Good morning. So here we are. It's already day three of our seshin. So I wanted to begin this morning with the now familiar self-receiving and self-employing samadhi, which Dogen wrote back in the 13th century. But I have no doubt that he was thinking about all of us who were going to follow in his gigantic wake. The zazen of even one person at one moment imperceptibly accords with all things and fully resonates through all time. Thus, in the past, future, and the present of the limitless universe, this zazen carries on the Buddha's teaching endlessly. Each moment of zazen is equally wholeness of practice, equally wholeness of realization. This is not only practice while sitting, It is like a hammer striking emptiness.

[01:03]

Before and after its exquisite peel permeates everywhere. How can it be limited to this moment? Hundreds of things all manifest original practice from the original face. It is impossible to measure. Know that even if all the Buddhas of the Ten Directions, as innumerable as the sands of the Ganges, exert their strength, and with the Buddha's wisdom, try to measure the merit, of one person Zazen, they will not be able to fully comprehend it. So I've been thinking quite a lot about Zazen while sitting Zazen and seeing if there were some useful things I might be able to say about it. And as it turns out, the main thing I noticed is that Zazen is really the easiest thing that we do here at Green Lodge Farm. There's no fancy equipment that's needed. There's no ongoing discussion while we're sitting. We don't argue or tell jokes.

[02:05]

We don't flirt and we don't chat. So we just sit together, you know, quietly and peacefully like rows of stone angels. So this Zendo, I find to be a very lovely place in the early morning hours and also in the late hours of the evening, especially in these days of illness and social dis-ease. Zazen, sitting quietly, is the place and is the way that is at the core of our practice. So all we need is a small black cushion or two and some room for our legs, some modest shelter like the Buddha had under the tree, and there we are, inhaling and exhaling, listening, thinking, feeling, perceiving. And all the while, I think we're resisting that variety of impulses that occur, such as suddenly jumping up out of our seats or calling out to a friend across the way.

[03:06]

Zazen is the primary glue that holds all the parts of this community together. And I was thinking that if we drop Zazen from the schedule, I don't know how many of us would stay here much longer. So just what is it that we imagine we are doing, sitting there every day? You know, what makes zazen so important that we are willing to show up in rooms like that one over and over again? And for some of us, you know, year after year after year. So that's the question that I wanted to explore with you as we once again engage with this mysterious activity that even all the sages can't possibly measure, the merit of one person's zazen. During this practice intensive, we've been telling you stories about our Zen ancestors, and you've been reading and hearing about what they said, and you've read and thought about sutras and commentaries, and in particular, the Heart Sutra. So I thought I would begin this exploration of Zazen with a story from a collection of Zen koans called The Book of Serenity.

[04:17]

This one is about our Indian ancestor, Prajnatara. The story is case three called The Invitation of the Ancestor to Eastern India. And in fact, this is the one that my own teacher, Tenshin Roshi, told me to study when I was the Shusou here at Green Gulch, an increasingly large number of years ago now. So Prajnatara is the ancestor who reportedly sent his own disciple Bodhidharma to teach in China sometime around the fifth century. So when people ask, why did Bodhidharma come from the West, perhaps the simplest answer is that his teacher told him to. And here's the story, beginning with an introduction. The state before the beginning of time, a turtle heads for the fire. The one phrase specially transmitted outside of doctrine, the lip of a mortar bears flowers.

[05:19]

Now tell me, is there any accepting and upholding, reading and reciting in this? The state before the beginning of time, a turtle heads for the fire. The one phrase specially transmitted outside of doctrine. The lip of a mortar bears flowers. Now tell me, is there any accepting and upholding, reading and reciting in this? Here's the case. A raja from an East Indian country invited the 27th Buddhist ancestor Prajnatara to a feast. The raja asked him, why don't you read scriptures? The ancestor said, this poor wayfarer doesn't dwell in the realms of the body or mind when breathing in, doesn't get involved in myriad circumstances when breathing out. I always reiterate such a scripture, hundreds, thousands, thousands. millions of scrolls.

[06:21]

Why don't you read scriptures? This poor wayfarer doesn't dwell in the realms of the body or mind when breathing in, doesn't get involved in myriad circumstances when breathing out. I always reiterate such a scripture, hundreds, thousands, millions of scrolls. So Prajna Tara's name in itself is a clue to the tradition that Bodhidharma carried to China on behalf of his teacher. Prajna means wisdom, Tara means jewel, indicating that this teacher's affinity was with the perfection of wisdom, the jewels of the Mahayana. So all of us in the Zen tradition who are guided by the Bodhisattva precepts are disciples of the Mahayana, the great vehicle teaching. And all of you who've joined in the chanting during morning service are now familiar with the language and study of the Mahayana, in particular through the chanting of the Great Wisdom Beyond Wisdom Heart Sutra, one of its primary texts.

[07:29]

No eyes, no ears, no nose, no suffering, no cause of suffering, no cessation, no path, no attainment with nothing to attain. Before the pandemic limited our morning service, as some of you may still remember, we also connected to the lineage of our ancestors in the great vehicle teaching through honoring and naming of them, like Bodhidharma, and who are said to have carried this perfection of wisdom from the time of Shakyamuni Buddha on Vulture Peak up to the present day, to each of us who is sitting here right now. What I find... Significant about this particular story are the two things that Prajnatara says to the Raja that seem useful as guidance for our practice of meditation. The first is Prajnatara's keen awareness of inhalations and exhalations, a lifelong practice based in mindfulness of his own body.

[08:31]

And the second has to do with the non-attachment regarding appearances, whether internal or external. of the various images that were arising in his mind. This poor wayfarer doesn't dwell in the realms of the body or mind when breathing in, doesn't get involved in myriad circumstances when breathing out. I always reiterate such a scripture. Hundreds, thousands, millions of scrolls. So this is pretty basic meditation instruction in keeping with the fundamental simplicity of the Zen school. and its approach to Buddhist practice. There's no fancy equipment. There's no contrivance or mental elaborations. We just sit and we just breathe and we just wait until we hear the bell. So this feeling of a simple practice reminded me of a verse that was also written by Dogen Zenji that the leaders of our children's program recite with the kids on the first Sunday of every month.

[09:37]

Body like a mountain, heart like the ocean, mind like the sky, body like a mountain, heart like the ocean, and mind like the sky. Very simple and familiar, deeply familiar. So beginning with this body like a mountain, our attention is directed toward mindfulness of the body, and in particular of our posture, as well as to mindfulness of our breath, which is this and valuable link between the body and the mind. And the mind, in turn, is the invaluable gateway to our life in the present moment. So these teachings about the body appear in two well-known sutras of early Buddhism, the Mahasatipatthana Sutta, which means the four foundations of mindfulness, and the Anapanasamyutta Sutta, which means the connected discourse on breathing. So each morning I have this very special privilege of facing out and viewing the rows of people, all of you, who've come into the zendo to sit zazen together.

[10:51]

And sometimes I notice the shape of your bodies and I have this thought that maybe you would appreciate some help in finding a more comfortable position, you know, and I really don't know what's going on inside of you while you're sitting. And I am really sorry that this round of illness doesn't allow us to come around and offer posture correction as we normally would. It doesn't allow us to touch you. So I think it would benefit those of us who are teaching here if you would let us know, myself or Linda, Reb Maya, any of the other practice leaders, if you want some help with your posture. I have personally found that the position of my body during meditation is always this kind of work in progress. It never really sets. Something like pouring a thick liquid into the solidity of a human shape, you know, rather than stacking some rocks up in a pile and hoping they will stay there until the bell rings. And yet I must admit that even at times with this liquid, this thick liquid feeling, there are these occasions of kind of like lightning strikes where bone hits bone or ligaments aren't going to stretch like they used to.

[12:05]

That causes me to pay closer attention to my posture again and to find new ways to sit that don't result in excruciating pain, which I assure you is not one of the byproducts of upright sitting that I am willing to endure. Some level of what we call pain has been okay with me over the years as a way of deepening my concentration or for developing some patience with experiences that I don't necessarily like. When asked about pain, Suzuki Roshi said, pain is quite tedious. So excruciating pain, however, is not so highly recommended. It's certainly not by me, and it wasn't by my teacher. When I asked him some years ago, I said to Rep, you know, I just have too much pain in Zazen. I don't think I am going to be able to continue practicing here at Zen Center. And he said, well, why don't you move? It was such a good question, isn't it? So I am still researching that on a daily basis.

[13:08]

Why don't I move? Body like a mountain. It's very interesting to me to think about the first of these three verses of Dogen's considering this image of a mountain and how we might work with that image in establishing our posture. When I think about mountains, you know, like Denali or Fuji or Mount Tamalpais, I notice pretty quickly how powerful and singular those images are. In my mind. Mountains are mountains. And yet whenever I have actually climbed on a mountain, it's not long before the mountain is no longer visible. And my perceptions are taken over by seemingly infinite numbers of details that surround me. You know, the trees and the plants and the small animals and insects and the sky and the water and so on and so on. Until mountains are no longer mountains at all, as the Zen saying goes. So Dogen talks about this fluid experience of reality as we move about the world of sensory perception in the self-receiving and self-employing samadhi.

[14:15]

Beginning with the very title of this teaching itself, you know, how these two phrases, self-receiving and self-employing, generates an awareness within us of life itself. You know, life being given in each moment, on each breath, and then offered back in each moment, on each breath. There is no need for a person to take credit or take the lead in this miraculous unfolding of our life. In fact, there is really no need for a person at all, as the Buddha discovered while he said that. Grass, trees, and lands, when embraced by this teaching, together radiate a great light and endlessly expound the inconceivable profound dharma. Grass, trees, and walls bring forth the teaching for all beings, common people as well as sages. And they, in accord, extend this dharma for the sake of grass, trees, and walls. Thus, in the realm of self-awakening and awakening others, invariably holds the mark of realization with nothing lacking.

[15:20]

And realization itself is manifested without ceasing for a moment. And then there's that word samadhi. in the title, self-receiving, self-employing samadhi. So this word, too, leads us into a kind of deeper awareness of what it is that we've come here to do, you know, or undo, how it is that the grass, trees, and walls are lighting our way, and how we, in turn, are bringing life to the world around us by simply noticing the world around us. The term samadhi derives from the root samadha, which means to collect, bring together. It's often translated as concentration or unification of the mind. And as I said yesterday in the early Buddhist teachings, samadhi is also associated with the term shamatha, or calm abiding, tranquility. So exploring the landscape surrounding us while deeply questioning the visible separation that appears within perception,

[16:28]

we may remember and then actually experience the teaching that Dogen has given to us that mind and object merge in realization. Mind and object merge in realization, going beyond enlightenment. It seems to me that the study of grass, trees, and walls, the so-called outside, isn't really any different from how it is to explore the landscape of our own bodies, you know, the so-called inside. I often find as I begin to sit how my awareness is scanning the varieties of sensations in a somewhat restless fashion before finally settling down into awareness of the one sensation that was recommended to me years ago when I first was taught how to sit. Awareness of breathing. Awareness of breathing is referred to as one of the pradipakshas. meaning an opposite or counter-agent or antidote to discursive thinking.

[17:29]

So if you like, you can try counting or following your breaths, which is an ancient concentration practice particularly celebrated among the Theravadan Buddhists. From the Pali Canon, there's a discourse in which the Buddha describes concentration by mindfulness of breathing, Anapanasati Samadhi. Anapanasati Samadhi. O monks, Just as in the last month of the hot season, when a mass of dust and dirt has swirled up, a great rain cloud out of season disperses it and quells it on the spot. So too, concentration by mindfulness of breathing, when developed and cultivated, is peaceful and sublime, an ambrosial pleasant dwelling, and it disperses and quells on the spot evil, unwholesome states whenever they arise. So placing your attention on your breathing while sitting in an upright posture has its foundation in the yogic practices of ancient India.

[18:35]

These were very common at the time of the Buddha's birth. The word yoga comes from the same source as the English word to yoke, as in yoking two oxen together to plow the fields. And in Buddhist teaching, yoga is a means of reconciling dichotomies in order to arrive at the non-dual nature of reality itself. mind to body, self to other, red earth to blue sky. Zazen has a lot to offer in helping us yoke our mind to our body. And although it's pretty resistant teeming at times, allowing the body and the mind to drift along as if they're separate is a primary cause of our pain, our suffering. From Suzuki Roshi's lecture in Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind on non-duality. To stop your mind does not mean to stop the activities of your mind. It means that your mind pervades your whole body.

[19:36]

With your full mind, you form the mudra in your hands. To stop your mind does not mean to stop the activities of your mind. That means that your mind pervades your whole body. With your full mind, you form the mudra in your hands. It takes a bit of practice, I think, as we all know, but by and by, your body, your breath, and your mind will no longer be discernible as separate from one another. And in fact, this practice can work wonders with all of the asanas of separation, you know, with right and wrong, form and emptiness, emptiness and form, body like a mountain, teeming with life. From this calm, stable, settled posture of a seated Buddha, we can open ourselves to the calm, settled vision that one can see from there. As we talked about in the Heart Sutra class, Avalokiteshvara, who was infused with the deep splendor concentration practice of the Buddha, looked down from Vulture Peak and saw the five aggregates are empty, as in full, completely full, of both the limitations of being and of the vastness of not being.

[20:53]

of the time before the empty eon, or of the face of our parents before we were born. With a mind filled to the brim, with the quiet wholeness of life, you may find your attention is naturally drawn to an engagement with some further grand questions of your own, you know, such as those that I held for many years. One being, you know, is sitting here really doing any good for the troubles in this world? And even so, if it is, will it be fast enough? Questions I still hold to this day. So you might want to consider other classic Zen questions which have helped to break many free from their own ignorance as to the true nature of themselves or of their place in this world. This one is from Case 2 in the Book of Serenity. What is the highest meaning of the Holy Truths? asks the stately and elegant Emperor Wu.

[21:55]

Vast emptiness, nothing holy, replies Bodhidharma, the ragtag Indian monk. Who are you facing me, says the emperor. Don't know, replies the monk. It's exchanges like these that are the lifeblood of our practice, of our Zen tradition. And whether you see them as puzzles or pitons or lamps, if you spend time facing the wall of your own notions and your own perceptions, and you use the inspiring techniques of those who've gone before us, then maybe we can slowly begin to climb up and out, up and out of our own rigid ways of thinking, our own rigid points of view. And that's the basic hope. Teachings such as these, wherever you can find them, are like safety harnesses that have been carefully designed to fail, which ironically is the safest harness of all. For if our suffering is caused by grabbing a hold, then whatever helps us to loosen our grip is viewed as a very good method indeed.

[23:06]

Body-mind dropped. Dropped body-mind. One of my favorite all-time koans, One of those Zen puzzles is called Counting the Stars, which goes like this. Count the stars in the sky. That's it. For me, counting the stars in the sky is a very good clue to what we have come here to do this week and each day. We get up in the morning with an alarm or bell. We walk on those wooden floors. the many doors of the zendo and we settled into our seats and then there's another bell and then what happened what happened this morning how about yesterday or the day before it's hard to remember or even to imagine or even think of it at all you know just like that night sky full of stars there really does seem to be something there you know something vast and beyond our imagination

[24:11]

So we try different things to make sense of vastness. Things like measurements and probes, and I think we're even trying lunar landers again. And yet no matter how far we reach, there is much more that we'll never understand, we'll never comprehend. I recently asked an old friend of mine who's a physicist down at the Stanford Linear Accelerator, you know, that long, mile long. He gets to shoot tiny little things that... Tiny little things. Anyway, I asked him about what's outside of the known universe. And he rolled his eyes and smiled. And then he gave me the very same answer that Bodhidharma gave to Emperor Wu. Don't know. Counting the stars in the sky or counting our breaths one after the other are very good ways to remind ourselves that we just don't know. We don't know where the breath has come from or where it will go. And yet it's perfectly okay for us to count them.

[25:13]

And in fact, it's kind of soothing and comforting to abide in a quieted breath with a star-filled sky overhead. After all, our mind is not only like the night sky, it is the night sky and the red earth and the fire and the water, you know, vast and quiet and free, regardless of the many names that we may enjoy giving to all of the parts of the sky. you know, Pisces, Gemini, Aries, Scorpio. We just enjoy giving names to things, don't we? You know, Jenny and Miriam, Maya, Alex, Katie, Megan, Sam, Linda, and all the rest of you sitting together this week. Patterns and the potential for creating new patterns is basically all we've got going for ourselves here today and every day. Or as my teacher once said, arranging rocks in an avalanche. The avalanche, which is also known as impermanence, is what helps to de-center us from the belief in a solid self, you know, the mountain.

[26:21]

And on the other hand, it's what opens us up to the ungraspability, the inconceivability, and perhaps surprisingly so, the great love for all beings. Beings who, like us, are struggling with arranging their rocks, and just like us, may have lost touch with the unalterable affection that we had as children for the mystery and for the playfulness of it all. Here's a poem written by the nun Anya Tara. I was young when I left home and for years I rambled around my practice sitting, walking and hoping. At first everything was new. I didn't notice my skin drying up or my hair turning gray. And then one morning, there I was, an old woman. Where had I gotten in all those years on the path? That night I slept out in a field and it rained.

[27:25]

I felt like I belonged there, miserable and alone in the mud. In the morning, I went to the nearest monastery and I threw myself down. A nun took me in and taught me. this body, this mind, this world, where they come from, where they go, what they are and what they are not. That night I went out to sit in the field and it rained. I felt like I belonged there. Every drop of water telling me I was home. Don't worry, my sisters. When the road reaches its end, you'll know it. Thank you very much

[28:14]

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