Zen and Japanese Stories

The master has ceased to identify himself by his ego; he’s abandoned himself to the void, to the internal silence. The only noise that resounds in his vacuity in this moment is the disciple’s question. The latter takes the master’s response as though it were a question directed at his intellect, without realizing that the master has done no more than imitate him.

“You are the master. I don’t know the answer. That’s why I asked you!” An absurd reply: the master didn’t want to ask a question; he merely imitated the noise of the disciple’s words, stripping them of their content. The disciple wants to obtain concepts; he doesn’t give up his intellectual search. By giving him a smack on the head, the master interrupts the verbal flow. In the space of an instant, the spirit remains void of words.

One day, a great master arrives unannounced at a Zen monastery. The head cook must hurriedly prepare something to eat. He begins to cook some vegetables for a succulent soup.

The guest eats the soup. He’s delighted by it, until he finds the head of a snake in his spoon. He calls the head cook for an explanation. The latter, upon seeing the serpent’s head, reaches out his arm, grabs the head and swallows it before the stupefied eyes of all present. Dignified, he immediately turns around and returns to his kitchen without saying a word.

By immediately swallowing the snake, the cook, in reality, swallowed his mistake. Generally speaking, we’re rarely disposed to do the same.

Once, while reading the tarot cards for Ejo Takata, I told him: “Listen, Ejo, excuse me for saying so, you’re a monk, a master… but according to your cards, you’ve got sexual problems.”

He didn’t hide behind excuses trying to justify himself; he immediately swallowed the serpent’s head: he raised his fist and exclaimed: “Yes! I do!” The next day, he left for Japan to see his wife.

A Japanese artist had two cats, a big one and a little one. He made two cat flaps in his door, a big one and a little one. A friend who was passing by one day was surprised:

This story is a bit odd. I found it in a booklet entitled Le chat et le Samorai, contes du Japon,* a compilation of initiating stories that break with logic.

In the above story, there are two types of language: That of the heart, and that of the intellect.

The artist has two cats whereas the intellectual has none. How can the latter imagine the love the artist feels for his cats?

You could think that the artist’s answer reflects something of a simple spirit, or you could think that his answer means: I don’t use my intellect to relate to those matters that are of the order of love. The intellect has no place in the language of the heart. I want to honor both of my cats by giving each one his own flap. If the little one uses the big flap, that’s his business. He can do as he pleases. Maybe one day the big cat will twist himself like a madman trying to use the little cat flap. In reality, the only thing that matters is to give each one his place.

We all have a door that corresponds to us. We can’t all use the same door, regardless of how big it is.

This reminds me of how, in popular symbolism, Saint Peter appears with a large bundle of keys. We ask ourselves why so many keys. Perhaps heaven has many doors? Here’s the answer: Saint Peter carries so many keys because each of us arrives with his own. Saint Peter holds the keys of everyone who has entered. Supposing for a moment that heaven does indeed exist, this means that each person has his own entrance, and nobody can enter by someone else’s.

Kafka wrote a story about this very theme. A man knocks on the door of justice, but the guard turns him away. He repeatedly insists, but the guard always turns him away and dissuades him from trying to enter. Old and dying, the man asks why he never saw anybody else try to get in that door and the guard replies that that door had been made exclusively for his use.

Saint Peter’s bundle of keys is a positive version of Kafka’s story. It deals with the same idea. In the former, you have the key and you enter; in the latter, the key is wanting.

*Le chat et le Samorai, contes du Japon, by Perusat Strork.

A Zen monk lived with his brother, a one-eyed idiot. One day, when the monk was scheduled to have an interview with a famous theologian who had come from far away to meet him, he needed to take care of some matters and would therefore be absent when the theologian arrived. He told his brother: “Receive this scholar and treat him well! Don’t say a word to him, and everything will be ok.”

“Your brother is outstanding. He’s a great theologian!” exclaimed the theologian with great enthusiasm.

“We had a passionate conversation,” replied the scholar, “we communicated exclusively by means of gestures. I showed him one finger and he replied by showing me two. Logically, I answered with three fingers and then he astonished me by raising a closed fist, ending the debate. With one finger, I alluded to the unity of Buddha. With two fingers, he expanded my point of view by reminding me that Buddha was inseparable from his doctrine. Delighted by the reply, with three fingers I expressed: Buddha and his doctrine in the world. Then, he suggested a sublime response, showing me his fist: Buddha, his doctrine, and the world, all together as one whole, thus closing the circle.”

“Very simple,” said the brother. “He made fun of me: he showed me one finger emphasizing that I have but one eye. Not wanting to fall into the provocation, I showed that he was fortunate enough to have two eyes. Sarcastically, he continued: “Be that as it may, between us, we have three eyes.” That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Showing him a closed fist, I threatened to lay him out right then and there if he didn’t knock off his insulting insinuations.”

This story perfectly shows the type of conversation we often have. We think we’re talking about the same thing, but in reality, we’re talking about subjects that are diametric opposites. We discuss things in a passionate way with the belief that we’re intimately communicating with the other; but in the end, we haven’t communicated a single thing. Each of us uses a deaf and dumb language. Each of us speaks of himself.

One day, in the course of a conversation I was having, the other person made reference to Simone de Beauvoir: Simone de Beauvoir here… Simone de Beauvoir there… “Which Simone de Beauvoir are your talking about?” I asked. It’s not enough to cite someone; you need to specify which aspect of their personality you’re referring to. Whenever we speak of someone, we do so as though our perception were the same as everyone else’s.

When people speak to me of the tarot, I make sure I find out which tarot they’re talking about, if they’re talking about one that truly exists. Likewise, I try to define the type of interpretation being used.

Define what Simone de Beauvoir is for you, and I’ll immediately give you my definition. Let’s agree on the terms before we proceed. Without this fine-tuning, all of our conversations are like that of the one-eyed idiot and the theologian.

A Zen master used to say: “When certain people must cross a river by raft, they begin to do so, but after a little while lose sight of their objective. They get used to the raft, which then becomes their goal.”

There are people who learn the tarot thinking that the end is to know how to read the tarot. The tarot is the raft; the objective is joy.

Others think the goal is to make money. The goal is joy. We need to make money doing something we truly love, something we love madly. You could say we have to do something that procures us a pleasure so immense that we’d even do it for free. Nevertheless, for this work that we’re prepared to perform for free, we must demand retribution. We need to make our living from what we love.

Money is a divine energy, despite the negative associations we may make with it. At any rate, we’re condemned to serve it, to make and spend it. Why scorn somebody who makes a lot of money? Why hide the level of your income? I imagine Christ blessing the world, waving a hundred dollar bill in his hand. He who can’t imagine as much should reconsider how he looks at the matter.

I’ve seen money blamed in family trees of both capitalists and Marxists. In the latter, you have the right to earn a certain amount of money, above which the person is considered an exploiter. You have to be poor and limited; to earn more is forbidden.

I recently ran into someone who detests money, but nevertheless has always lived his life at the expense of others. Even though we may hate money, we must use it to stay alive.

This energy can be used positively or negatively, for construction or destruction.

"It's very easy," replies the master. "To get there, you must do exactly the same thing you do every morning for the sun to rise."

Perplexed, the disciple scratches his head wondering what it was he did every morning for the sun to rise. After careful reflection, he came to the conclusion that, in the end, he strictly did nothing.

"But then, what's the point of studying calligraphy, karate, kendo, archery, floral arrangements, bonsai creation, etc.?" asked he of the master. "What's the point of all that?"

"Precisely so that, when the sun rises, you find yourself truly with your eyes wide open."

We need to pay attention and be present in relation to who we truly are, to be conscious of the sun inside of us. To that end, we need to work intensely, profoundly, to practice many exercises to develop our attention and concentration. To awaken means to be awakened to our sun.

What are you doing to develop your own attention? It is my opinion that you can simultaneously follow two paths.

The first consists of developing our attention in ourselves. To work on ourselves until the moment that we arrive at the void. Then, the Universe manifests itself within us. During this exercise, we broaden ourselves, we become more profound, we become more intense, we meditate and we work on our ideas, feelings, desires, and material life. We work to reach the void.

At the same time, concerning our relationship with the exterior, we work toward the union, with the objective of arriving at our plenitude, to dissolve ourselves in the totality. That is the second path.

So then, meditation consists of being the totality and the void, of being all, of being nothing. We work, on one hand, to unite ourselves with the Totality, with the totality of Being, of the manifestation and the no manifestation and, on the other, to arrive at our essential void, which is the very same Totality.

And that's enlightenment. It's about something simple and complex at the same time.

Two monks are seated in a field. One of them is surrounded by rabbits. The one who is not surrounded by rabbits says to the first:

“You’re a saint! I can’t believe it. All the rabbits gather around you, whereas they flee from me. What’s your secret?”

If you want someone to trust you, you should gain their trust by being as a pure mirror to them. In the magnificent stone exhibit at the Botanical Gardens of Paris, there’s a display of the most beautiful obsidian mirror in all Europe. You, too, should become like this mirror, reflecting the other with neither criticism nor projection.

“My master can cross a river walking on water. Can yours perform miracles like mine?” asks the first with an air of superiority.

“The biggest miracle my master can perform is no miracle at all,” humbly responds the second.

In the days when I had no faith, I prayed: “Dear God, make a rose appear in my hand! I swear that if this happens, I won’t tell a soul, it will remain between you and me, but please, answer me.”

The above demonstrates the method of a true idiot. Faith consists of believing without proof. If you look for signs or miracles, you have no faith.

I’d be no better off if, like Saïd Baba, I spent all my time making pounds of ashes appear in my hand. Those who perform such miracles do so because they’re dissatisfied with themselves and they seek to prove there’s something bigger than they.

As for me, I’m satisfied being the person I am. I must lead my own life. Only God can decide the duration of my existence, whatever that may be. I accept the fact that God enlightens me or He doesn’t. If He makes a rose appear in my hand or if He makes me levitate, that’s His will. If none of this happens, if none of this takes place, it won’t change a thing with me.

A Zen master asked his disciple to clean the monastery garden. The disciple cleaned the garden, leaving it spotless, but the master still wasn’t satisfied. He made the disciple do a second cleaning and then a third. Disheartened, the poor disciple complained:

“But master, there’s nothing left to clean or order in this garden; it’s all done.”

“There’s one thing missing,” replied the master, shaking a tree and allowing a few leaves to fall on the ground. “Now, the garden is perfect.”

There’s an aspect of the mental plane that allows the intellect to work within the bounds of order and another disordered aspect that makes the manifestation of the unconscious possible. Perfect order only exists alongside perfect disorder. Complete order in a garden kills the garden.

During a presentation of no theater, a great actor was playing his part when suddenly, in the middle of the show, from the midst of the silent audience, a famous general let out a scream. Everybody was dazzled by the inopportune interruption. When the show was over, the starring actor was asked what he felt at the very moment of the scream, to which he replied:

“The general was right. His scream reoriented me toward my part, because I was losing my concentration. I was looking at a lamp that was on the verge of falling. I got distracted and he perceived it.”

The general was a complete warrior who immediately perceived a weakness in the actor. For a true warrior, such a weakness could mean the difference between life and death.

An evolved being develops the ability to pay attention. Those who haven’t developed this ability don’t know how to fix their gaze. In a certain way, they’re there and they’re not there.

Attention means attention toward the other and toward ourselves. That’s the attitude we need to meditate with. Meditation and contemplation consist solely of fixing our attention on what we are. We begin fixing our attention what we are and persevere until we find ourselves.

“To speak of ignorance or enlightenment is to chatter like a baby, to make a lot of noise without expressing anything. Isn’t that so, master? Give us the true word.”

“Perhaps the true word consists of something other than saying those two words, ignorance and enlightenment?”

“Master,” insisted one of the disciples, “let’s put those two words aside. Tell us the true word.”

Which means absolutely nothing; it’s nothing more than a bunch of nonsense sounds. That’s the true word. In other words, the truth cannot be spoken. It’s not a concept.

When we find ourselves, we find ourselves in that which we are, without definition. This can’t be conceptualized.

Governor Ichi went to visit the master Chouei-ien. Arriving at the monastery, he solicited an interview with the master, presenting himself by title and name. Chouei-ien categorically refused to receive the illustrious man. He sent word that Governor Ichi didn’t exist.

The visitor, understanding the message, repeated his solicitation for an interview, presenting himself by name only. This time he was received at once.

Titles are secondary. What matters in relationships is who we truly are here and now. We need to learn this immediately.

A samurai asked a master to explain the difference between heaven and hell. Without replying, the master hurled numerous insults at him. Furious, the samurai drew his saber with the intention of decapitating him.

“That’s hell,” said the master just as the samurai was about to swing into action. The warrior, astonished by these words, immediately calmed down and returned his saber to its sheath.

By penetrating certain states, we create our own hell. Likewise, by penetrating other states, we create our own paradise. Hell and paradise depend on us.

Constant attention. Like a tiger lying in wait, on constant guard, you watch, you observe your being. You observe your values. You observe your reality, with the insatiable desire of nurturing yourself of yourself. You don’t do so selfishly. You seek to nurture yourself of your true being, because that’s where the true being of the Universe is found.

In the observation of every instant, discovering the slightest fault gives you pleasure. You weep for joy with the idea of being able to correct it. You will be able to overcome it. It’s the task your essential being induces you to perform. You discover your faults, but you also discover your values.

A powerful warrior, at the head of his army, invaded a neighboring country. As he was preceded by his reputation, nobody dared confront him. In this manner, he advanced, crossing desert regions.

One day, in a small village, he penetrated a temple and discovered an elderly man seated impassively in lotus position. The warrior interpreted the immobile presence of the old man as a challenge; furious, he drew his saber.

“Do you know who I am, you insolent old man? I could pierce your heart with my saber without even batting an eye.”

“And do you know who I am? I could let you pierce my heart without even batting an eye.”

I imagine the warrior sinking his sword into the elderly man’s heart and I see the latter dying without blinking. What beauty! This reminds me of a Sufi story:

A Sufi holy man was speaking of God. When he explained that God is everything, a man unexpectedly wounded him. Dying, the holy man looked at his aggressor and with complete compassion said to him: “You, too, are God.”

Such is the dominion over oneself, to abandon the ego. I wouldn’t be able to react like that. I’d jump like a flea. I’d defend myself with all my might. I am not in the state of the holy Sufi.

I imagine, as I said above, the warrior. After killing the old man, he cut off his bun, as the samurais do when they overcome someone stronger than they and, from that moment on, his life was transformed. By introducing his sword in such a center of love and dominion over oneself, the warrior experienced a profound transformation.

There’s a legend that says roses grew out of the sword that was used to pierce Christ after his crucifixion. According to the legend, the guard who wielded the sword was miraculously cured of cataracts after the act. The man immediately changed and was enlightened. By introducing his violence, his murderous desire, into a center of love, he arrived at enlightenment.

We can reach enlightenment by violence, but only if the person who suffers the violence themselves is completely enlightened.

A sword master introduced his three sons to a famous fencing master in order to show him how advanced they were in the art. He balanced a clay pot over a half open door and called his youngest son. The son, opening the door, caused the pot to fall. Just before it broke on the ground, the young boy drew his sword and decapitated the object. The father approached the master and told him that this son wasn’t perfect yet.

He placed another clay pot over the half open door and called his second son, who drew his sword fast as lightning and cut it long before it hit the ground.

He repeated the operation with the eldest son who, instead of drawing his sword, caught the clay pot and delicately placed it on the ground. The father said:

The fencing master, witness to the feats of the three sons, put the clay pot intact on the door and called his best pupil. The latter, peeking through a crack in the door, smiled, and showing he had understood his master’s intent, didn’t push the door.

With the third apprentice, we see that when we arrive at mastery, we cease to destroy. We love the object or the adversary. But to arrive at the level of the fourth, we reach perfection. We don’t fall into the trap. We don’t need to solve the problem, because we avoid it. He who arrives at the perfection of the art of the sword never needs to use his weapon. He thwarts the quarrel before it manifests itself. He sees it coming from long before it arrives.

A samurai was walking his dog when the canine suddenly bared his fangs for the first time ever and began to bark furiously in the direction of his master. Surprised and irritated, the samurai drew his saber and cut the animal’s head off. Instead of falling to the ground, however, the head rose up to a tree situated behind the warrior and bit the head off a snake poised to bite his master. Understanding, then, that his dog was only trying to warn him of the imminent danger, the distressed samurai bitterly wept his irreparable conduct.

The dog wasn’t attacking his master, rather he was warning him of danger. The samurai misinterpreted the animal’s intentions. We need to know how to interpret. People frequently tell me of deeds committed, misinterpreting them and then taking their version and weaving it into reality.

Be that as it may, we can take reality as a dream. A woman once told me about the death of her father in law.

“If you’ve never been able to express your hatred for your father in law, do it now! Stand in front of a wall and insult that man, then pray immediately thereafter. Express your hatred, then your love,” I told her.

“I don’t have any have any problems with my father in law, rather with my husband. He informed me of the death in a really brutal manner.”

“So you have a problem with your husband… Take this problem as if it were a dream and interpret it. Look at reality as a dream… interpret it. That will help you find whatever it is you need.”

“Master, I wish to study the art of the sword. How many years will that take?”

Without patience, we can’t accomplish anything. We need to advance with tranquility; things will arrive of themselves.

In the end, time doesn’t matter. We need to understand that an evolved being doesn’t live in time. He lives with time. What difference does it make if he achieves something in twenty years or in a matter of seconds? All that matters is that he achieves it.