng had once run a kennel. Boss Zheng was not a local, and the people at his kennel rarely interacted with the townspeople; all anyone knew was that he raised dogs. In a large compound he kept over a hundred dogs, and a “mute” man at the gatehouse often came into town to buy provisions. The “mute” got to know Master Liaokong. Once when Liaokong went shopping in town he ran into him again, and the “mute,” with vigorous gestures and pointing, led him outside town to show him a large cardboard box. Inside were two puppies, a month old, scrawny and nearly on their last breath. Liaokong understood what the “mute” meant and took in the two dogs. Only later did he hear from the townspeople that Boss Zheng’s kennel had been a front for drug trafficking. It had been shut down by the Public Security Bureau, and the staff had all been taken away. Only the “mute,” who knew nothing and was half-deaf and half-simple, had escaped arrest. The dogs from the kennel had all been hauled away in a large truck. Whether these two puppies had been overlooked in the rush or deliberately abandoned, no one could say. The villagers kept dogs to guard their homes; they only cared that a dog be strong. Scrawny, dying pups nobody wanted — that was why the “mute” had sought out Master Liaokong. Sometimes, it seemed, the “mute” was not so simple after all.
Once Gao Shui learned the dogs’ background, he became even more devoted to them. Wu Aizhen often heard him in the courtyard calling out the names “Flying Snow” and “Taxue,” as if training them. One day after lunch, Gao Shui actually announced that Flying Snow would perform a little act for everyone. He brought Flying Snow over and said, “Sit.” Flying Snow obediently settled into a half-squat before the two masters, pink tongue out, gazing at Master Liaokong with hesitant, tender eyes, and tilted her round head slightly to one side as if playing to an audience. This made Wu Aizhen and Master Liaokong laugh, but Master Cisheng remained expressionless, watching coldly.
“Lift up your hand!” Gao Shui said. Flying Snow obediently raised one paw and held it in midair. Gao Shui happily took hold of that “hand” and said, “Good Flying Snow, good.” Then he pulled something from his pocket and fed it to Flying Snow.
Master Liaokong said jokingly, “You can’t go confusing paws and hands, can you?”
“All beings are equal, all beings are equal,” Gao Shui said humorously. Master Liaokong stared wide-eyed at this mischievous, quick-witted disciple, completely at a loss.
“What are you rewarding her with, chocolate drops?” Wu Aizhen asked. She had seen that what Gao Shui pulled from his pocket was brown.
“No, it’s an egg pancake I made specially for Flying Snow and Taxue. I mixed several eggs with flour into little pieces and pan-fried them in a little oil.”
“Gao Shui, from now on you are not to prepare eggs at the temple.” In his delight, Gao Shui had let slip his secret, and Master Cisheng seized on it. “And no wasting oil feeding dogs, either.”
Gao Shui lowered his head. As he answered Master Cisheng, he escorted Flying Snow back to the doghouse. Taxue was squatting beside it, watching what was happening over here. Seeing Flying Snow return, Taxue immediately licked her neck, then looked over again at the masters, as if to say, “See? You can be as good as you like — not everyone’s going to like you for it.”
The next afternoon, Master Liaokong and Gao Shui went into the back hills to gather herbs after lunch. Wu Aizhen’s lungs were weak, and with the dampness in her room during this period she had developed a cough. Master Liaokong said there was an herb in the mountains that could treat coughs, and he went with Gao Shui to collect it. Toward evening, three men arrived. The moment they entered the gate, a squat, potbellied man among them shouted, “Master Cisheng! Great monk!” Wu Aizhen recognized him as the town mayor’s third son. She had heard he ran a restaurant in the city; he had come to the temple a few times before, always bringing friends from the city to hunt in the mountains and stopping in at the temple to sit, have some water, and chat. He was on fairly familiar terms with Master Cisheng. The potbellied man was skilled at flattery. He often raised his thumb and praised Master Cisheng as a true great monk who would surely realize Buddhahood one day, while people like himself were certainly bound for hell, and he hoped Master Cisheng would come and save them when the time came. Wu Aizhen observed that although Master Cisheng detested their hunting, he was not at all immune to their flattery, and a smile he could not entirely conceal would often surface on his face.
As Wu Aizhen had been feeling unwell these past few days, she increased her sitting meditation. She returned to her room, shut the door, and sat down to meditate. She did not know how much time had passed when suddenly several piercing, agonized howls rang out. Just emerging from samadhi, Wu Aizhen’s mind could not immediately register what had happened. But within a few minutes she realized what those howls meant. She rose at once from her seat and dashed out of the room. Only Taxue remained tethered in front of the doghouse, pacing restlessly in circles and emitting low growls. Seeing Wu Aizhen approach, Taxue looked at her with desperate eyes, a mournful whimper rising from her throat. Wu Aizhen dashed out of the temple. On a clearing not far away, several people stood gathered in a circle looking at something, and both masters and Gao Shui were there. Her heart settled a little. She walked over and saw Flying Snow caught in a net, lying in a pool of blood on the ground.
The mayor’s third son was all apologetic smiles as he said to Master Liaokong, “Master Cisheng agreed to the sale. I’ve already given the money to the great monk. One dog is enough to guard a small temple — feeding two big dogs like this costs too much. Isn’t that right, Master Cisheng?”
Master Cisheng still had not recovered from his shock. He stared blankly at the smiling face before him.
“You said you were taking her back to raise. You even said she was a fine breed.”
“Hey, this dog was too fierce. She bit people. We couldn’t take her with us.” Facing two monks, the mayor’s third son seemed somewhat guilty, his tone audibly losing confidence. Beside him, a skinny little man was pressing a hand to his cheek, as if he had just taken a punch, and was glaring resentfully at Master Liaokong.
“It was you! You killed Flying Snow!” Gao Shui screamed madly at Master Cisheng.
Master Cisheng’s face went deathly pale. He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket, handed it back to the mayor’s third son, then turned and walked back into the temple without a word.
The mayor’s third son froze for a moment, then stuffed the money back into his trouser pocket. He glanced at Flying Snow on the ground and said, “Let’s go. Dealing with monks is nothing but trouble.” The other two were clearly also cowed by Master Liaokong’s seething anger and Gao Shui’s crazed state, and they left, sullen and resentful. As they went, they complained to each other: “I said let’s take her back and kill her there, but you had to do it right here. Now we can’t even eat the meat. And a fine breed, too — the meat would have tasted great.”
“Bah! Easy for you to say now. After seeing how vicious that dog was, do you really think you could have led her all the way back to the city?”
The men drifted away as they talked. Wu Aizhen, Master Liaokong, and Gao Shui stood frozen in place, looking at the calamity that had so suddenly descended upon this once-peaceful little temple.
“Bury Flying Snow,” said Master Liaokong. He had steadied himself; his low voice held nothing but sorrow. Wu Aizhen could not bear to look at Gao Shui’s face, still less to look at Flying Snow — who only yesterday had performed her little act so sweetly in the courtyard, hoping to win people’s applause, and who now lay in a pool of blood. She fled back to her room.
The little temple returned to quiet, but the whole atmosphere was oppressive. The heaviness came mainly from the strain between Gao Shui and Master Cisheng. Though no one mentioned Flying Snow anymore, the incident seemed to have dealt the heaviest blow to these two, and for a long time the shadow of Flying Snow’s brutal death still hung over them. Gao Shui often crouched by the doghouse, trying to engage Taxue. Taxue refused food for about half a month, whimpering constantly, growing much thinner, as if she knew her companion had died a violent death. Master Cisheng’s face was no longer merely solemn; it had grown somewhat dark. He spoke even less, and a smile was rarely seen on his face. Master Liaokong had quickly recovered his composure and went about his daily business in the same orderly manner as always. As for Wu Aizhen, she felt a profound compassion for Flying Snow’s death; she simply devoted herself with greater selflessness and vigor to cultivation and realization. She chanted mantras and recited sutras in the main hall to deliver Flying Snow, and she prayed before the image of Guanyin Bodhisattva, wishing that she might soon attain enlightenment and rescue the suffering sentient beings trapped in the cycle of rebirth through the six paths, wishing that sentient beings might accumulate more virtuous causes and blessings so as not to fall into the three lower realms — the animal realm, the realm of hungry ghosts, and the hells.
The weather gradually warmed. Visitors to the small temple increased in number, many of them from the city. They would park their cars in Huaishui Town and hike up the mountain on foot. Half the road from Huaishui Town to the small temple was so rough and uneven that one could not even ride a bicycle over it. But city folk, long accustomed to paved asphalt roads, found it unexpectedly pleasant to walk these rugged mountain paths, taking in the scenery and picking wildflowers along the way.
Of course, besides the devoted worshippers who came to bow to the Buddha, many visitors came simply to drink water and rest their legs at the small temple, bowing to the Bodhisattva as they passed through. One often heard people exclaiming in admiration at the temple’s name, Wuzhuo Temple, and remarking that though the temple was small, it was deeply tranquil and dignified. Only at such moments would anyone see a trace of genuine joy rise on Master Cisheng’s face. His manner toward visitors had grown warmer and more sincere than before, and much of his former arrogance had faded.
He had just seen off another group of visitors and returned to his room, sitting on his meditation cushion as usual. It was dinnertime, and he knew that Master Liaokong and two lay followers were eating in the kitchen. Cisheng kept the precept of not eating after noon, but after explaining the murals to tourists his mouth had gone dry, so he drank a cup of plain boiled water.
Since Flying Snow’s death, Gao Shui had nursed a grievance against him. The reverence he once showed Cisheng had been replaced with coldness, which deeply unsettled Cisheng. The dog’s miserable death had shaken him, too—especially when Gao Shui shouted that he was the one who had killed Flying Snow. Cisheng could not bear the charge of killing. That day, when the town mayor’s third son offered four hundred yuan for a dog, Cisheng’s mind wavered. He had his private need: he still hadn’t raised enough money for his pilgrimage, and he needed it. Besides, he’d always believed that a monk’s business was cultivation and strict observance of the precepts; wasting time on mundane chores like feeding dogs was misguided. The temple was tiny, with two dogs. The mayor had said there were wild boars in the hills, but Cisheng had never seen one and had never heard of anyone being hurt by one. Since he could sell a dog for money to fund his pilgrimage—which seemed reasonable for a monk—he thought Liaokong would understand and agree, so he made the decision on his own. When the men came to take the dogs, they saw that Flying Snow was tame and docile, so they led her away. What Cisheng hadn’t expected was that they planned to kill and eat her.
That day, when he heard Flying Snow’s first agonized howl, he rushed out and saw the men not far away beating the dog on the ground with a wooden club. By the time he reached them, Flying Snow was nearly dead, her legs twitching. The dog’s eyes were full of sorrow and despair; she kept looking at Cisheng, as if begging for rescue, and then slowly closed her eyes. Every time Cisheng remembered that scene, his heart was stabbed with pain. In a flash of clarity, he felt that Gao Shui had been right—he had been an accomplice, and Flying Snow had died because of him. He didn’t even like dogs. He recalled the countless times both dogs had shown him friendliness, to which he had responded only with coldness and disgust. He’d never once gone to the doghouse; it was too dirty and smelled terrible. It was only after Flying Snow’s death that he truly looked squarely at these two living beings that had shared the small temple with him for over a year. He began to wonder if he had become too cold—not only toward dogs but toward people as well, long lacking in love and warmth. He began to examine his own cultivation from within. His outward behavior had been impeccable: for almost three years, he’d earned the approval of nearly all the lay followers in Huaishui Town. When they praised him, he felt proud. Although Liaokong said he was only putting on a surface show, Cisheng had chalked that up to jealousy and had never truly looked into the depths of his own heart.
A silvery voice rang out in the courtyard. “Liaokong Shifu, my shop got in that kind of pickled mustard greens you asked for last time. I brought you some.” It was Yufen. “Ah, so late! I was planning to go to town tomorrow. Quick, have a seat,” Liaokong replied warmly.
Cisheng’s mind swayed out of its brooding. On any other day, he might have gotten up, deliberately or not, to peek through the window at whatever was happening in the courtyard. But today he stayed still, as if he’d suddenly caught a glimpse of his own despicable inner state. To be honest, he had suspected something unclear between Liaokong and Yufen. The way Liaokong treated her warmly and the tender look in Yufen’s eyes had made him wonder. Once, during the Buddha’s birthday celebration, when lay followers from Huaishui gathered at the temple for a Dharma service, he’d even overheard gossip: people said Liaokong often went to Yufen’s little shop to buy things and that they were unusually close. He had once tried to caution Liaokong, but Liaokong glared at him with bull’s eyes and all but roared, “You’ve got nothing better to do than listen to gossip? I’m a monk—how could I have improper thoughts about a young girl? Besides, I’m more than ten years older than her. Even if I were willing, would a girl like her be interested in me?”
Those few words made Cisheng feel like a shabby gossip-spreader. But the truth was that whenever he heard Yufen’s voice, his face flushed and his heart raced; he didn’t dare face his own thoughts. Several times when Yufen greeted him face to face, he couldn’t look her in the eye. He’d stare at the tips of his toes, outwardly dignified but inwardly a mess, practically able to hear his own pounding heartbeat. Every time she came near, he almost always fled from the pull of her scent. He could hear Yufen softly praising him to others: “Cisheng Shifu’s cultivation is so good—he won’t even look at a woman.” What troubled him most, though, was something else. Ever since Yufen’s soft, sweet voice had taken up residence in his heart, he often recalled the girlfriend he’d had before leaving the home-life—the one he had been engaged to. He had once sneaked a look at Yufen from a distance: she was slender and graceful, with almond eyes and a round face, and her laugh was crisp and lovely. His former girlfriend had been just as pretty. After their engagement, they had lived together a few times, but later trivial matters caused them to break the engagement. Although others later matched him a few times, his heart had gone cold on marriage, and that was why he had left the home-life. Lately, that woman kept appearing in his dreams—sometimes it was Yufen—and the dreams shamed him. Several times he had dreamt that he was embracing them tightly, naked, and each time he woke with a nocturnal emission he couldn’t control. Just now, hearing Yufen’s voice outside had stirred him… He suddenly saw how filthy and ugly his heart was. Maybe Liaokong was right: his inner state and his outward behavior didn’t match; his cultivation and certification were only a surface show, while inside he hid many things he couldn’t bear to reveal. At that thought, he closed his eyes and fought to keep his mind from running to the courtyard, from imagining what was happening there. Yet sounds still drifted in: Yufen was leaving, and Liaokong was saying, “I’ll see you off.” His feelings grew tangled and unbearably painful. He didn’t know how Liaokong handled these feelings that arose with women, but he had noticed that, apart from a certain special warmth toward Yufen, Liaokong was quite natural with other women. He sometimes envied Liaokong’s composure and ease around laywomen—something Cisheng could never manage; he could never strike the right measure…
At these thoughts, his heart grew heavy. He felt like a hypocrite who couldn’t bear the light. All the praise he’d received, all the dignified discipline he’d displayed day after day, could no longer prop up his self-confidence. With every wobble of his mind and spirit, all his pride crumbled, bit by bit. The darkness within struggled against the deliberate outward solemnity. He was losing control of his own body and mind; he wanted to roar, to weep, to laugh, to let loose. But he did none of that. In other people’s eyes, he was still Cisheng Shifu, “strict in precepts and discipline”…
One day Yufen came again, also around dusk. Liaokong, Wu Aizhen, and Gao Shui had just finished eating. Strangely, the moment Liaokong saw Yufen step into the kitchen, he offered only a lukewarm greeting and hurried back to his own room—completely different from his former warmth. Yufen noticed; her face clouded at once, and her eyes seemed to brim with tears. She set a few packages of dried black fungus on the table and was about to leave when Wu Aizhen called her back. “Yufen, come sit in my room for a bit.” Yufen said nothing but followed her.
“Did you and Liaokong Shifu have a falling out?” Wu Aizhen asked directly.
At that, Yufen began to sob softly. Wu Aizhen sat beside her, watched her cry in sorrow, and said nothing more.
“Laywoman Wu, can you help me with something?” Yufen lifted her head, her eyes still wet and red, and looked at Wu Aizhen.
“Tell me, what is it?”
“Persuade Liaokong Shifu to leave the monastic life.” Wu Aizhen was greatly shocked to hear this.
“You like Liaokong Shifu?”
“Mm!” Yufen nodded.
“Have you told him? What did he say?”
“Last time, when he walked me home, I told him what was in my heart. He scolded me, said I was bewitched—how could I like a monk. This time he doesn’t even want to look at me. But I think he likes me too. Laywoman Wu, monks can leave the monastic life, can’t they? I’m sincere. I don’t need him to have power or money; I admire his character. Liaokong Shifu is honest, kind, and widely knowledgeable. We never run out of things to talk about. He just wants to cultivate. If he leaves the monastic life, he could help me run the supermarket, and I’d do all I could to support his cultivation. Liaokong Shifu has praised you to me, said your cultivation is very good. You haven’t left the home-life either, right? So cultivation doesn’t necessarily require leaving the home-life.”
Wu Aizhen fell silent. Facing Yufen’s yearning eyes, burning with love, and the frank, innocent confession of a simple girl, she didn’t know what to say for a moment.
Yufen wasn’t the Matangi girl from the sutras. What she wanted wasn’t a fleeting pleasure with Liaokong Shifu; she longed for a pure feeling. Nor did she have a mother from a non-Buddhist path who could use spells to fulfill her longing. She could only beg Wu Aizhen for help. And Liaokong Shifu would certainly never enjoy Ananda’s good fortune—having the Buddha wield the Shurangama Mantra through his spiritual powers and send Manjushri Bodhisattva to rescue him at the moment he was about to break his precepts. Liaokong would have to face this karmic bond alone. But running away wasn’t a solution. You can escape the person, but can you escape your heart? Facing a girl this pure-hearted and lovely, could Liaokong Shifu get through this? Wu Aizhen knew that for all his rough temper, Liaokong’s heart was far too soft.
After thinking for a long while, Wu Aizhen finally said, “Everyone’s causes and conditions for attaining enlightenment are different. Liaokong Shifu has already taken on the appearance of a monk; perhaps he is suited to attain enlightenment through leaving the home-life. If he isn’t willing to return to lay life, I hope you can let go of this feeling. After all, Liaokong Shifu is an ordained monk who has received the precepts. According to the Buddhist precepts, if one uses physical allure to tempt a monk who already holds a pure precept-body, the karmic consequences are very grave.” Wu Aizhen spoke these words with great reluctance.
“I’m not afraid. And I’m not trying to tempt him with my looks. I want him to leave the monastic life so we can get married openly and honorably,” Yufen said, feeling wronged.
“Perhaps I spoke too harshly. I understand your feelings, and I know your heart is true toward Liaokong Shifu. But from what I know of him, his cultivation is very vigorous, and his power of vows is immense—he has vowed to shoulder the Tathagata’s work. If he leaves the monastic life to marry, it will affect his cultivation.”
“How do you know? Liaokong Shifu once told me that Mahayana bodhisattvas put benefiting sentient beings first. Isn’t benefiting sentient beings about fulfilling their wishes? Why can’t he fulfill my wish?”
Wu Aizhen didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Yufen was applying the idea of fulfilling beings’ wishes to a personal feeling—and while that wasn’t wrong, if every being demanded fulfillment like this from those walking the Mahayana path, wouldn’t the Mahayana bodhisattvas all have to grow a thousand hands and a thousand eyes, manifesting billions of transformation bodies?
“Yufen, Liaokong Shifu is a very good teacher. There’s nothing wrong with liking him. But think about it: if he gave up his precepts and left the monastic life to fulfill your wish, even if you could support his cultivation wholeheartedly, what would the townspeople say? Some people would inevitably misunderstand and blame him. And at his current level of cultivation and certification, he wouldn’t be able to bear that pressure. Even if he didn’t care about gossip for the sake of your love, by my years of cultivation and my judgment of him, leaving the monastic life would severely affect his cultivation and certification, both physically and mentally. If after you married he couldn’t fulfill the vows he made before the Buddha, his heart would be unwilling, he wouldn’t be able to let go, and all sorts of obstacles would arise, harming your feelings and family life.
“Besides, a monk like Liaokong Shifu—if he can attain enlightenment soon—will do much to spread and propagate the Dharma, benefiting beings throughout the Three Realms and Six Paths. That includes not only you, but also your loved ones through countless lives, your friends through countless lives. Some of them may even be suffering in the Three Lower Realms right now.
“And from what I’ve observed, Liaokong Shifu is at a critical point in his cultivation right now. If he can break through this barrier, his cultivation and certification will make a qualitative leap. For his sake—so he can quickly attain enlightenment and benefit more beings—can you keep this love in your heart? Don’t disturb Liaokong Shifu any more. You know, for all his rough surface, his heart is truly kind. If a girl as beautiful and full of feeling as you wept before him, he might not be able to bear it, nor be able to harden his heart and look away. He might even give up attaining enlightenment for you. Would you want him to give up his vows across lifetime after lifetime for your sake?! Could you bear it, that a teacher should abandon realizing the Way for your personal feeling, leaving countless beings connected to him without salvation?
“You have been with Master Liaokong for a long time, and I believe you have been influenced by him and understand a good deal about the Dharma. You know the current state of Buddhism: there are very few ordained masters who have truly awakened and have real attainment, but the sentient beings of the Three Realms are thirsting, the propagation of the Dharma is thirsting, thirsting for more teachers like Master Liaokong who cultivate with such vigor. For the sake of the Dharma, for the benefit of sentient beings, can you sacrifice your personal feelings?
“If Master Liaokong does not return to lay life, perhaps you can still find an ideal husband and keep Master Liaokong as the most trustworthy friend of this lifetime. If he returns to lay life, your life together might not necessarily be happy. But in the work of Buddhism, we would likely lose an outstanding Dharma teacher who could ‘shoulder the Tathagata’s work.’ Can you understand what I am saying?” Wu Aizhen spoke with some emotion.
Yufen kept her head down, twisting a corner of her clothing tightly in both hands, and said nothing.
After a pause, Yufen suddenly raised her head and said evenly, “Laywoman Wu, I love Master Liaokong. Right now I still cannot completely let go, but I will handle my feelings rationally. I won’t live so selfishly. Perhaps fulfilling his vow-power is the best expression of my love for him. In truth, I have also struggled inwardly over the idea of his returning to lay life, felt conflicted, with many misgivings and pressures. But sometimes when the passion flares up, I’m not that rational and can’t be bothered about all those things. I haven’t studied the Dharma for long and don’t understand all the causes and conditions, but if you say that his returning to lay life will affect his cultivation, then let him remain a renunciant. He once told me that attaining enlightenment is his greatest wish in this life and that he will not let anything affect it. I hope I can help him attain enlightenment, not create obstacles.”
“Thank you, Yufen, thank you for understanding.” Wu Aizhen was moved; she felt her eyes on the verge of growing moist.
“Laywoman Wu, I still have some questions to ask you. I’ve been studying the Pure Land method with an old laywoman in the village. She says that as long as you recite the name of Amitabha Buddha every day, you can be reborn in the Land of Ultimate Bliss at the end of your life. I have some doubts—isn’t it too simple? Can you really be reborn in the Land of Ultimate Bliss that way? And going to rebirth carrying your karma? I asked Master Liaokong about it, and he said you have to recite with body, speech, and mind unified. But how do you unify body, speech, and mind? My mind is still not at ease, and I want to hear your view.”
“Master Liaokong is not wrong, but being able to recite the Buddha’s name to the point where body, speech, and mind are unified, to the state of single-minded concentration without distraction, and to maintain that state at all times without scattering even at the moment of death—that is already a very deep state of Chan samadhi. For someone without any depth of concentration practice, it is quite difficult. That is why many Pure Land masters recommend ‘dual cultivation of Chan and Pure Land.’
Because at the time of our death, many states will disturb the consciousness—for instance, seeing terrifying states or experiencing the pain of the separation of the four elements. A person without any foundation in concentration will only want to flee quickly or dwell in the state of suffering, lacking the correct view and realized measure to see all states as dreams, illusions, bubbles, and shadows. In such a state, it is very difficult to recall and recite the Buddha’s name. But someone who has trained in concentration will be different. When facing all sorts of illusory realms, the mind will not scatter and become lost; it will easily recall the Buddha’s name and be received. So this belongs to ‘rebirth through the power of concentration.’
But that does not mean one cannot be reborn without cultivating the power of concentration. There is also ‘rebirth through vow-power and merit.’ That is, while reciting the Buddha’s name, even if one lacks the concentration of single-mindedness without distraction, one must in daily life put emphasis on generating Bodhicitta and accumulating merit. Because the Western Land is a world manifested by the vow-power and merit of Amitabha Buddha. We should make the vow to cultivate ‘for the benefit of sentient beings of the Three Realms,’ regularly give rise to wholesome thoughts, practice all kinds of virtuous deeds, be forgiving and help others, do open and honorable things, and reduce selfishness, evil, and deception. In this way, at the time of death, auspicious and joyful states will be many, and it will be easier to give rise to joy in the mind, to recall the Buddha’s name, and to resonate with the vow-power, merit, and compassion of the Three Sages of the West, and be easily received. This is rebirth achieved through the accumulation of vow-power and merit, by using the method of resonating with the minds of the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas.
There is another method: to recite the Buddha’s name in all four postures—walking, standing, sitting, and lying down—so that the mind hardly ever forgets it for a moment, and this Buddha-name is imprinted on your body, speech, and mind. Then even in a crisis you can spontaneously utter ‘Namo Amitabha Buddha.’ At the time of death, whether you encounter terrifying or ecstatic states, you will rely on the strength previously cultivated through permeation and blurt out ‘Namo Amitabha Buddha.’ Although it is a single thought without deliberate intention, it can still bring about reception and rebirth. But this method of imprinting the Buddha-name on the mind, of almost making Buddha-recitation a ‘habitual tendency,’ actually also belongs to ‘rebirth through the power of concentration.’
Although Pure Land teachings speak of going to rebirth carrying one’s karma, one who has created much evil karma cannot be reborn there. Because at the time of death, the traces left on the nature of the mind make one more easily drawn in by the light and states of karmic force. Even if the Three Sages of the West come to receive you, since your heart during life could not resonate with the Buddha’s compassion and universal love, in the dying state you will also not be able to resonate with that light. Because Amitabha Buddha and the Bodhisattvas are light-bodies, a darkened mind will fear that light of ‘love.’ You may even reject it or be pulled along by states of karmic force and unwilling to go.
Unless it is an extremely rare case of a person of great evil and treachery who, at the moment of death, can ‘lay down the butcher’s knife’ and turn a single thought toward goodness. Because his great evil and treachery would have also cultivated a kind of ‘power of concentration’ in cold cruelty, he relies on this concentration to remain unmoved when facing all kinds of evil illusory states. Moreover, when he lays down the butcher’s knife at death, there will certainly arise in his heart a tremendous ‘power of repentance’ for his past deeds. Relying on this concentration and the power of repentance, it is also easy to resonate with the compassion of the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas and be received. But this kind of situation is very rare.
But no matter which method, there is one common, essential factor: the person in the dying state must be able to recall the Buddha’s name in his own mind. Only then can he be received by the Western Land.”
Wu Aizhen repeated and elaborated on her insights into the Pure Land method in great detail, worried that Yufen might not understand.
“I understand. You spoke of three methods: the method of ‘rebirth through concentration power by reciting with body, speech, and mind unified’; the ‘method of vow-power and merit resonance’; and the ‘method of daily Buddha-recitation permeated to become a habitual tendency.’ You also said that while Pure Land cultivation allows for rebirth carrying one’s karma, those who commit evil cannot easily be reborn there. And that no matter what state you are in, you must not forget to recite the Buddha’s name. Did I get it right?” Yufen’s bright, intelligent eyes looked at Wu Aizhen carefully and earnestly, as if afraid she had remembered something incorrectly.
“Right! You’re very clever,” Wu Aizhen praised her. Yufen blushed and smiled shyly, then said, “I also heard Master Liaokong once say that someone who cultivates the Chan School, by instantly awakening in a single thought, can see the Pure Land in this very world. Does that mean a Chan practitioner who has awakened can see the Western Land here in this world?”
“No. The ‘Pure Land’ spoken of after a Chan practitioner’s sudden awakening refers to the Pure Land that manifests when, through seeing one’s nature, the mind is purified. This is the world as seen through the eyes of a Buddha. Because in the eyes of a Buddha, all worlds are pure lands. The distinction between pure and defiled is only for sentient beings who have karma. Because sentient beings cling to appearances, because they discriminate and attach, the ‘Pure Land’ here does not refer to the Land of Ultimate Bliss alone; it includes all worlds. If a Chan practitioner can freely enter and leave this awakened state or has the capacity to sustain it, then at death he can choose a world to be reborn in according to his wish. He already has this capacity. For example, if he wishes to go to the Land of Ultimate Bliss, even if he has never practiced the Pure Land method or long recited the names of Amitabha Buddha or Guanyin Bodhisattva, he need only be able to recall the name of Amitabha Buddha or Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva in his mind at the time of death, and he can be reborn in the Land of Ultimate Bliss as he wishes. Of course, the level of that rebirth will differ according to his level of realization.”
Wu Aizhen paused and studied Yufen’s eyes for a moment, trying to see how much she understood.
“I understand. It means that once you attain realization through Chan practice, you can freely choose your rebirth—not only to the Western Land but also to the worlds of other Buddhas. But this ‘realization’ is very hard to attain, isn’t it?” Yufen repeated what Wu Aizhen had said simply, showing that she had grasped it.
A trace of pleasant surprise flickered through Wu Aizhen’s heart. She had not expected Yufen’s spiritual comprehension to be so keen.
“Your spiritual comprehension is truly excellent. This realization is not that hard to attain—if you have true faith and true practice, it’s not difficult. It’s just that many people only turn to the Buddha when trouble strikes. In daily life they don’t really take cultivation as the pursuit of this lifetime, and they seldom make preparations for the next life in this very life.”
“Mm! I will cultivate well. And I will lead the older lay followers in our village who only know to do good and accumulate blessings to recite the name of Amitabha Buddha more often, so that in future lives everyone can be reborn in the Western Land,” Yufen said with full confidence. “Laywoman Wu, I should go home now, or it will be too late.”
“Please tell Master Liaokong for me that I have thought it through. I hope he can cultivate and realize with vigor and soon attain enlightenment.”
“Then let Gao Shui see you home,” Wu Aizhen said.
“It’s only eight o’clock. I’m not afraid to walk alone.”
“It’s still better to see you home. Having someone with you is safer.” Wu Aizhen went out and called Gao Shui. Gao Shui was reading a sutra in Master Liaokong’s room. Hearing Wu Aizhen call, he immediately ran out. When he learned he was to see Yufen home, he glanced back at Master Liaokong’s door, because normally Master Liaokong was the one who saw her off. But although he was a little puzzled, he promptly and cheerfully agreed. Wu Aizhen watched their figures disappear beyond the temple gate, then she walked straight to Master Liaokong’s door and knocked. Master Liaokong opened the door and asked, “What is it, Laywoman Wu?” Normally, with his carefree and casual personality, he would have immediately opened the door wide and said, “Please come in, Laywoman Wu.” But today he was cautious and guarded, clearly scared witless by Yufen’s confession, and so he treated all laywomen with a certain ‘precepts’ wariness.
“I’d like to chat with you. Do you have a moment?” Wu Aizhen said.
“Tomorrow. It’s too late today,” Master Liaokong said, blocking the doorway with a perfectly straight face. It looked as if tonight he was absolutely not going to allow any laywoman into his room.
Wu Aizhen wanted to laugh but held it back. “Tomorrow it is. But Yufen told me to pass on a message: she has worked that matter out in her mind. She hopes you can cultivate wholeheartedly without being disturbed.” Master Liaokong was momentarily stunned, then his guard dropped immediately. He said happily, “Thank you, Laywoman Wu.” Then, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his body and mind, he let out a long, deep breath…
Master Cisheng lived right next door to Master Liaokong. Sitting on his meditation cushion, every sound and movement in the courtyard reached his ears with perfect clarity. What Wu Aizhen said to Master Liaokong stirred a trace of doubt in his mind: why hadn’t Yufen spoken to Liaokong herself and instead asked Wu Aizhen to relay the message? What did it mean? This doubt kept him from settling down for a long time, giving rise to many thoughts and speculations. Normally it was Liaokong who saw Yufen off, but today it was Gao Shui. Yet no one had ever thought to ask him to see Yufen home. In truth, how deeply he wished he could spend just a little time alone with her! At that thought, he suddenly came to himself: he was an ordained monk holding the precepts—how could he think like that? Even thinking like that was breaking the precepts. How could his mind be so weak-willed? What was so good about women, anyway? Their eyes had eye crust, their noses had snot, their mouths and between their teeth were full of bacteria. That smooth face like a fresh apple, looked at under a magnifying glass, was nothing but pits and scars. And the body inside was filthy and impure—just think what was in those intestines…
Master Cisheng exerted himself in his visualization… This dharma door had once been very effective in helping him break his attachment to this world and to the human body, often allowing him to pull free from the temptations of external conditions. But lately, his mind had been utterly unable to rest in his practice. He could clearly feel the effect of physical forces on his psychology. No matter how he visualized, Yufen’s face and figure, her sweet voice, and her silvery laughter would always appear around him, within his body and mind, and he could not drive them away. Especially when Yufen came to the temple, his heart would race and his mind would waver, and he could barely force himself to sit down. Moreover, the frequency of his nocturnal emissions had been increasing. Whenever he thought of this, he felt a certain panic. Recently he had indirectly sounded out Master Liaokong on this matter, but Liaokong had not given him a good solution. He vaguely remembered that Wu Aizhen had once mentioned that she was a doctor. He thought that consulting a doctor about this physiological issue might help, especially since Wu Aizhen had also cultivated for so many years, and in their occasional chats he sensed she had quite a penetrating view. But after all, men and women are different, and he was a renunciant. This was an issue Master Cisheng found almost impossible to bring himself to speak about.
One day at lunchtime, a Layman Liao arrived from the city. Master Liaokong often asked him to buy books in town, and he had taken the time to deliver some and have lunch at the temple.
At the table, he suddenly said, “Why is there only Taxue now? Where’s Flying Snow?”
“Dead,” Master Liaokong said.
“How did he die? Did he get sick?”
“No, someone beat him to death.”
“Who would be so cruel as to beat a temple dog to death? Flying Snow was very gentle, never bit anyone, and she was a purebred dog too.”
Layman Liao asked, his eyes wide open.
“Flying Snow was beaten to death by selfishness and coldness,” Gao Shui interjected as he ate.
Master Cisheng took his bowl and went back inside.
Sensing that the topic was a sensitive one, Layman Liao swallowed his intense curiosity and sigh along with a mouthful of rice, and asked no more.
In the afternoon, Wu Aizhen was reading in her room with the door open. Master Cisheng stood politely at the doorway and said, “Laywoman Wu, I’d like to speak with you for a while. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
Wu Aizhen quickly invited the preoccupied master inside, respectfully offered him a seat, poured tea, and repeatedly said, “Not at all. Please sit, Master Cisheng.”
“Laywoman Wu, ever since Flying Snow was beaten to death, Gao Shui has held a grudge against me. Although Liaokong says nothing, deep down he must also believe I bear a heavy responsibility for the dog’s death. In truth, I really didn’t know they were going to kill the dog for meat. To be honest, I wasn’t happy about keeping two dogs at the small temple. I thought Liaokong should spend all his time cultivating—feeding dogs was a waste of time and grain. I don’t like dogs, but I wouldn’t want them dead. Lately I’ve been reflecting on myself: am I really as selfish and cold as Gao Shui says? But I feel that my ‘selfishness and coldness’ is only for the sake of cultivation, for attaining enlightenment. They just don’t understand me. Laywoman Wu, what do you think?” Master Cisheng fixed his earnest, grave gaze on Wu Aizhen.
“Master Cisheng, since you’ve asked for my opinion, I’ll speak bluntly. If my words are too harsh, please forgive me.”
“Please, speak plainly,” Master Cisheng said, without a trace of arrogance.
“Regarding the dogs, I don’t think what you just said was wrong—feeding them does cost time and grain. But I also don’t think Master Liaokong was wrong. When someone entrusted two dying puppies to him, in his eyes they were two lives on the verge of death. How could he not save them? I believe that for all cultivators, whether renunciates or laypeople, as long as we still use this body to eat, drink, use the bathroom, and sleep, as long as we still use this body to cultivate the Way, we cannot avoid creating all kinds of causes and conditions with this world. There are many things we simply cannot escape. The important thing is what wisdom we use to face those inevitable causes and conditions. For example, once the dogs were already being kept at the temple, whether you objected or disliked it, the situation had already come about. If you could remain unattached to what had already happened and accept it with a calm mind, that would be a sign of wisdom—not dwelling in the dualistic attachments of ordinary people. But you still often showed disgust toward the dogs and scolded them ferociously. That is not the attitude of a cultivator facing circumstances. As for Master Liaokong, although he was very fond of the dogs and fed them for over a year, when Flying Snow died, you could see he was deeply saddened, yet he never said a single word to blame you. He knew you didn’t mean it. He simply adjusted his mind and emotions on his own, quietly and calmly accepting what had happened. That, I think, is the proper attitude for a cultivator. At the same time, I truly admire and respect your wish to use every moment of this limited life for cultivation and realization. But ‘samadhi’ is not limited to sitting on a meditation cushion—that’s simply an easier way for beginners to enter samadhi. Perhaps in the very act of feeding the dogs, Master Liaokong was also raising mindful awareness, focusing on each thought and each action, observing them without any dualistic discrimination. That, too, is a kind of samadhi! If done that way, it’s not a waste of time. Instead, everything becomes a supporting condition for cultivating the Way, realizing the Way, and attaining enlightenment.”
Master Cisheng lowered his head and pondered for a moment.
“Laywoman Wu, lately I’ve also been reflecting on my path of cultivation and realization. Although I have strictly upheld the precepts, refraining from eating after noon and never lying down to sleep, when I first began cultivating I felt I was making swift progress. But now, two or three years later, I find it harder and harder to enter a state of samadhi; sometimes I even lose my concentration altogether. And the influence of the body’s drives on the mind is stronger than when I first started. For example, I often dream of women and break the precept, or experience nocturnal emissions. I heard you are a doctor, so I wanted to ask: from a medical perspective, what good methods are there for dealing with this when it keeps happening?” As Master Cisheng spoke, he tried to explain himself but was too embarrassed to be too direct. Still, Wu Aizhen understood what he was saying.
“I think when a cultivator who normally keeps the precepts strictly and has a well-grounded view of the Dharma suddenly experiences this frequently, there are several possible causes: first, physical illness, such as a latent kidney or urinary-system disease dating from childhood; second, environmental disturbances at the place of cultivation—including both visible and invisible interferences; third, the body and mind are not relaxed during practice, the mind of attainment and the mind of seeking are too strong, the effort is too forceful, and one is striving too hard to subdue oneself.
However, from my observation, Master Cisheng, you likely fall into the latter two categories. In that case, the first thing to do is to relax body and mind completely, let go of the thought of cultivating and realizing the Dharma, and temporarily free your mind from ‘practice.’ Replace long periods of sitting meditation with physical activity—such as doing full prostrations before the Buddha, like the preliminary practices of Secret School practitioners. Add a variety of exercises: climbing mountains, visiting good knowing advisors, even chatting. Shift your attention entirely away from the pull of the physical, and don’t sit alone repeating the same intense effort for a while. If conditions allow, you can also temporarily avoid people, events, images, and environments that trigger physical impulses. This is no complete solution, but it can help. Then there is the matter of non-discrimination. In fact, most young, physically strong cultivators will encounter this problem; it’s only a matter of degree. First, in your own mind, see it as just a normal bodily reaction, neither good nor bad, like the sensations of cold, heat, soreness, and aching distension. It is not a breach of the precepts. I once learned the ‘Medicine Buddha Dharma’ in Chan samadhi. The ‘medicine’ of the Medicine Buddha not only heals physical and mental illness but, more importantly, combined with the wisdom of the Dharma, leads beings across to the far shore of liberation from birth and death—it cures the great disease of death. One kind of ‘medicine’ comes from within the body: sexual energy. In the Medicine Buddha Dharma, if a sexual impulse arises but you do not add any thought or visualization of ‘lust,’ it is the cosmic ‘return of the single yang’—like stillness giving rise to motion, called the ‘living midnight’ in physiology. A pure ‘living midnight’ is extremely rare in adults. At that moment, immediately straighten your body and mind, relax, and sit quietly. This is very helpful for opening and repairing the body’s energy channels, and many illnesses can heal through the natural circulation of this energy. It’s just that ordinary people, the moment this energy arises, immediately add thoughts of desire instead of simply being aware of it and then observing it quietly, without discrimination.
China’s indigenous religion, Daoism, seeks immortality; the ‘Golden Elixir’ and the ‘Great Medicine’ are refined from this same sexual energy. It is the source material for the Golden Elixir—simply an intensification of the energy’s density—and the deep, quiet, silent mind is the ‘heat control’ in the process. Because the body’s inner and outer breathing and discursive thoughts prevent the mind from becoming utterly clear and still, the fire of the elixir can never reach pure blue. Thus long cultivation is needed, until the practitioner’s body and mind become profoundly still, both self and external objects forgotten, and body and mind turn to the ‘characteristic of emptiness.’ At that moment, when the ‘fire is pure blue,’ it shifts instantly into ‘luminous emptiness,’ and only then does the ‘Great Medicine’ or ‘Golden Elixir’ begin to form, shooting up through the crown. According to Daoist teachings, a person can then become an immortal and attain eternal life.
But in the cultivation of the Medicine Buddha Dharma, one does not, as in Daoism, deliberately use this energy to refine a ‘Golden Elixir.’ One simply observes it quietly; it will naturally circulate and transform through the channels, giving rise to various sensations and helping to heal chronic ailments. For this reason it can also be called the ‘Great Medicine.’ However, the Buddha’s teachings on the stages of attainment tell us that all these are merely ‘characteristics of emptiness.’ Therefore our mind need not dwell on any single sensation or state; we can directly enter the Daoist stage of ‘refining the spirit to return to emptiness,’ and then, through the Buddha’s teaching of ‘all dharmas are without self,’ go further to ‘refine emptiness to merge with the Way,’ giving rise to great loving-kindness and compassion that instantly liberates from the Three Realms—attaining liberation from samsara and realizing Buddhahood. As for the Daoist achievement of the ‘Golden Elixir,’ it is only the refinement of a consciousness ‘focused on a certain dimensional state.'”
Wu Aizhen stopped here, wondering if she had said too much. Why was she discussing Daoist internal alchemy when talking about the Medicine Buddha Dharma? But she saw that Master Cisheng seemed absorbed, not at all thinking she had gone off topic.
“Laywoman Wu, what you just said about the Medicine Buddha Dharma has helped me immensely. First of all, it removes the pressure and unease that this matter was causing me. And this ‘Great Medicine,’ if properly applied, can even become a supporting condition for cultivation—something I never knew before. Although I understood it was just a physiological phenomenon, I still worried whether it might harm my body, and my mind still discriminated, and I didn’t know how to make use of it. Instead, my dualistic mind channeled it into thoughts of ‘sexual misconduct,’ turning it into a psychological burden that negatively affected my cultivation. I also found your discussion of Daoist alchemy very rewarding. I have a younger brother who studies Daoism. We get together sometimes, and I’ve wanted to help him with some Buddhist views, but I could never hit the mark. Not only doesn’t he listen, he even slanders the Triple Jewel, which breaks my heart. If I could better understand the common ground between Buddhism and Daoism, even if he never takes up Buddhism, he would at least develop a correct understanding of the Dharma and create less verbal karma. If you have more insight in this area, please offer me guidance and advice. By the way, when you mentioned receiving teachings from the Medicine Buddha within samadhi, I found it hard to believe. How do you know it wasn’t an illusion?”
Wu Aizhen smiled and said, “Teachers can be divided into three types. The first type is our teacher in the human world—the physical master. The second type: for cultivators of certain capacities, a spiritual teacher may transmit Dharma principles within a samadhi state. This is because some of the Buddha’s teachings, when studied in another dimension free from the limitations of human time and space and the physical body, become easier to accept and understand. But this requires certain conditions. First, the cultivator must be able to enter profound samadhi—so deep that they know nothing of what happens in the human world, almost like death, with only a faint trace of warmth remaining. What is learned in such samadhi is generally real; even if it cannot be recalled after emerging, it will naturally activate when needed. Second, there are cultivators who have already attained a stage in past lives; they don’t need to enter this kind of samadhi. They can study within the Bodhisattva’s samadhi of playfulness—learning in other dimensions while simultaneously knowing everything in this world. But such Bodhisattvas are practically impossible to find in the Dharma-ending age; even reincarnated beings are heavily defiled. Cultivators who can freely enter samadhi states, with the objects of their contemplation unaffected by subjective consciousness, are exceedingly rare. That’s why many cultivators who have not truly entered profound samadhi seize upon whatever appears in their meditative experiences and cling to appearances, easily falling into the snares of inner demons and outer demons. Therefore, all compassionate masters will only teach you to observe both Buddhas and demons without attachment, seeing them as dreams, illusions, bubbles, and shadows. If you doubt your samadhi experiences and cannot control them, then simply don’t make use of any samadhi states at all—that’s the safest approach. The third type of teacher is when you have already achieved realization in past lives: you can have your Buddha-nature master. Of course, this is not a common case, but don’t blindly deny its existence either. As a cultivator’s wisdom opens, they will understand for themselves.”
“Although I’ve never experienced such states myself, I wouldn’t blindly deny them either. The Dharma doors for cultivating the Way are countless and endlessly varied, and the causes and conditions for attaining enlightenment are equally diverse. Moreover, when great Bodhisattvas return to save sentient beings, their states are beyond comprehension, and I don’t think I’m qualified to judge any of this. However, I’ve met many people who first practiced qigong and then took up Buddhism. They seem particularly attached to meditative experiences and love talking about what happens in those states. They’ve discussed these matters with me and asked my opinion. I would usually deny it right away, telling them it’s all illusion—phantoms of the mind. But today, hearing you speak of states within samadhi, I’d like to hear your view.”
“That’s true,” Wu Aizhen continued. “A few years ago, during the qigong craze, many people practiced qigong, and quite a few of them later found their way onto the path of cultivation through it. But back then, the various qigong schools relied on practitioners’ sensations, or on awakening certain extraordinary abilities in people, to draw them in. Although most practitioners were simply seeking better health, some were driven by curiosity about these paranormal phenomena to keep probing deeper, and many went astray as a result. Still, the impact that qigong wave left on people was enormous. Once a person develops a felt experience—a real sensation in body and mind—toward a particular ‘theory,’ and their teacher tells them this is good and correct, it’s very easy for them to become thoroughly convinced by that theory, to be taken in by that teacher or that teaching. Without a certain measure of wisdom, it’s not easy to walk back out, nor to discern where that theory will ultimately lead them. Yet if Master Cisheng were simply to tell them it’s all illusion and they shouldn’t cling to it, that might work for a rare few, but for most people it probably wouldn’t carry enough weight—because sometimes those felt experiences are very profound. For example, the Buddha said that the four elements of the human body are empty and the Three Realms are illusory, but even cultivators who believe the Buddha’s words still cling to the myriad phenomena and states of the human world.
Breaking any attachment requires genuine realization. So I think there’s no need to insist right away that they let go of their earlier attachments or rush to argue with them about right and wrong. All states and sensations are neither good nor bad in themselves. But once someone begins studying the Buddhadharma, let everything temporarily return to zero, and start fresh with Buddhist theory and view. Once their view becomes clear, they’ll naturally know what to keep and what to discard from what they learned before. Sometimes, a prior foundation in qigong can be like a tiger given wings in the actual practice of Buddhism.
I believe that people who have had some foundation in qigong and can then enter the Buddha’s gate and turn to cultivating and realizing the Buddhadharma are fortunate—they deserve celebration and praise, and they are people of merit and blessings. But when entering Buddhist cultivation from qigong, I think a few points should be kept in mind. First, the initial aspiration differs: qigong may aim at strengthening the body, but the Three Vehicles of Buddhism have strict, gradual stages, and one’s initial motivation is crucial. Buddhism teaches cause and effect: whatever aspiration you set, that is the fruit you ultimately achieve. Second, one must step out of attachment to bodily sensations and states and shift toward cultivation and realization centered on purifying the nature of mind. Third, in all meditation practice—whether Mahayana or Hinayana—one simply observes all one’s sensations and extraordinary states as a bystander. In meditation, one neither discriminates among nor clings to these states and sensations as good or evil, beautiful or ugly, right or wrong; one only cultivates the meditator’s clear concentration and mindful awareness. Through concentration, awareness is perfected; through awareness, wisdom is unlocked. Fourth, in the Esoteric School of Buddhism, there is also energy practice, but it follows the correct Buddhist view that ‘Emptiness and Existence are Non-dual’ and requires a complete grounding in Buddhist view.
I’m only speaking in broad terms from my own perspective. Still, no matter what method one studies, if one has the intention to turn toward and study the Buddha’s teachings, then as long as one generates more good thoughts, does more good deeds, and opens the heart to a little more compassion and universal love, one will naturally resonate with all Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, receive their blessings and protection, and encounter a true enlightened teacher to offer transformative instruction.”
“Laywoman Wu,” Cisheng said, “in the past I didn’t enjoy discussing meditation practice with female lay practitioners. So whenever I saw Master Liaokong and you discussing certain points of Buddhist view, I’d always drift away after sitting a while, and I never truly listened with any depth or seriousness to what you were actually saying. Now I realize just how heavy my own dualistic discrimination has been. Listening to you speak so freely, a sudden pang of shame arose in me—how did I come to draw such a heavy distinction between men and women? Perhaps it’s precisely this kind of discriminating mind that has kept so much suppressed and hidden within me, becoming an obstacle on the path.
I once saw the words of a teacher who practiced Chan, Pure Land, and the Esoteric School together. He said that an ideal Buddhist disciple should be:
outer layer—the manner of a dhuta ascetic; inner layer—the heart of a Bodhisattva; secret layer—the Esoteric School’s method of accomplishment in this very body; most secret layer—the liberation of the Chan School. When I read it at the time, it didn’t move me. But today I suddenly recalled this teacher, and especially his mention of the inner-layer Bodhisattva heart stirred many realizations. The Buddha has already given us all the views of what the fruits of the three bodies—the dharma body, the reward body, and the manifestation body—look like after accomplishment. In our view, we can fully integrate the insights of the Three Vehicles of Buddhism to guide and take hold of our own minds and to direct our cultivation and realization. In actual practice we must strictly uphold the precepts and apply vigorous effort, but in our view we should not harbor too many biases. Laywoman Wu, I’ve taken up so much of your time. I hope we both achieve accomplishment in the Buddha’s path soon. Thank you.”
Master Cisheng took his leave. Stepping out the door, he happened to run into Gao Shui coming back from outside. Gao Shui looked at Wu Aizhen standing in the doorway with some puzzlement. Normally, Master Cisheng would have walked right past Gao Shui with his head high, as if seeing no one at all, but today he smiled modestly and said, “You’re back, Layman Gao.” Gao Shui couldn’t react for a moment and only nodded foolishly. Once Cisheng had returned to his room, Gao Shui quietly asked Wu Aizhen:
“What’s going on? Master Cisheng seems different from before.”
Wu Aizhen smiled and said, “He’s trying to become a dhuta ascetic with a Bodhisattva’s heart. Can’t you see that Master Cisheng is brimming with tender love right now?!”
Gao Shui stuck out his tongue and said, “Such a proud man changing all of a sudden—it’s really hard to adjust to. Laywoman Wu, tomorrow there’s a Dharma gathering at Puti Temple, about ten-odd li from here. They’re performing the Liang Huang Bao Chan, the Emperor Liang Repentance. I asked Master Liaokong, and he said he’s not going. Are you going?” Wu Aizhen paused to think.
“Come on, come along. I don’t understand anything if I go alone,” Gao Shui added urgently.
“What is there to understand? The Dharma teachers chant the sutras and perform the ritual; you just join inwardly with sincere repentance for all your past wrongdoings, then dedicate the merit to all sentient beings. That said, I do need to buy some things in town, so I’ll keep you company on the way.”
“All right. I’ll go with you to town first to shop, and then we can catch a ride from there to the temple.” Gao Shui grew excited.
By noon the next day, only Masters Cisheng and Liaokong remained at the dining table. Perhaps all the lay practitioners and worshippers had gone to Puti Temple for the Dharma service; all morning not a single visitor or incense-offerer had come to the small temple, and the whole place was exceptionally quiet. After finishing his meal, Cisheng hesitated a moment, then said to Liaokong, “Our contract with this small temple expires at the end of this month. I’m planning to go on pilgrimage. What about you?” Liaokong replied, “I haven’t decided yet. But Gao Shui wants to leave the home-life. I’d like to take him back to the monastery in Ningbo where I was ordained, to have his head shaved. He’s young, and I’d like the monastery to recommend him for a Buddhist academy.”
“Liaokong, over these three years, you’ve given me so much help and care. Let me hold it in my heart for now. There are many things I didn’t do well, and I hope you can forgive me. Last time, about the dog…”
“Hey! Don’t say any more. Studying the Buddha’s path is the work of a true man. What true man carries on like this, hemming and hawing? I know you didn’t mean it.” Liaokong waved his hand expansively, then pulled a stack of bills from his pocket and set them in front of Cisheng. “Take this—you’ll need it on your pilgrimage.” Cisheng, flustered, pushed the money back. “No, you need money too. I’ve already scraped together enough for the journey.”
“No need to stand on ceremony. This isn’t the money I’ve saved here. Before I left the home-life, I had a friend, a businessman. A while back, when I saw you worried about money, I called him and told him your situation. He immediately wired five thousand yuan and told me to offer it to you on his behalf, in hopes that you’ll soon achieve perfect accomplishment. His name is ×××.” Cisheng’s eyes suddenly grew moist. It took him a long moment to compose himself before he said, “It’s not necessary anymore. I think I already have enough. But I’ve received this money in my heart. I’ll remember his name, and I’ll remember the grace of all sentient beings in helping me achieve the Way.”
Liaokong thought for a while, then said: “After I see Gao Shui off, I’m planning to come back here and stay for a time. The lay practitioners in Huaishui Town are gradually growing in number, but they lack teachers to explain the sutras and they lack Buddhist texts. I’d like to repair the two empty rooms at the temple and turn them into a Buddhist library, for lay practitioners to borrow books and hold activities. I’ve already bought a lot of Buddhist books over time; a few more will be enough. I also want to organize them to practice certain methods together and to give them some teachings on the sutras and treatises. But I haven’t made any major breakthrough in my own cultivation, and I’m afraid I won’t teach the sutras well. And another thing—I want to repair the road from Huaishui Town up to this small temple, even if it’s just widening it and leveling it out a bit. After those three things are done, I’d like to go on pilgrimage too, and travel around visiting teachers. If you don’t need this money now, I’d like to use it for the library and the road. What do you think? It would count as a good deed by you and that donor as well.”
Master Cisheng stared at Master Liaokong as though he were a stranger, and for a long time he said nothing.
“Say something, will you? Are you willing or not? This money was offered for your cultivation—I can’t decide for you.” Liaokong looked at Cisheng’s dazed expression.
“Liaokong, you were planning something this good and you didn’t even tell me. I’m not leaving. I’ll help you finish these three tasks, and then we’ll go on pilgrimage together.” Cisheng’s words came out crisp and decisive. Now it was Liaokong’s turn to be astonished.
“Cisheng, once spoken, a promise can’t be changed. We’ll start tomorrow. I’ll go talk to the town head this afternoon. But from now on, you’re not allowed to say I meddled and interfered with your cultivation.”
Cisheng said, “A real man’s word, once given, even a team of horses can’t bring it back. How could I blame anyone else for gain or loss, right or wrong? Besides, where is the Way not present? What matter is not the Buddhadharma? This won’t hinder our cultivation—it all depends on what view you hold.” With that, he went to wash his begging bowl. Liaokong’s eyes went wide, as if he no longer recognized Cisheng. “Hey! One night apart, and today you’ve made me see you with new eyes. Have you had an awakening?” Cisheng lowered his head and said nothing. The only sound was the running water splashing over the bowl and onto a slab of bluestone on the ground, bursting into blossom after blossom of spray, like the joy of the Dharma and the stirring of emotion rising ceaselessly in Cisheng’s heart.
By the time Wu Aizhen and Gao Shui arrived at Puti Temple, it was already one in the afternoon. They had casually bought some dry provisions in town for lunch. Puti Temple was much larger than Wuzhuo Temple—three times its size.
The Dharma gathering had begun that morning. The temple grounds were a sea of people—incense-offerers, lay practitioners, visiting monks. Incense smoke wreathed the entire compound, and from the main hall came the periodic sounds of gongs and drums, and the soaring, melodic chanting of the Dharma teachers.
Wu Aizhen found a relatively quiet corner outside the main hall where the ritual was being conducted and sat down. Gao Shui went off with the other incense-offerers to offer incense and bow to the Buddha.
This was also Wu Aizhen’s first time at such a Dharma gathering—though “attending” was really too strong a word; “observing” was more like it. She knew that the Liang Huang Bao Chan, the Emperor Liang Repentance, also called the Compassionate Bodhimanda Repentance Dharma, had been composed by Emperor Wu of the Liang dynasty to deliver his consort, who had died and fallen into the realm of serpents. Sitting quietly outside the main hall, she listened as an old bhikshu inside intoned a sutra passage in a resonant, rising chant. She couldn’t understand what was being sung. As each chanting phrase fell away, the bells and drums and the congregation’s united recitation merged into a vast ocean of sound that poured out, dense and unbroken. Outside the hall, some incense-offerers stood with eyes closed and palms joined, murmuring something under their breath, but most of them, having hurriedly offered their incense, paused only briefly, gazing into the hall with blank expressions, tilting their ears to catch a moment of the sonorous, undulating Buddhist liturgical chanting.
At that moment, Wu Aizhen suddenly recalled a state she had once witnessed in meditation. It too seemed to be a temple holding a Dharma gathering to deliver hungry ghosts. Countless hungry ghosts were lunging at the food in a frenzied, chaotic crush. Meanwhile, Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva sat upon a lotus throne, gliding through the air, ceaselessly saying to the ghosts fighting over the food: “Recite ‘Namo Amitabha’ once! Recite ‘Namo Amitabha’ once!” But all the hungry ghosts saw in their eyes and held in their hearts was the food. They paid no attention whatsoever to the Bodhisattva moving through the air on the lotus throne, and they were utterly deaf to Avalokiteshvara’s tireless exhortations. The ones who seized food gulped it down in a few bites and then shoved their way back into the fray. The ones who couldn’t get any food screamed and wailed, weeping bitterly. The hungry ghosts were crushed together in a mass. A few of the smaller ghosts were too weak to push their way in. One of them, about the size of a four- or five-year-old child, stood off at a distance, probably waiting for his parents to grab food and bring it back to him. Perhaps out of boredom, he looked up and saw the Bodhisattva gliding past on the lotus throne. Curiosity stirred in him, and he fixed his gaze on her, staring intently. When the Bodhisattva drifted overhead, she was still saying, “Please, recite with me: Namo Amitabha.” Without a second thought, imitating the Bodhisattva’s voice, the little ghost smiled and said, “Namo Amitabha!” In that very kshana, the little hungry ghost rose into the air and transformed into a dazzling, luminous pearl, resting on a lotus throne as Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva carried him away. Just then, his parents, clutching the food they had fought for, returned to find their child being taken by the Bodhisattva. They beat their chests behind him, stomping their feet, crying out and cursing…
She remembered coming out of that samadhi and sitting in thought for a long while. She had asked herself: if I were in this world, tormented by hunger for ages and suddenly a feast appeared before me, would my body and mind still find room to think of the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas? Would I still spare a thought to say even one recitation of Amitabha’s name? Or would I do nothing but hurl myself fiercely into the scramble for food? After turning the questions over, she dared not give herself a firm yes. Even if she would not snatch food for her own sake, she might do it for parents or children who were starving, or for a teacher or a friend she truly respected and trusted. Perhaps that was exactly her still-unbroken ego-clinging, her still-unbroken emotional clinging.
She recalled how one teacher had once explained the Six Paramitas and myriad practices of the Bodhisattva Path: freedom from greed is giving; freedom from emotion is upholding precepts; constant emptiness is patience; uninterrupted application is vigor; undisturbed stillness is Chan samadhi; luminous emptiness is prajna — thus are the Six Paramitas gathered; examine them closely and the supreme wisdom is seen.
At the time, the line “freedom from emotion is upholding precepts” had puzzled her a little. Now she suddenly grasped that this “freedom from emotion” was the all-embracing love of a Bodhisattva who has renounced the self, the love of true equality among all sentient beings. When a person breaks through the mind of ego-clinging and enters a state of great compassion in which all beings are equal, everything naturally accords with the Way — that is the true substance of a Bodhisattva’s precepts. When a person destroys ego-clinging and upholds precepts through a mind free of distinctions, that is the most thoroughgoing, most perfect Bodhisattva precepts.
The sound of bells and drums from the main hall suddenly rang out again, dense and close upon one another, jolting Wu Aizhen from her thoughts. She looked toward the hall. The crowd at the doorway had grown even larger than before. To judge by their dress, most of the pilgrims came from nearby villages and small towns. Face after face worn by the wind and frost of years, eyes lost — they moved and shifted before her. Wu Aizhen understood that most of them had only heard that monks had been invited here to hold a Dharma gathering; they had come from far off to offer incense and bow to the Buddha, and soon they would hurry back to their farm work. Like her, they could not understand what the monks were chanting. The only difference was the way each Sanskrit chant stirred the heart. Wave after wave of pilgrims pressed to the hall doorway, and wave after wave departed. Wu Aizhen’s heart gradually withdrew from the shifting crowd before her, and her memories surfaced: her aging parents, her elder brother, Yamaguchi Mingchuan, Ren Qingfei, Keiko, Zheng Meiqin, Mi Lang, her very first boyfriend — everyone appeared from her memory, everything she had lived through unrolled scene by scene before her eyes. All her joys and sorrows, her grievances, her bitterness, her helplessness, the indifference of the human heart, its selfishness, its impermanence — in an instant everything became startlingly clear. A peal of thunder seemed to roll across the crown of her head. A coolness passed through her, and body and mind were like a frozen stream suddenly thawing, like the earth after a harsh winter suddenly coming back to life. She felt herself waking up, bit by bit, as though rousing from a dream tens of thousands of years long. Heart released, channels opened, her whole body tingled as if everything alive were about to break through the soil at the coming of spring. She could feel qi coursing through the fine channels all through her body. All at once she had no sense of how tall she was or how large she was — it was like weightlessness, or as if her body had simply vanished. From the time more than ten years ago, when she first opened a book on Buddhism and was rocked by a verse from Patriarch Bodhidharma — “I came to this land to transmit the Dharma and save the deluded from emotion; / one flower opens five petals, the fruit ripens of itself” — until this very moment, she had never seen her own path of cultivation with such clarity.
She had crossed the world of emotion and the ocean of desire. She had experienced the illusory impermanence of human emotion and the selfish coldness of desire. She had been trapped in the world of emotion and nearly turned back from the Way-seeking heart, nearly snapped the wings that were to carry her aloft. She had nearly drowned in the ocean of desire — struggling, sinking, surfacing — nearly swallowed by the towering waves of fame and profit. Emotion and desire did not spring from anything outside, from any person or any event; they sprang from her own mind. Her own mind was the world of emotion and the ocean of desire. The wisdom of the Buddhadharma had been a guiding beacon shining through the fog. Her teacher had been the helmsman who held the Dharma vessel steady. She had been fortunate. She had boarded that Dharma vessel and crossed the world of emotion and the ocean of desire of the human realm, crossed the ocean of her own mind, awakened to the suffering of people trapped in that world of emotion and that ocean of desire, and to their confusion and hesitancy with no way out. She had crossed over. She understood that path more deeply now. Compassion without conditions and the great compassion of one substance arose in an instant. The Bodhisattva’s mind is the mind of sentient beings. In the human world, everything that sentient beings do — good and evil alike — is part of the Bodhisattva’s mind. There, in the world of emotion and the ocean of desire, her heart knelt down deeply, knelt before all the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, and she repented — for herself, and for all the beings of the Three Realms.
When Gao Shui found Wu Aizhen, she was sitting alone outside the main hall, tears streaming down her face. “What’s going on?” he said with a chuckle. “Did the wind blow sand into your eyes?” Wu Aizhen laughed at that.
“Laywoman Wu,” he went on, “I just made a friend who wants to see Wuzhuo Temple. But if we take him there today, we’ll certainly have to stay the night at the monastery. I’m not sure whether the monastics will blame me for bringing a guest back.”
“If it’s only for one night, I doubt the monastics would say anything.”
Hearing this, Gao Shui went happily to fetch his new friend. He was a slender young man, refined in manner, a little frail, with a pair of clear, large eyes set in a face dusty from travel. But in those eyes there was only confusion, bewilderment, and exhaustion. His brows were knotted, whether he meant them to be or not, forming two deep furrows between them.
“This is Laywoman Wu Aizhen. This is Wu Sheng,” Gao Shui introduced them. “You even share the same surname.”
Wu Sheng glanced at Wu Aizhen and gave her a polite smile — that was his greeting — before letting his eyes wander elsewhere. From his focused concentration and restless gaze, he seemed a very busy man, his mind already racing through countless things that needed doing. “Wait here for me,” he said. “I’ll go back to the guest quarters, get my bag, and we’ll leave.”
“Let me come with you.” “No need.” Wu Sheng turned and vanished into the crowd with hurried steps.
Another person living caught in the gap between the transcendence of cultivation and the demands of ordinary life, Wu Aizhen thought. In her years of retreat and wandering, she had encountered so many fellow cultivators like this. Most of them had families and children, yet they longed to devote themselves to practice. They were drawn to the lofty detachment, the unworldly freedom of the contemplative life, while the duties and obligations of family left their hearts carrying far more pressure and guilt than a single person ever knew. Most importantly, sometimes they would spend years on pilgrimage, visiting teachers and traveling on foot, with very little inward harvest to show for it — yet they could not bear to give up their practice. And the lures of fame, profit, emotion, and desire of the red-dust world could still stir their hearts. The more they lost in the red-dust world, the heavier the pressure on their cultivation. They could not see through gain and loss; they could not see through family attachments. Perhaps suffering on their own account did not matter so much — after all, they still had a pursuit and a conviction to sustain them. But when their wives and children and parents suffered along with them, guilt and heartache constantly gnawed at their hearts. Worldly affections and the supramundane Dharma formed a pair of sharp contradictions that ceaselessly plagued these lay practitioners of Chan meditation. Years of sustained practice often left them in a chronic state of financial hardship. Some eventually abandoned years of cultivation and realization because of it. So very few practitioners ever truly walked out of that inner and outer predicament. Thinking this, Wu Aizhen gave a soft sigh.
On the road back to the monastery, she caught snatches of his conversation with Gao Shui and gathered that he came from Nanjing. Like Gao Shui, he was traveling in search of an eminent teacher and visiting holy mountains on the way. Sometimes he stopped at monasteries to do volunteer work in exchange for food and lodging, to stretch his funds. He had already been at Puti Monastery for half a month. He had long ago heard that there was another monastery, Wuzhuo Temple, a dozen or so li away. He had been wanting to visit it, but transportation was difficult and the monastery had been holding a Dharma gathering these past few days, so he had been helping out in the kitchen. Only today, with Gao Shui’s appearance, had his wish been fulfilled.
Wu Sheng, it turned out, was a ready talker. He said he had graduated from the computer science department of a university in Nanjing. He was twenty-six, with a wife and a two-year-old son, and had been cultivating for seven years. His wife was far from happy that he took a few months off every year to go visiting teachers. She had already raised the subject of divorce. But he could not give up his practice, and he loved his wife and son very much. As he spoke of this, Wu Aizhen saw his eyes go red. He even took out his wallet and showed Gao Shui the photo of his wife and son tucked inside.
“You single people have it so much better!” Wu Sheng said. “You can stay in one place as long as you like, no ties and burdens.” He swept a glance at Wu Aizhen, who sat across from him. They were riding in a passenger vehicle that had been converted from a cargo truck, with only two benches facing each other. Ten people were packed in there — nearly all lay Buddhists from Huaishui Township who had come to the monastery for the Dharma gathering. Wu Aizhen recognized several of them; they were chattering away now about everyday matters.
“My wife says a cultivator is good for nothing. I spend my days visiting mountains and teachers. After all these years cultivating the Way, I still haven’t succeeded, and meanwhile my career in the red-dust world has fallen to ruin.” Wu Sheng took back the wallet Gao Shui handed him and gazed at the photo of his wife and son inside with deep feeling.
“Your wife certainly has a way of putting you down,” Gao Shui said with a laugh.
“When I go back this time I’m going to find a job,” Wu Sheng said. “I won’t be going out anymore. This is my last trip to visit holy mountains and teachers.” As he said this, his voice trembled faintly, and he glanced at Wu Aizhen once more. A sour feeling rose in Wu Aizhen’s heart. In that glance she seemed to read hurt, helplessness, exhaustion, and the confusion and loss of someone who had long sought the fruits of the Way without attaining them.
“Actually,” she said, “whether you’re single or have a family, whether you’re a layperson or have left the home-life, everyone who walks the path of cultivation encounters obstacles of many different kinds. In my view, we should look squarely at whatever actual situation we face, and adjust and shape a cultivation plan that’s truly doable. But whatever path of cultivation we choose, the first thing is that our view must be correct.
“For example,” she went on, “you said just now that your wife thinks a cultivator is good for nothing. Actually, you should explain to her that although a Mahayana practitioner cannot attain the Way in a short time — because, lifetime after lifetime of cultivation, the practitioner makes vows to practice for the benefit of sentient beings — it’s like building a great edifice: vow-power is the foundation. Built on ‘for the benefit of sentient beings,’ every brick you add, every tile you lay, benefits beings. Its influence in the Dharma Realm is enormous. In the process of adding brick upon brick and laying tile upon tile, a practitioner may still have habitual tendencies and desires. But that is completely different from a person whose every thought is aimed only at selfish desire. On the surface the two may look no different, but because the power of the vows is different, once the great edifice is complete, the function it performs and the fruit it bears in the Dharma Realm are also entirely different. Even if only half of it is built in this lifetime — in a human life, that still has meaning. It is the flower of vow-power. One day it will bear, in the act of benefiting sentient beings, the fruit of attainment that leaves the Three Realms. By contrast, any undertaking pursued out of selfish desire merely sows the seeds of samsara, lifetime after lifetime.
“In the red-dust world, a cultivator is engaged in the work of purifying the mind. Looking at it from a worldly angle, before a practitioner has attained the Way, people cannot see what benefit they bring to sentient beings. They may seem to be no more than idlers. But if a practitioner’s cultivation-and-realization is in accord with their vows, then even before they attain the Way, they are already purifying the field of the universe and purifying the human heart.
“Furthermore, if a person makes a vow to realize Buddhahood, that requires a great deal of merit and blessings. Compare the person in this world who enjoys the greatest worldly fortune with the blessings of someone who has attained a stage of fruition in the Buddhadharma — the former is no more than a single drop in a vast sea. Sentient beings simply do not know this, but a cultivator should be clear about it for themselves.
“In this world, even a single blade of grass has its worth. How much more the path you have chosen — cultivating the Way, attaining the Way! What you are doing is the great and heroic work that brings people to a halt in the relentless flow of birth and death, and frees them from the afflictions of the world of emotion and the ocean of desire. How could a cultivator be good for nothing? You should tell your wife that heaven has given you a talent and it must have its use.”
Wu Aizhen had wanted to say something encouraging and consoling to Wu Sheng.
“I’ve never regretted these years of cultivation,” Wu Sheng said. “It’s just that seven years have passed, and I feel I’ve made very little progress in the work of the Way. My habitual tendencies are still terribly stubborn. I’ve grasped quite a bit of Buddhadharma theory and concepts, but it’s all just words interpreting words. I’ve visited good knowing advisors here and there, and I believe what they tell me about their own experience of cultivation and realization — but that’s theirs. I can’t do it myself. I sit in meditation and recite mantras every day, but my mind won’t settle. So many scattered thoughts. Sometimes my cultivation and realization feels a little better, but a few days later it’s gone again. Now I’m more confused than ever, and I don’t know whether walking this path holds any hope of awakening at all.” He looked at Wu Aizhen with great sincerity.
“No matter what Dharma door you practice,” she said, “you must enter Chan samadhi to unlock wisdom. And a Mahayana practitioner, whether dwelling in deep mountains, in a thatched retreat, in a monastery, or in the red-dust world, must first cultivate the four preliminary practices of giving, upholding precepts, patience, and vigor in order to enter samadhi. Moreover, in this Dharma-Ending Age, the ‘cosmic field thick with the five poisons’ created by the mental activity of sentient beings makes it even harder for a practitioner to settle into samadhi within that field. So these four preliminaries must, in truth, run through the entire process of cultivation, in order to grow a practitioner’s merit. You could also say that, in the Dharma-Ending Age, without merit, there can be no accomplishment. That’s why, no matter what your life of cultivation has looked like these past seven years, I’d ask you to examine how well you have done in these four preliminary practices. Otherwise, merely sitting in meditation and reciting mantras will not bring samadhi. Even if your faculties and capacity from past lives allow you to enter a state of concentration, it will be very difficult to sustain that state at all times.”
Wu Sheng didn’t speak. After pondering for a while, he said, “That makes sense. I need to seriously reexamine my path of cultivation and realization. Maybe I really haven’t done the foundational practices right. I am currently practicing the Cundi method. I’ve already recited the Cundi Mantra a hundred thousand times, but the gains seem small. I want to switch to a different mantra, like the Great Compassion Mantra or the Six-Syllable Great Bright Mantra — which one do you think is better?”
Wu Aizhen smiled and said, “Reciting mantras does generate merit. Even reciting with only the mouth and no heart brings a certain amount of empowerment, though the practitioner may not always feel it. If one recites with body, speech, and mind united, the effects are inconceivable — but it is very hard for a practitioner to dwell in that state for long while reciting.
As for which mantra is better, there really is no ‘better’; it is only a matter of which one suits you more during a particular period. Mantras can be divided into several categories. Take the Cundi Mantra you have been reciting, for example. It is the simultaneous proclamation and praise by countless buddhas of the Six-Syllable Great Bright Mantra, praising the wondrous existence born from emptiness. This ‘wondrous existence’ includes everything in the billion-world system. Therefore, those who recite the Cundi Mantra don’t need to distinguish between the pure and the impure — whether lay or monastic, whether one eats meat or is vegetarian, one is embraced by this mantra. It is a mantra of praise. If you can truly enter into it, your mind corresponds with the minds of all buddhas, and the ‘suffering, arising, cessation, and path’ of this world instantly transform into ‘permanence, bliss, self, and purity.’ Greed, Hatred, Delusion, Pride, and Doubt become the ‘wondrous existence’ of the Dharma Realm, gaining the power to transform the poisons of the ocean of desire. The Cundi Buddha-Mother is the manifested form of the buddhas’ ‘heart of praise.’ Those with a Vajrayana disposition can enter this mantra even more easily.
But people just beginning to study the Buddhadharma, no matter their faculties, have after all been defiled in body and mind in this world. So when starting mantra recitation, I suggest choosing the Hundred Syllable Mantra. The Hundred Syllable Mantra is a supplication to Vajrasattva for his empowerment, to help us wash away our coarse defilements. It belongs to the category of ‘invocatory’ mantras. Because of the vows they made in the past, the buddhas and bodhisattvas will fulfill our supplications.
The Six-Syllable Great Bright Mantra is the mind mantra of Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva. In the very beginning, when the Dharma Realm was still formless chaos, a single ‘awakening’ arose, and simultaneously the ultimate radiance of light and sound emerged. That light and sound is precisely the Six-Syllable Great Bright Mantra — ‘Om mani padme hum.’ From that light and sound, all things came forth. Therefore, the Six-Syllable Great Bright Mantra is the mother-sound of all things in the universe. Everything in the universe vibrates without cease within the Dharma Realm, beginninglessly and endlessly singing the Six-Syllable Great Bright Mantra — at once existence, at once emptiness. To enter this mantra is to enter the ocean of the Dharma Realm’s ultimate radiance, to clearly comprehend Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva’s great loving-kindness, great compassion, and wisdom, and to receive empowerment and purification.
The Great Compassion Mantra recites the names of eighty-four bodhisattvas — or one could say, the eighty-four transformation bodies of Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva. Because in their vows made across lifetime after lifetime, they vowed that for sentient beings who recite their names, requests are never in vain; thus sentient beings can gain purification and empowerment of body, speech, and mind by reciting those names.
Another type of mantras consists of the languages of beings in other paths of existence. They are teachings of the Buddha’s principles or admonitions addressed to beings of those paths of existence. When we recite these mantras, we may not understand their principle or linguistic meaning, but when the beings of other paths of existence hear the vibration of that sound current, they are awed and subdued. Such mantras belong to the demon-subduing mantras, like the Shurangama Mantra.
But whatever the type of mantra — invocatory, recitation of names, mind mantras of buddhas and bodhisattvas, or subjugation mantras — to achieve correspondence and receive the power of empowerment, the reciter must generate Bodhicitta, accumulate abundant merit and blessings, maintain right body, right thought, and right speech in daily life, and when reciting, keep the mind without hindrance, single-mindedly reciting the mantra. Only thus can one truly benefit from the mantra.
Moreover, Mahayana practitioners cultivate with the vow to ‘benefit sentient beings.’ Without loving kindness and compassion, it is very hard to fulfill that vow. Therefore, one should frequently recite the mind mantra of Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva and the Great Compassion Mantra. I suggest the following sequence for the mantras mentioned: first recite the Hundred Syllable Mantra for a period, then recite the Great Compassion Mantra or the Six-Syllable Great Bright Mantra for a period, and after that the Cundi Mantra. (Or you can alternate among them.) Of course, reversing the order is also fine, since sentient beings have different faculties; the most important thing is resonance.”
As Wu Aizhen expounded on mantras, Wu Sheng and Gao Shui both listened very attentively.
Gao Shui listened intently and practiced along with her.
“Isn’t it all right not to recite mantras? I study Chan meditation with Master Liaokong, so I don’t need to recite mantras.”
“The purpose of cultivation is to purify our body, speech, and mind, to awaken our inherent Bodhi Mind and Buddha-wisdom. But in the Dharma-Ending Age, it is very difficult for sentient beings to achieve samadhi through their own power alone. Since we can draw upon the vow-power that the buddhas and bodhisattvas have accumulated over lifetime after lifetime, why not gladly do so? If mantra recitation truly corresponds with the mantra, it greatly aids the purification of body, speech, and mind. There are also mudras — each mantra has its specific mudra, and these can powerfully regulate and empower body and mind.
Of course, the eighty-four thousand dharma doors of the Buddhadharma correspond to different faculties. If you truly have an enlightened teacher to guide and protect you, you don’t necessarily have to recite mantras. Just cultivate seriously the dharma door you have chosen, and try to correspond with the guru’s mind as much as possible; you can then receive empowerment and attain accomplishment.”
“Before, I only thought that the more times you recite a mantra, the better. I just pursued large numbers, believing that if you recite it enough times, you would achieve correspondence. At the beginning I could recite with concentration, but later, most of the time, my mouth went through the motions while my heart was elsewhere. Does reciting that way produce very little merit?”
“Reciting that way brings very little empowerment. You are still so confused and unsettled — isn’t the size of the merit plain to see? But the fact that you’ve persisted in reciting the Cundi Mantra a hundred thousand times, even if you haven’t achieved mind-to-mind resonance with the Cundi Buddha-Mother, shows that your resolve is praiseworthy and worthy of admiration. I believe that the aspiration you once held will indeed receive a response and protection from the buddhas and bodhisattvas, and through it, you can establish wide-reaching virtuous affinities.”
Wu Sheng fell silent, quietly pondering to himself…
Watching Wu Sheng deep in contemplative thought, Wu Aizhen recalled the frustration he had mentioned earlier about his wife’s lack of understanding. Linking that with her own path of cultivation and realization over these past years, she could not help but feel immense emotion well up in her heart…
If only in the future she could establish a fund for genuine meditators, where people could donate money to support these practitioners in finishing their path of cultivation and realization, or to provide some assistance to their families so they could be free of worldly worries and devote themselves wholeheartedly to the practice. For those who have faith in the Buddhadharma and wish to do charitable work, it would also be a matter of boundless merit. Wu Aizhen thought this to herself. Yet perhaps what these meditators need is not only financial assistance; more importantly, they need suitable dharma doors for their cultivation and realization, and they need enlightened teachers who can guide them out of their confusion. Wu Aizhen thought of her own several revered teachers, and reflected on how fortunate she was compared with other practitioners! She resolved that she must practice and realize with the utmost vigor so as not to disappoint her master’s profound hopes.
But suddenly, she also recalled the various bad habits she had seen among practitioners she had encountered. Perhaps for every cultivator who genuinely practices and realizes the Buddhadharma, the buddhas, bodhisattvas, and heavenly Dharma protectors will equally provide protection and care. If in one’s cultivation and realization one encounters truly insurmountable obstacles that cannot be broken through, what is most needed is to quickly examine the arising and movement of one’s own thoughts — especially whether one’s resolve and one’s actions truly correspond — to deeply repent, and to request the empowerment of the buddhas and bodhisattvas. Or it may be that one’s practice of the foundational practices is insufficient, that one hasn’t accumulated enough provisions for the path. If a Mahayana practitioner’s giving, upholding of precepts, patience, and vigor are insufficient, they cannot enter samadhi and realize the wisdom of the Buddha.
After a bumpy journey, they finally arrived at Huaishui Town. Wu Aizhen, Gao Shui, and Wu Sheng walked toward the monastery. Out of consideration for the female lay practitioner, Gao Shui and Wu Sheng took the items she had been carrying from her hands. Even so, they still left her far behind on the mountain path. Wu Aizhen had no mind to catch up with them; she simply walked slowly behind, alone, taking in the evening mountain scenery…
The last light of the setting sun spread across the layer upon layer of hills. The twilight evening glow stirred many tender memories in Wu Aizhen. The voices, faces, and smiles of loved ones and friends, one by one, leaped out from deep within her heart, vivid and alive against the landscape gradually shrouded by dusk… I ought to go back — back to the rolling red dust of the world. There, and only there, lies the most complete and unsurpassed training ground for testing oneself…
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