Xiangyan
Zhixian and Guishan Lingyou were both students of Baizhang Huaihai. Before
coming to Baizhang, Xiangyan had devoted himself to the study of the Chinese
classics as well as the traditional Buddhist scriptures, and he acquired a
reputation for scholarship. He kept
copious notes on his studies and was known to have a ready answer to every
question he was asked.
After Baizhang died, Xiangyan
presented himself to Guishan, who had been declared the master’s dharma
successor, and, even though they were about the same age, Xiangyan asked to be
accepted as a disciple. Guishan,
however, was reluctant to grant the request.
“When we were both disciples of
our late master,” Guishan said, “you were said to be able to give ten answers
to a single question. This, however,
isn’t the way of Zen. Such intellectual
attainments only result in an abstract or analytical comprehension, which
really isn’t of much use. Still, perhaps
you do have some insight into the truth of Zen.
So tell me: what is your true self, your self before your mother gave
birth to you, before you came to know east from west?”
Xiangyan was unsure how to reply
to this question but ventured a number of attempts, each of which Guishan
dismissed. Finally he said, “Please,
then, teach me. Show me this original
self.”
“I’ve nothing to give you,”
Guishan told him. “Even if I tried to
instruct you, that would only provide you an opportunity to ridicule me later
on. After all, whatever I have is my own
and can never be yours. How can that be
of any help to you?”
Xiangyan retired to his
quarters, where he searched through the books and notes he had collected over
the years, but nothing he found in them helped him understand what Guishan was
asking for when he demanded that Xiangyan “show” his original self.
“A picture of rice cakes will
never satisfy hunger,” he admitted to himself.
Then he gathered all his papers together, took them outside, and set
fire to them. “What’s the use of
studying Buddhism, so difficult to comprehend and too subtle to receive
instruction from another?” he said to himself.
“I’ll become a simple monk, abiding by the precepts, with no desire to
try to master things too deep for thought.”
He left Baizhang’s temple that
day and traveled for many weeks, eventually coming to a ruined mountain temple
where the remains of the National Teacher were buried. Xiangyan found the tomb in a state of
deterioration. So he built a grass hut
nearby and took upon himself the responsibilities of care-taker.
He carried out his tasks as
mindfully as he could, and one day, as he was sweeping the grounds with a
broom, a stone he cleared away struck a bamboo stalk. The sound, sharp and hollow, was clear in his
attention, and the moment he heard it he came to a deep awakening. He was speechless for a moment, then broke
out laughing.
He went into the ruined temple,
lit incense in gratitude, and bowed in the direction of Guishan’s temple. Then he traveled to see the man who had
refused to teach him. “Your kindness to
me was greater than even that of my parents,” Xiangyan told Guishan. “Had you tried to explain this truth to me in
words, I would never be where I am now.”
Zen Masters of China: 210-13,
245
The Story of Zen: 143-44
The Story of Zen: 143-44
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