This podcast is offered by the San Francisco Zen Center on the web at sfzc.org. Our public programs are made possible by donations from people like you. Good morning. Can everyone hear me? Excellent. I want to thank Fu for inviting me to speak here and... I see many old friends in the audience, and what a treat to see you today, Shohaknam. I don't know whether it's traditional to introduce oneself at such a gathering.

[01:13]

In the City Center, we do it quite often, so if anybody doesn't know me, my name's Ed Sadezon, and I'm the abiding abbot at the City Center. And I only come out here about once a year, so it's a real treat to see you and sit in this beautiful hall. And thank you, Jeremy, for inviting me. Jeremy's here. There he is over there. Always wonderful to see Linda and Steve. This morning I'm going to talk about a very famous koan from the Book of Serenity, Dijong's Most Intimate. And there's a little introductory paragraph which goes, The great way to the capital goes seven ways across and eight ways up and down. Suddenly, if you can open your mouth and explain fully, take steps and walk, Then you can hang your bowl and bag up high and break your staff. But tell me, who is this? That's the introduction.

[02:16]

And here's our two main characters. This is a very short koan. So Dijan asked Fayan, where are you going? And Fayan said, around on pilgrimage. And Dijan said, what is the purpose of your pilgrimage? And Fayan said, I don't know. actually a fairly honest answer. And Dijan said, not knowing is most intimate. So a very short story. Hard to imagine that we're gonna spend the next 40 minutes discussing those four lines, but we're gonna attempt to do that. So Xi'an was the ancient capital of China. and for more than about ten dynasties, which is maybe, I don't know, 700 years. And a few years ago I went on a trip visiting some monasteries in China and we went to Xi'an. Xi'an has been settled since Neolithic times and during the Tang Dynasty it was called the Million People City, one of the largest cities in the world.

[03:28]

Many roads lead to this important city. The great way to the capital, that's the introductory paragraph, the capital being Xi'an, goes seven ways across and ways up and down. So there's a lot of roads that go to the capital city, Xi'an. And similarly, there are many ways to awakening, as there are many roads to this capital. And there are many roads that cross these seven main roads, which sort of indicates the various ways in which skillful means can be used to bring you to awakening. And you can use freely any of them. So, of course, we have a pilgrim that is on his way. And if he wakes up, he doesn't have to depart again, and he can stop his pilgrimage. So there's no need to travel all about to engage in Dharma combat with Zen masters.

[04:33]

When monks of old went on pilgrimage, they carried a bag with their kesa and ceremonial robes in it. It was a long and narrow bag that also had room for their eating bowls, which were tied to the top. When they returned to their home temples, they would hang the bowls and bag up high at their place so they would be ready the next time they went on pilgrimage. So here's the instruction at the beginning of this case goes, suddenly if you can open your mouth and explain fully, take steps and walk, then you can hang your bowl and bag up high and break your staff. So that's basically saying if you can figure out what's going on, you can stop your pilgrimage and stay somewhere. You don't need to keep looking for answers. Wandering staff had metal rings on the top. which would jangle as the monks walked along.

[05:36]

This was to scare away any insects that might be in the past so as not to break the commandment of not killing. The instruction says that the wandering staff can be broken once again because there is no longer any need to go on pilgrimage and engage in Zen practice. So that's indicating maybe that this interaction that Dijon and Thayan are going to have might be something that is of importance. So back to the little interchange. Dijan asked Fayan, where are you going? A seemingly simple question. I'm going around on pilgrimage. Straightforward answer. Dijan said, what is the purpose of pilgrimage? So at this point, obviously, Payan was a well-developed monk.

[06:38]

He had been practicing for over 20 years, which is many times the case for monks that were out on pilgrimage. She could have had many sophisticated answers for what the purpose of his pilgrimage was, seeking enlightenment, spreading the Dharma, many wonderful things he could have said. But for some reason, that morning, he said, I don't know. I don't know. why I'm wandering around on pilgrimage. I've been studying Zen for 20 or 30 years, and I'm out figuring out what's going on. A really kind of honest answer. And Dijon said, not knowing is most intimate. Not knowing is most intimate. There's another translation, which is not knowing is nearest. that I like most intimate. Not knowing is most intimate. So this is, of course, the heart of the koan, and we're going to get to that.

[07:42]

But first of all, we're going to do a little bit of other stuff. Not knowing doesn't mean being stupid. Clearly, this person was a very intelligent monk who trained for 20 years. But having an open, ready mind. As the Zikri Roshi used to say, a beginner's mind. So for not knowing is most intimate, there's also nearest or awakening or realization or enlightenment. So he could have said not knowing is enlightenment, not knowing is awakening, not knowing is realization. He was saying, yes, just right, not knowing. So today I'm going to use this story and some of the commentary around it to explore the connection between not knowing and your intimate relationship with yourself and other people and everything.

[08:45]

Turned out that Fayan had an awakening after this interchange and stayed with Dijon for many years and subsequently became his Dharma heir and founded one of the five schools of Zen in China. He is featured in a half a dozen stories in the book of Serenity. So a very important person in the Zen lineage in China. And I love these pilgrimage stories because I partly think that one can think of our own life as a pilgrimage. I looked up in the book, the book of definitions, a dictionary, and it said that pilgrimage is a long journey or search especially one of exalted purpose or moral significance. And I think, you know, some ways one can characterize your entire life as a long journey or search, one of exalted purpose and moral significance.

[09:56]

Anyway, Fayon, this person who was on this pilgrimage that meant Dajan, was well-educated and very... periodite as a young man. He was ordained at the age of 20, studied the Confucian classics, the Vinaya, and under Chiang Ching for many years. In fact, somewhere it said more than a dozen years before he sat down on pilgrimage. So he was a very well-trained monk, which was quite traditional actually in China in those days. You might study for 20 or 30 years and then head out on pilgrimage. In fact, in case 64, he was one of the two major disciples of Changqing and this other disciple was quite unhappy that he had left. And there's a whole story about how the other disciple chased after him and tried to bring him back essentially. But anyway, our hero, Wei Yan, did leave.

[11:01]

his teacher, who was a quite good teacher, and set off on this pilgrimage across China. And apparently, he was probably heading for some famous monastery, maybe Jiaojou's monastery, something like that. But anyway, they got caught in a snowstorm. And so they retreated into Daizhan's monastery, where Daizhan was at. It's so wonderful to think about our life as a pilgrimage, you know, in search of some truth. Anyway, so Daizhan arrives, and Feiyan arrives, and Daizhan asks him, where are you going? I'm repeating this over and over again. He said, I'm going around on pilgrimage.

[12:02]

Daizhan said, what is the purpose of your pilgrimage? And he said, I don't know. I think when you say you don't know, that's the first chance that there's a possibility that maybe you could learn something. So I'm going to tell you a little traveling story about going out on a pilgrimage just to share some of my early days. When I was 1970, in 1970, I was 25. Maybe that was too much to reveal. Possibly. I was working on my PhD in mathematics at the University of New Mexico, and I took the summer off, bought a VW van, and set out in search of the truth. I had decided at 25 it was time to figure out what the truth was. And I'd heard about this place, Tassajara, from someone who had said, well, there's an actual real Zen master who set up a monastery in Tassajara.

[13:08]

You should go there. Anyway, I thought, well, maybe I will. Who knows? So I drove across the Southwest, did a lot of hiking in the desert to the Southwest. It's traditional when you're in Sutra the Truth to hike deep into the deserts by yourself and try to get lost, which I did. Although I was an Eagle Scout, so I always found my way back home. And I got to Los Angeles, and that was 1970. There was a lot of interesting stuff going on in Los Angeles. And I had a friend I stayed with for a while there. And then I headed up the Big Sur coast, hiked into Big Sur, found some more interesting things happening in the mountains of Big Sur. And I got to Carmel, and I thought, well, maybe I should find out where this place Tassar is. I asked some people, and they said, no, it's down the road here and there. You know, they have a hot springs there, so you could just drive in and, you know, use the hot springs. So I said, well, that's good. I'll just go in and use the hot springs. So I drove from Carmel Inn with my VW van. It's always a surprising event when you drive that 15-mile dirt road when you don't know where it's going, for those of you that have taken that marvelous road.

[14:17]

Anyway, I got there. I got out of my VW van, and I walked into the stone office, and there were a couple of young kids. I imagine them as young kids. I think I was 25, so I was probably pretty young too. But anyway, I think they were slightly younger than me, and they walked up to the guy at the front desk and said that they wanted to take a bath and he said two bucks or something. They could use it until sundown and they ran off to the bath. But for some reason, instead of walking up to the front desk and saying, I want to take a bath, which is what my sort of original intent was, I said I was interested in Zen and had read a book or two on the subject. Well, I think I'd only read one book because I think there was maybe only one book out on Zen at that time in English. I had read that one book. And he said, we have a program where you could stay as a guest student and in one week you will learn more about Zen than if you read all the books in English about it. This guy was Stan White, a very old sort of beatnik guy.

[15:27]

And they said, would you like to do that? This was sort of one of those moments of truth. You know, I could say, well, no, I think I'll just go to the bhaas. And no, I said, yes. And two hours later, Reb, who's not here, was giving me zazen instruction. And two hours after that, I was sitting in the zendo, and Suzuki Roshi was giving a lecture on something. That yes was a yes that changed the course of my life. So sometimes when you go out on pilgrimage, you don't know what can happen to you. That's the thing about pilgrimages. Very dangerous business to embark in. So now that I'm in the pilgrimage realm, I thought I'd tell you another pilgrimage story because I don't know how many of you know David White.

[16:29]

David White's a wonderful poet that reads at Zen Center sometimes. And anyway, he wrote a beautiful poem about the Camino de Santiago, or the Way of St. James. It's a wonderful pilgrimage route in Spain. And you go to the shrine of the Apostle of St. James the Great in northwest Spain. It's a sort of spiritual path or retreat. So, the main pilgrimage route follows an earlier Roman trade route, which continues to the Atlantic coast, ending at Cape Finisterre. Apparently, it's Spain's westernmost point. I think at one point they thought it was the westernmost point of mainland Europe, but apparently there's some other place that sticks out a little bit further. That's why they called it, Finisteria, literally the end of the world or land's end.

[17:30]

Apparently at night the Milky Way overhead seems to point the way so that Theroux acquired the nickname the Milky Way in French. Wonderful pilgrimage. Isn't that great? Can't we imagine ourselves now? Pilgriming to the very end of Europe, the very edge of Europe. So this is the poem that David White wrote about this pilgrimage. The road in the end, taking the path the sun had taken into the western sea, and the moon rising behind you as you stood where ground turned to ocean. No way to your future now, but the way your shadow could take. Apparently, it was a full moon rising as he was standing at the edge of the sea. Full moons, as you know, will cast as big a shadow as the sun will when it rises.

[18:33]

The full moon rising behind him, casting a shadow out into the ocean. No way to your future now but the way your shadow could take, walking before you across the water, going where shadows go. No way to make sense of a world that wouldn't let you pass except to call an end to the way you had come. To take out each frayed letter you had brought and light their illumined corners. Apparently one of the traditions when you go on this pilgrimage is you bring some letters and you burn them at the edge of the sea and throw them into the ocean. No way to make sense of the world that wouldn't let you pass. You couldn't pass because of the ocean, except to call an end to the way you had come, to take out each frayed letter you had brought and light their illumined corners and to read them as they drifted on the late Western light.

[19:35]

To empty your bags, to sort this and to leave that. To promise, apparently you're supposed to leave something there too besides these letters. To promise what you needed, to promise all along. and to abandon the shoes that brought you here right at the water's edge. So yes, you're supposed to leave something there, and this poet left his shoes. Not because you had given up, but because now you would find a different way to tread. And because through it all, part of you would still walk on, no matter how, over the waves. You follow all that? Pilgrimage. The road at the end taking the path the sun had taken into the western sea and the moon rising behind you as you stood where ground turned to the ocean. No way to your future now but the way your shadow could take.

[20:37]

Walking before you across water and going where shadows go. No way to make sense of a world that wouldn't let you pass except to call an end to the way you had come. to take out each frayed letter you had brought and light their illumined corners and to read them as they drifted on the late western light, to empty your bags, to sort this and to leave that, to promise what you needed to promise all along, and to abandon the shoes that brought you here right at the water's edge. Not because you had given up, but because now you would find a different way to tread and because through it all part of you would still walk on no matter how, over the waves. So back to our friend, Feiyan, who's been out pilgrimage around and had just opened up to Dijan and said, I don't know.

[21:43]

And Dijan had encouraged him by saying, not knowing is most intimate. Not knowing is nearest. What you are looking for right here, right now, the way is right beneath your feet and in every blade of grass, and in every blade of grass, you can set down your baggage." And Feiyan did, took Dijan as his teacher and practiced there and eventually went off and founded his own monastery. We are so committed to our identity and to our knowing that we are busy defending our territory, our views, making a lot of trouble for ourselves and our friends. What a burden. What a great thing that we can put that burden down. So what about this not knowing?

[22:48]

Not knowing is most intimate. Does that make sense to you, not knowing? We know so many things, and yet we know nothing about anything that's actually important. I mean, what is this that's going on here? These swirling planets, these galaxies, this human life, What can we know about this human life? Certainly, having an open mind about what's going on is a good thing. So, here's another case that is similar in this way. Zhao Zhou asked Nanxuan, what is the way? Nanxuan said, ordinary mind is the way. Zhao Zhou said, should I try to direct myself toward it? Nanxuan said, if you try to direct yourself, you betray your own practice. Zhao Zhou said, how can I know the way if I don't direct myself?

[23:51]

Anshan Sued said, the way is not subject to knowing or not knowing. Knowing is delusion, not knowing is blankness. If you truly reach the genuine way, you will find it as vast and boundless as outer space. How can this be discussed at a level of affirmation or negation? This is not ordinary not knowing. This is not a matter of not knowing how to do calculus. I mean, I was a mathematician, as I said earlier, before I set out on my adventure. And you can actually know a lot about mathematics if you study it for a while. But this not knowing that we're talking about here is really recognizing how little we know and asking ourselves how do we be open and live in this moment without having all the standard rules in our head about how to do it.

[25:05]

This is a not knowing at the level of standing in awe that we exist here at all and how any of this works and in particular things that are most important like how you love another person. What's that about? Love. I don't know whether I have enough time to get into this, but I'm going to wave my hand at it. Let's just do it that way. To carry the self forward and illuminate myriad things is delusion.

[26:08]

That myriad things come forth and illuminate the self is awakening. Isn't that a wonderful sentence? carry the self forward and illuminate myriad things is delusion. That myriad things come forth and illuminate the self is awakening. This is a famous sentence from Agenjo Koan. Shohaka Okamura has a marvelous book on this subject. I have read many times in some effort Understand that four-page essay. It's a beautiful book. So within consciousness, reality is distorted.

[27:18]

We don't see things as they are. Illusion is the psychological condition caused by this distortion of reality. It is a type of confusion caused by not seeing things as it is. As Hizuki Roshi used to famously say, when we don't see things clearly, we cannot make good judgments and are unsure of the way to go. It's like being lost. Experience, knowledge, wisdom are good. but they can remove us from what is in front of us. When I know, I bring myself forward, imposing myself and my experience on this moment. When I don't know, I let the moment come forward and reveal itself. I think I'm gonna just leave that there. Of course, we have to know a lot to live in this world, to run Zen Center, and we have to be learning a lot.

[28:27]

But if we don't really understand that about most of the important stuff, we don't know anything, like how to love, how to really meet someone else. We are adults, we bring a lot of experience into the moment, but not knowing means we are open to feeling the newness of the situation. open to the subtle changes in our mood. So, continuing on the commentary on this beautiful case that we're studying. Now when people hear it said that not knowing is nearest, and that this is where Fionn was enlightened, they immediately go over to just knowing, not understanding just this is it. They hardly realize that a phrase of the ancients covers everywhere, like the sky, supports everywhere like the earth. If not knowing is nearest, then what about Hazan saying the one word knowing is the gate of myriad wonders.

[29:29]

Just affirm totally when affirming, but don't settle down in affirmation. Deny totally when denying, but don't settle down in denial. Do you follow all that? Isn't this fun? So we can't settle in knowing and we can't settle in not knowing. We're caught on the horns of a dilemma. Now, when people hear it said that not knowing is nearest and this is where Phaean was enlightened, then they immediately go over to just not knowing, not understanding, just this is it. You hardly realize the phrase of the ancients covers everywhere like the sky, supports everywhere like the earth. If not knowing is nearest, then what about Hazan saying the one word knowing is the gate of myriad wonders?

[30:31]

Just affirm totally when affirming, but don't settle down in affirmation. Deny totally when denying, but don't settle down in denial. One of the most wonderful things I remember about Suzuki Roshi is it was, yes, when you act, you act with absolute clarity and commitment, but you don't stay there. You're ready to move to the next place because the next moment is going to be different, and you have to be ready, prepared for it. In that moment, we have to do something. We don't want to get stuck there. I don't know, when I was preparing the notes for this talk, I had this paragraph, which I have no idea where it came from. I don't think I wrote it, but I can't attribute it to anybody, so I don't know. I'm going to read it and thank whoever the genius was that wrote it.

[31:35]

Until we die, we never get to stop living. To be most fully alive, we show up with everything we've got. We must save the earth. We must work for justice. We must embrace all of humanity with compassion. To do this, we must play with knowing and make use of answers, even though none of them offer permanent refuge. What seems to inspire the saints and sages is the bright, living willingness each of us has right here, right now. It has immense power and beauty, defying all description and rational explanation. I think it's Buddha nature, the divine life itself. It is not manifested by resting either in knowing or not knowing. It manifests in moving forward wholeheartedly. Beautiful. Whoever wrote it, I attribute, I thank them.

[32:45]

So at the end of Wansan's commentary, there is a musing story about the parts of the face, which one usually tells when going over this particular koan. So here we go. Mouth asked Nose, eating is up to me. What good are you that you are above me? Nose said, among the five mountains, the central one occupies honored position. knows and asks eyes, why are you above me? Eyes said, we are like the sun and moon. Truly we have accomplished illumination and reflection. We dare ask eyebrows, what virtue do they have to be above us? One of those, you always have to end one of these Zen lectures with something kind of fun. Eyebrows said, but this is straight from the Koan collection.

[33:51]

I don't know. Just a direct quote. I've lost my way. Where were we? Ah, what did the eyebrows say? The eyebrows said, we really have no merit. We are ashamed to be in the higher position. If you let us be below, let the eyes look from above. Another master commenting on this commentary said, in the eyes it's called seeing, in the ears it's called hearing, but what is it called in the eyebrows? Then after a long silence he said, in sorrow we grieve together, in happiness we rejoice together. Everyone knows the useful function, but they don't know the useless. great function. So I'll read that commentary by this great master, Dan.

[34:58]

In the eyes, it's called seeing. In the ears, it's called hearing. What is it called in the eyebrows? In sorrow, we grieve together. In happiness, we rejoice together. Everyone knows the useful function, but they don't know the useless great function. Good lesson for us Americans. We're always so busy being useful and missing the point of the whole thing. Anyway, this I can attribute to my good friend Norman Fisher. And I won't try to paraphrase it because Norman writes so beautifully, you might as well just read him. To me, this is very beautiful. Life's just like that, don't you think? When sorrow comes, we grieve, but it's not so bad because we grieve together, intimately. Even the trees hang low and the flowers droop, and this intimacy makes the sorrow poignant and beautiful.

[36:03]

When happiness comes, we rejoice, but we don't need to feel guilty or worried that somehow we will lose our happiness because it isn't ours. We are happy intimately together with everyone and everything. If we are willing to grieve together with everything, then we can be happy together with everything without holding back. We know the happiness won't last, that it will go, come back, go again, come back again, but that's okay. How could it be otherwise? There's a place for the useful function, for knowing, for learning, for skill. Without the eyes, the nose, and the mouth, the world as we know it wouldn't appear. But without the useless function, without not knowing, the world would never be. To practice not knowing is... Did you guys all get the answer?

[37:14]

I'm waiting to hear somebody. Poor Norman used nearest, but I want to use most intimate because I do think that's the best thing about not knowing. Back to where I was. To practice not knowing is, instead of nearest, most intimate is to return to the heart of the world moment after moment. The eyebrows are very humble. They don't know anything and they don't do anything, but they are the highest of all. I think I'm going to end with this little paragraph from Suzuki Roshi in Not Always So, where he says,

[38:21]

This is called, I don't know zazen. We don't know what zazen is anymore. I don't know who I am. To find complete composure when you don't know who you are or where you are, that is to accept things as it is. Even though you don't know who you are, you accept yourself. That is you in its true sense. When you know who you are, that you will not be the real you. You may overestimate yourself quite easily, but when you say, oh, I don't know, then you are you and you know yourself completely. This is enlightenment. Well, thank you very much for inviting me out to Green Gulch. It's always lovely to come out here. see all your bright faces. I'm surprised on such a lovely day that you're not all down at the beach. Well, maybe you'll go down to the beach as soon as we end.

[39:26]

Thank you for listening to this podcast offered by the San Francisco Zen Center. Our programs are made possible by the donations we receive. Please help us to continue to realize and actualize the practice of giving. by offering your financial support. For more information, visit sfzc.org and click giving. May we fully enjoy the Dharma.

[39:59]

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