Day 4 Non-Attachment Is True Wisdom | The Sword of Wisdom

My teacher only met Dipankara Buddha
After training in forbearance for many kalpas.
Continuing rounds of birth and death,
Samsara prolonged without interruption.
Since sudden enlightenment I understand the unborn,
Thus I have no concern for honor or shame.

The teacher mentioned in the partial stanza above refers to Sakyamuni Buddha. Dipankara is a Buddha who lived innumerable eons ago. Before Sakyamuni became a Buddha, he was a Bodhisattva for countless lifetimes. He was killed time and again, sometimes in brutal ways. In one lifetime, people tortured him by peeling off his skin little by little. He even fell ill after attaining Supreme Enlightenment; yet, throughout all these lifetimes, he never felt fear. Milarepa also experienced illness and was poisoned once. Although Buddha and Milarepa experienced pain, they had no fear in their minds. There are numerous stories of saints and sages who experienced horrible torments and illnesses, yet they never felt that they were suffering. Such people have truly realized Ch’an. To use the technical Buddhist term, they have achieved the conviction of the non-arising of dharmas, or phenomena.

As I said earlier, Ch’an is everywhere, in everything. One would experience this if one could genuinely realize that all dharmas are non-arising. Ch’an practice is called the sudden method because it leads to the instantaneous perception that phenomena do not arise. However, this experience may only be fleeting. A fleeting experience is but a momentary flash, and, after a period of time, the feeling fades away, leaving only a distorted memory.

I tell people who have had a small experience practicing Ch’an: “You probably think that you are free now, and that you have attained liberation, but you are wrong. In fact, your practice is only beginning. It is far too early to speak of liberation.” Many practitioners who attain the first stage of practice want to move on and quickly attain the second experience. Before attaining the second experience, they are already looking ahead to the third level. People with this attitude may practice for years and feel they are not making any progress. They may even give up, saying, “Practice is endless. I’ll never get anywhere. I’ve stopped progressing.”

Often, the problem is that the person has grown complacent and has stopped working strenuously after his first experience. Of course, if he acts in this manner he will not progress. In addition to complacency, many other obstructions can creep into the practice. People who have had experiences on past retreats should forget them. They are over and done with. Remembering them and aspiring to achieve them again are serious obstructions.

Do not expect too much. Sakyamuni practiced through many lives, over many kalpas, before finally becoming a Buddha. Do you seriously expect to experience the first stage, then the second and third, right on up to Complete Enlightenment, with no effort or interruptions? Are you planning to put aside a month or so to attain Buddhahood, and then move on to something else? That would be a little unfair not only to Sakyamuni Buddha, but to yourselves as well, if you truly value attaining enlightenment. We should not hope for quick results. We should just practice.

Make practice its own goal, and accept it as a responsibility, a necessity, like eating and sleeping. Do not practice to attain something. Do not have the idea that practice will transform you into a Buddha during the course of a retreat, or even a lifetime. We are caterpillars crawling on the ground and eating leaves. We cannot expect to change into butterflies overnight.

Living in a hermitage deep in the mountains,
On a lonely peak under a thick pine tree.
I would meditate contentedly in a monk’s hut,
At ease in this tranquil place.

Although masters and patriarchs through the ages have said that Ch’an practice should not be separate from the normal activities of daily life, Yung-chia says that there should be an extended period of time during which one practices away from society. After this stage of solitary practice is completed, the practitioner can return to society and ordinary, day-to-day life.

During the T’ang and Sung dynasties, Ch’an practice flourished in the mountains, not in the cities. The Fourth Patriarch, Tao-Hsin, and the Fifth Patriarch, Hung-jen, lived in the mountains at Huang-mei. The Sixth Patriarch, Hui-neng, visited Hung-jen at Tung-shan mountain, and then went south to Kwang-tung province. The Emperor of China invited Hui-neng to the capital, but he declined, preferring to live in the mountains at Ts’ao-hsi. Most practitioners of that time practiced in the mountains or in a quiet, secluded area. Even though it is said that one can practice Ch’an anywhere, even in the streets, this is only true for a person who has a deep understanding of Ch’an. Such a person can practice well in any environment. The frenetic pace of a heavily populated city would not adversely affect his practice. But such a person is rare. It would not be easy for a beginner to practice in the streets of New York City.

When we first started holding retreats in Queens, people would go outside to practice slow-walk meditation after dinner. The neighbors did not like seeing people walking in a daze past their houses. One retreat participant lay on the grass in someone’s yard. People thought he was crazy. They wanted to know what went on in the Ch’an Center. They even threatened to call the police. That is what happens when you practice Ch’an in the streets. People think you are insane. Of course, if our center were in the heart of New York, say Times Square, then we would not have to worry. There, anything goes, and nobody cares.

Practicing in the mountains means living in isolation and without material and emotional attachments. While in the mountains, a practitioner does not stay in a hut; rather, he sleeps in a cave or underneath pine branches growing close to the ground. Han Shan (Cold Mountain), the great Ch’an poet, lived like this. A practitioner might go as far as to build a primitive shelter with a thatched roof to prevent rain from leaking through; but shelters are usually kept simple, because practitioners only live in them for a day or so, and then move on. They do this because they understand how easy it is to grow attached to a home, even if one lives there for only a couple of days. Home and daily life generate attachments and responsibilities. Without a home, one is relieved of the anxiety arising from one’s desire for comfort and security.

The territorial instinct is as strong in humans as it is in birds or dogs. When a bird builds a nest, it will drive off intruders. Dogs are protective of their territories, and will attack strangers who trespass. We are like birds and dogs, protecting our little homes. A practitioner in the mountains must be careful not to let his straw lean-to become a home.

If, however, you are not attached to a home and possessions, then you do not have to live in the mountains. There is an old monk in Taiwan named Kuang-chin. He lives in a huge temple. Someone once asked him, “Master Kuang-chin, why do you have such a big place? Don’t you worry about who will take care of it?” Master Kuang-chin replied, “This is not my place. It belongs to whoever comes and lives here. I never worry about it.”

To whom does the Ch’an Center belong? Everyone says it is my place, but I do not perceive it as such. This Center is not mine, this robe is not mine, even this body is not mine. Right now my body is your body, not mine.

Although there is no place that is your home, there is also no place that is not your home. If somebody says to you, “Go home, ” remember that you are already and always at home.

For this reason, whether you live in a place for one hour or an entire lifetime, you should treat the place with respect, and keep it neat and clean. Practitioners who live solitary lives in the mountains treat every place as their home. The world would be a much better place if everyone had this attitude.

The Chinese character for home is a pictograph of a roof with a pig underneath. In other words, home is a place that you do not have to leave in order to get food. But owning a home presents problems. Someone must take care of it. In ancient China, it was the man who earned the family income, so he needed someone to stay at home and help raise the pig. For this reason, the Chinese character for “security” is a pictograph of a roof with a woman underneath. A householder feels safe and secure only when he has a house, a spouse, and food. Where is your home? Are you secure?

Most people feel secure only when they are in their own home, but a true practitioner has innumerable homes. Wherever he rests becomes his home, because he feels safe and secure no matter where he is.

Wherever he goes, he is in full control; he never worries about where he will bathe, rest, or eat. In the mountains there is plenty of food ─ berries, leaves, roots and nuts; and since food is everywhere, one need not worry about growing it or guarding it. You are not in your own home, but neither are you alone in the mountains. This meditation center is comfortable. You have a roof over your heads, hot showers, and all the food you want; so, for these seven days, you should treat it as if it were your home.

Beginning practitioners should not entertain romantic notions of running off to the mountains to practice in seclusion. There are many dangers in this. If you do not know which plants are for food and medicine, you may end up starving, or poisoning yourself. If you are not used to outdoor living, you may be unprepared for changes in weather as days and seasons pass. Many practitioners in China practiced in the southern part of the country, where it does not get too cold in the winter. Taiwan is an island off the southern coast of mainland China, and it snows only on the highest peaks. The mountains of Taiwan are a good place to practice.

Great practitioners, however, do not worry about the weather. They just practice. Milarepa lived in a harsh climate, yet, he was content. A great practitioner is happy and content because he has no attachments. He is a master of himself because he has realized he has no self. He is a master in all situations because nothing belongs to him. Because of this attitude, everything becomes his.

After enlightenment no need for further effort;
All dharmas of activity are varied.
Giving alms with attachment bestows merit for heavenly birth,
Like shooting an arrow into space.

There are two aspects of practice: cultivating wisdom, or insight, and cultivating merit. Ordinary people think that cultivating wisdom means accumulating knowledge in the conventional sense, such as reading books and reaping life experiences. They think cultivating merit means giving alms, offering donations, or helping others.

A person who gains conventional knowledge after great effort may claim with pride, “I have great knowledge and wisdom!” Many people who work for charity also become proud, and picture themselves as great benefactors to mankind. They are like the person who goes into a restaurant and buys drinks and dinner for everyone, leaves a big tip, then gets up and swaggers out the door as everyone in attendance stands, saying, “Thank you! Thank you!”

In China, Taiwan, Japan and other Oriental countries, there are people who give large donations to public or religious projects, but with one condition: that their names and deeds be engraved on plaques and made visible to all. If their pictures are placed beside their names, all the better. Fo-kuang Shan (Buddhist Radiance Mountain) Monastery in Taiwan is a vast temple with many buildings. The abbot of the temple understands human psychology well. For years, people donated money to the temple, and the abbot placed their names on plaques on the many walls of the temple, but he left vacant two noticeable spots on either side of the main gate. People would constantly ask how much they would need to donate in order to have their names placed in those spots. Finally, someone approached the abbot and said, “Look, I’m rich. How about letting me have one side of the gate? I don’t even need the whole side. Just put my name on top, and there’ll still be room for other names below mine. If you do that, I’ll give you lots of money for the temple.” The spots have now been filled. The abbot feels that these people normally would not have donated money for a religious cause. They were willing to part with their money only in exchange for having their names and deeds made visible to the public.

One person in Taiwan wanted to run for the provincial legislature. For five years before the intended election, he traveled all over the country and donated money in order to have his name placed in famous, public places. Everyone perceived him as a great benefactor. It was shrewd advertising, and although his initial investment was high, he probably made back all the money he spent after a year in office.

A sincere practitioner does not operate in such a manner. Even if he has profound wisdom and insight, he is not affected; after all, it is only wisdom and insight. He helps others and saves sentient beings. He does not cling to his past deeds.

Whenever you do something, do it wholeheartedly. But, once an action is completed, it is in the past. Drop it, and do not think about it anymore. Buddha delivered many people, but he did not perceive it as such. As far as Buddha was concerned, sentient beings save themselves. But our point of view is different. We say that Buddha saved people while he was alive. We also say he is still saving people, because if it were not for Buddha, the Dharma would not exist in the world today.

Christianity emphasizes that we should be generous, that we should have giving hearts. Charity is a practice that leads to heaven. Jesus said that it is as hard for a rich man to enter heaven as it is for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. He said this because many wealthy people cannot bear to give things away. They almost always have an ulterior motive. The Rockefeller Foundation is a philanthropic organization, and it has funded many wonderful things, but it is still a tax write-off for the Rockefeller family. If a person gives donations or helps others with ulterior motives in mind, then he is not truly giving. If you are going to give things away, you should do so unconditionally, renouncing and forgetting whatever you give. If your motive for giving is to go to heaven, then your actions are not unconditional.

Once its power is expended, the arrow falls,
Bringing discontent in the next life.
How can this compare to the true door of non-action,
Through which one leaps straight into the Tathagata ground?

A true practitioner does not dwell on the fruit of his actions. After he gives something, he renounces it, and does not think of the consequences. It does not mean he acts rashly, without thinking. Rather, he acts spontaneously, and in accordance with the Dharma; he does not cling to actions or their consequences.

The Buddhist concept of heaven is different from the Christian concept. Christians believe that heaven is eternal; that once you enter, you never depart. According to Buddhism, heaven is still subject to time and change. You can be reincarnated in heaven by merit of donations and good deeds, but it is simply another mortal incarnation. Though your life span in heaven may be millions or billions of years, eventually your time will run out, and you will drop back to the human realm, or even a non-human realm.

If you can act in all situations without attachment, and without a purpose or motive, that itself is realizing the true nature of phenomena. Doing something without attachment is described by the Chinese term wu-wei, which means non-action. It does not mean doing nothing, or being apathetic and lazy. Wu-wei means action that is not done for the sake of the self, or with an ulterior motive in mind, or with deliberation. Wu-wei is action that is non-deliberate. It is action that does not emanate from self-centeredness. If you can act in this unattached manner, without deliberation or motives, then you can truly enter the gate of Ch’an.
If you have the proper attitude or true spirit of Ch’an practice, then you should give your full attention to whatever you are doing, and you should do things to the best of your ability. Do not think about the past. Do not think about the future. Just focus on the present.

From our point of view, Buddha must have infinite wisdom and merit in order to save innumerable sentient beings. Actually, the Buddha has no wisdom, and he attains no merit from good deeds or blessings. If he still has wisdom and merit, then he is not a Buddha. It is we, not he, who say that the Buddha has wisdom.

When someone does something wrong, you might think, “How dumb! That person has no wisdom.” You see a fly beating against a window trying to get out of your house. You open the window, but it just flies back and forth. You think, “How stupid!” If the Buddha has wisdom, then what does he see as being stupid? Do you think the Buddha would say, “What a stupid fly!” Compared to the Buddha, everything is stupid, but that is our point of view. Likewise, the Buddha does not perceive wisdom. Wisdom can only exist in relation to ignorance. In enlightenment there is no discrimination.

The Buddha has no wisdom, no insight, no accumulation of merit. Such concepts do not exist for the Buddha. If your intention is to gain wisdom and accumulate merit in order to become a Buddha, then you are attempting the impossible.

The great Ch’an poet, Han Shan, lived on Cold Mountain, from where he took his name. He did not own anything, not even pants, yet he felt that there was nothing that was not his. If Han Shan had gone to the T’ang Emperor and said, “All this is mine, ” he might have been put to death for his audacity. But if the Emperor proclaimed to Han Shan, “The whole world is mine, ” Han Shan would probably have answered, “Yes, you are right.” There was nothing that Han Shan desired. He did not even concern himself with his body. He was utterly free, with no attachments. Therefore, he had no self-limit. Having no self-limit, the mountain he lived on, all of China, in fact the entire universe, was his.

I said that the Buddha has no wisdom. You may think, however, that he has compassion. If there is compassion, then there must be an idea of sentient beings. If the Buddha is aware of sentient beings, then he is still discriminating, and he is not a Buddha. We say that the Buddha has compassion, but as far as he is concerned, he has none. If we feel that we are compassionate, then we are not Buddhas.

After one retreat, a student told me, “I feel like I am the mother of the whole world.”

I said, “It is merely an illusion. It is the mind of vexation, not wisdom.” I am not saying that you should be cold and aloof. Having compassion for others is good, and it is definitely much better than closing your heart. I’m not saying that people who give donations with ulterior motives are evil. If their motives are good, then what they do is meritorious. In the early stages of practice, people may have strong feelings of compassion; but some people become so attached to these feelings that they become fanatics. You will never find a true Ch’an practitioner who possesses the fanatical nature of a zealot.

Do not get the wrong idea. Ch’an does not advocate nihilism. A Ch’an practitioner does not say, “I’m not going to do anything.” Rather, with a positive and attentive mind, a practitioner does everything that needs to be done as each moment arises, but he does not do anything with a fanatical mind.

What, then, is the proper attitude for practice? You will have to find out. But if you throw yourself fanatically into Ch’an practice ─ practicing, practicing, practicing ─ as if you are going to start a revolution, then you are on the wrong track. That is not the practice of Ch’an.

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