We don’t sit on the cushion all the time. We walk kinhin. We wash dishes and work in the garden. We practice sitting still, and we practice moving.
We may celebrate that movement with images that show our spiraling, flying, falling. A train’s surge thrusts us back in our seats, a rider moves in concert with her horse, a top spins. Our hand and arm may circle the brush without thought to make an image of movement around stillness. We move our bodies through space and time, attending to an inner prompting, making our movement sacred.
This month’s issue speaks of movement, how our attention to it brings us alive. —Sarah Webb
Sandy Lowder on Making Art
ENSO
JT: Looking at your ensos made me think how art comes out of the same empty place as the center of the enso and the same place of spontaneous energy as the motion that makes the circle. You may think of it a different way.
SL: This is somewhat accurate…but the spontaneous part is often difficult to “make” happen. It takes so much constant effort and practice (sort of like sitting zazen...) and then there might be an opening for the spontaneous part to happen.
DANCER, 56"H x 35"W
JT: When you draw an enso, what happens in you? Does anything like that happen for you in your practice, your ceremony, your zazen?SL: Making the enso takes preparation, like warming up before a run, stretching before zazen, letting go of outside input, stilling struggle and “effort.” Certainly it is not as spontaneous as I might wish. Again, it seems much like sitting zazen—but the most significant thing to me, is that when things are really going the best, the activity of doing or making any of these things is the same as BEING these actions. Barbara has reminded me that making art is my practice, it is my zen practice.
HORSE AND RIDER, 48"H x 36"W
JT: Is there a place of emptiness or silence in your creating?SL: Yes. But first of all, there is the hard work and training. Then, if you live through the groundwork and just keep on going, you might get to kind of pull up some unknown part. Not so sure how to describe it, but I love how the painter Nell Blaine described the process. She really puts her finger on it this way: “I felt that I had made contact with something in myself–something like a physical force that would come out through my fingertips.” She says she read about how painting is like a spider’s web. It comes out of the body of the artist, is pulled out of the body. Then she says “from that point, I felt I could judge whether it was true or contrived, synthetic or really felt. You know when your whole person is coming together to do this act. You learn to make it come—how to spring open the door.” That seems to me to sum up a lot of the real struggle in making art: to learn how to spring open the door; over and over and over again, or you stop making art. It can happen, after lots of failure and effort that just feels wasted (though, I guess I do know that the “wasted effort” is really not wasted, the failures are necessary for growth and development. It is pretty hard to live with though!)
LITTLE DANCER - NEW LOVER, 36"H x 25"W
JT: Do ideas and images arise in your sitting or in sesshin?SL: Not that I have ever noticed. But sitting seems to helps clear space somehow.
MATTIE'S AUTUMN TREE,20"H x 18"W
JT: Why do you practice Zen? Why do you create art? Are there differences when you answer those questions?SL: I actually don’t know why I do either of these things. Maybe it is the recognition that both processes felt like “home,” like there was no more right place for me to be.
NEW RIDER BLUE RIDER, 57"H x 39"W
JT: Do you feel that some of your art is somehow more Buddhist than other things you create, or is it all one thing?SL: No, I think that it is all the same regardless of whether there is any particular “Buddhist” imagery or subject matter or intent. I do not really think that there is a difference.
NIGHT LOTUS POOL, 42"H x 60"W
JT: Does your practice, or some aspect of your practice, like sesshin, free you to create more readily, or has your practice ever blocked you?SL: I really can’t say that zen practice has helped the practice of Art.... Maybe it has freed me up from needing to have any “intent” or message for art. I’ll think about that. But for a while, sitting seemed to take the place of making art, and I really hated that. Now I usually only sit at home a little. As for art, I just do it. It succeeds or it fails or it does both at the same time. It just is whatever it is. Like zazen. Maybe they are the same thing, they only look a little different on the outside.
UNTITLED/FIGURE
JT: I'm wanting to ask if when you create in response to an object, there is some kind of unity in you and the object, but the words are not quite coming to describe that.SL: Yes, I think I know what you are asking...and when I am painting or drawing, if things are really going well, there is unity with the subject matter, the process, the media, the materials, and my own awareness or lack of conscious awareness. And then it is like the description from Nell Blaine—a physical force, a spider’s web is coming out from the fingertips. Then, it feels triumphant! Like there was no conscious control over the process, it is just pulled out of necessity, naturally—like a spider spinning its web. I made a series of drawings dealing with movement on a 2-dimensional surface, horses and riders and dancers: the push and pull of stillness and movement. Again, like when we are sitting. We sit on those cushions, not moving (well, trying not to move.) But all the time we really are moving: we are breathing, hearts are beating, blood is flowing throughout our bodies, we shift a little, stretch our shoulders, wiggle toes, stomach grumbles, we blink, on and on…. We are “sitting still,” but not really, because our living bodies are in constant movement with the universe. It was so interesting to me, to find a vehicle to explore movement/stillness. These drawings get to that point more than most others, I think. Many years ago, I used to take dance classes and I used to ride horses with my daughters. And the process and activity of making those drawings was sort of like awakening a sleeping cellular memory of those movements living in my body again.
UNTITLED, 40"H x 26"W
Visit Sandy’s website: http://www.sandylowder.com/home
Joan Son on her Art
Joan Son is a member of the Houston Zen Center. She writes,
I like to say, “I am an artist, working in the medium of paper based in the discipline of origami.” Truly an afternoon of repetitive folding is something like a meditation and an honest time to settle down and get closer to center.
In my art, I look for harmony, balance, for that stream of clear thought that grounds me and connects me to a greater flow. It reveals itself to me through repetitive images that appear like a visual pulse, calming me and aligning me with my own heartbeat. My work now is about making visual the pulse I see in the paper and feel in my core. With recent large-scale installations, I've have the opportunity to explore that pulse in a more expansive way. That I find magic in the manipulation of paper, that others might glimpse the Source through my eyes—that is my wish, my pleasure and my plan.
I reluctantly include my web site...so much has changed!
http://www.inthefold.com/
I leave you with a recent image...from my front porch. This installation of butterflies lasted through hurricane IKE the month before the photo was taken. Some say they are my protectors, others claim it shows the power of art. –Joan Son
I like to say, “I am an artist, working in the medium of paper based in the discipline of origami.” Truly an afternoon of repetitive folding is something like a meditation and an honest time to settle down and get closer to center.
In my art, I look for harmony, balance, for that stream of clear thought that grounds me and connects me to a greater flow. It reveals itself to me through repetitive images that appear like a visual pulse, calming me and aligning me with my own heartbeat. My work now is about making visual the pulse I see in the paper and feel in my core. With recent large-scale installations, I've have the opportunity to explore that pulse in a more expansive way. That I find magic in the manipulation of paper, that others might glimpse the Source through my eyes—that is my wish, my pleasure and my plan.
I reluctantly include my web site...so much has changed!
http://www.inthefold.com/
I leave you with a recent image...from my front porch. This installation of butterflies lasted through hurricane IKE the month before the photo was taken. Some say they are my protectors, others claim it shows the power of art. –Joan Son
Sumi Komo on Zen Dance
A portion of Sumi Komo’s Weaving and Casting performance is available here. Sumi’s Dharma name is Sumi Ryoko. She writes,
Over the years I have developed a dance form that utilizes ritual, meditation, and mindful movement, wherein the dancer dances, rather than the emotional drama of the ego. This kind of dance is quite influenced by my work with Merce Cunningham. There is a moment-by-moment presence, rather than reliance on narrative, drama, or story line, nor is the dance choreographed to the music. Each element—dance, music, visual lighting, etc., and set design—is separately created and put together for my work prior to performance.
Merce's ideas involved independence of art forms and a creation that is not ego driven. He chose to focus instead on the purity and simplicity of time and space and movement and rhythm. This allows the life that is the dance and the dancer. He said that when the dancer dances, it is all there and we do not look at steps.
Merce himself had an animal magnetism that was palpable. I also felt that kind of electric energy in a very subtle way from my Zen teachers, Maezumi Roshi and Prabhasa Dharma Roshi, both of whom were also artists—calligraphers.
Further information on Sumi Komo and Zen Dance is available at her website: www.alexandermovingarts.com
Over the years I have developed a dance form that utilizes ritual, meditation, and mindful movement, wherein the dancer dances, rather than the emotional drama of the ego. This kind of dance is quite influenced by my work with Merce Cunningham. There is a moment-by-moment presence, rather than reliance on narrative, drama, or story line, nor is the dance choreographed to the music. Each element—dance, music, visual lighting, etc., and set design—is separately created and put together for my work prior to performance.
Merce's ideas involved independence of art forms and a creation that is not ego driven. He chose to focus instead on the purity and simplicity of time and space and movement and rhythm. This allows the life that is the dance and the dancer. He said that when the dancer dances, it is all there and we do not look at steps.
Merce himself had an animal magnetism that was palpable. I also felt that kind of electric energy in a very subtle way from my Zen teachers, Maezumi Roshi and Prabhasa Dharma Roshi, both of whom were also artists—calligraphers.
Further information on Sumi Komo and Zen Dance is available at her website: www.alexandermovingarts.com
More on Sumi (Komo) Ryoko
Sumi Ryoko writes,
I have been dancing all my life. I went to Sarah Lawrence College, where I majored in dance and philosophy, and although my philosophy teacher asked me to stay on and be his graduate assistant and get an M.A. in philosophy, I decided to go to New York City to dance.
There I trained and danced with Merce Cunningham (and John Cage—his partner personally and professionally). Together they changed the whole face of modern dance. They were intimately influenced by studying Zen with D.T. Suzuki. Merce became interested in taking personality and narrative out of dance. He used chance methods and other ways to develop choreography that had more possibilities and openness to the moment than perhaps his own ego could see.
My experience in my dance work with them led me to Zen practice. I danced in New York professionally, and then a severe accident led me back to school to get an M.A. in Dance and start practicing Zen intensively, starting in 1976. Maezumi Roshi and Prabhasa Dharma Roshi both encouraged me to develop a Zen Dance.
Maezumi Roshi gave me a practice to bring Zen and dance together like bringing two hands together in gassho. He asked me to create 33 pieces for each of the different manifestations of Kuan Yin/Kanzeon. I have been creating Zen dance for several decades now.
I do workshops on dance and meditative movement in New York, Colorado, and Texas, and have taught at Naropa University and CU in Colorado, as well as at the University of Oregon while I was getting my MA. I taught in London and also had my company there. Most recently, I have taught at Radford University and James Madison University in Virgnia.
My dance company is called Komo Danceworks, and its mission is to bring Zen and dance and meditative movement practices into manifestation through performance, practice, and ritual. I have established the Zen Shinji Centre here in Austin. It is home to the creation of work that I take all over the country.
On October 24th, in Liverpool, England, I will receive lay transmission from my Zen teacher, Abbot of the Yokoji Mountain Center in California, Charles Tenshin Fletcher, Roshi. He has authorized me to teach these practices of meditation, movement, and the mindfulness-based arts of dance and Tai Chi Chuan and Chi Kung. My studio/Zendo is affiliated with Yokoji Mountain Centre (Zen Mountain Center).
Just This asked Sumi questions about her experience in Zen Dance.
JT: Were there other ways Merce Cunningham was influenced by Zen and passed the influence on?
SR: Merce (and John Cage) changed the whole fabric of dance, not only through Merce’s choreographic methods but also by altering the way people viewed art. Merce did not use narrative or story line and instead let the dancers dance and the piece be whatever the viewer saw it to be. The artists—dancer-choreographer, musician, lighting, set—all were separate and equal.
The coming together was bringing different forms into co-existence in time and space. This was very revolutionary and demanded an awakeness in dancer and viewer.
JT: How has doing this kind of dance (and the process of creating it) changed you?
SR: Every time I go into the studio to move and create, I attempt to be awake in the moment to what is and be present...to possibility. Sometimes I may start with chanting a sutra and moving, sometimes in silence.
JT: Has your understanding and approach changed over the years?
SR: I am always experimenting and most recently, in the last year, I have been blessed with the opportunity to work with Deborah Hay, who offers an outside eye and keeps me honest and clear. The lack of pretense and personality in performance is one of the things I am looking for.
JT: What makes Zen dance different than other kinds of Zen? what is its heart?
SR: In most of our practice of Zen, we have the formality of zendo and prescribed rituals and chants. I started with Zen moving, which takes Zen off the cushion into movement and awakened practice. I also believe, from my own experience, that there is a diamond body of light that is awakened from our practice...and that can be brought out through Zen dance and the space of the heart. It is bringing forth from the kikai point to the heart-mind energy of Shin. This can allow us a space from living only in the intellectual, sometimes rigid world of Japanese Zen.
JT: How do we find the feminine face of Buddhist practice?
SR: It is possible that the grace and power of moving Zen and Zen dance can bring flow, grace, clarity, and an energy of emptiness to our practice. Both Maezumi Roshi and Prabhasa Dharma Roshi saw that the way for me is creative energy through dream and dance and bare attention movement. Perhaps like tea or archery, Zen Dance can be another Way of practice.
I have been dancing all my life. I went to Sarah Lawrence College, where I majored in dance and philosophy, and although my philosophy teacher asked me to stay on and be his graduate assistant and get an M.A. in philosophy, I decided to go to New York City to dance.
There I trained and danced with Merce Cunningham (and John Cage—his partner personally and professionally). Together they changed the whole face of modern dance. They were intimately influenced by studying Zen with D.T. Suzuki. Merce became interested in taking personality and narrative out of dance. He used chance methods and other ways to develop choreography that had more possibilities and openness to the moment than perhaps his own ego could see.
My experience in my dance work with them led me to Zen practice. I danced in New York professionally, and then a severe accident led me back to school to get an M.A. in Dance and start practicing Zen intensively, starting in 1976. Maezumi Roshi and Prabhasa Dharma Roshi both encouraged me to develop a Zen Dance.
Maezumi Roshi gave me a practice to bring Zen and dance together like bringing two hands together in gassho. He asked me to create 33 pieces for each of the different manifestations of Kuan Yin/Kanzeon. I have been creating Zen dance for several decades now.
I do workshops on dance and meditative movement in New York, Colorado, and Texas, and have taught at Naropa University and CU in Colorado, as well as at the University of Oregon while I was getting my MA. I taught in London and also had my company there. Most recently, I have taught at Radford University and James Madison University in Virgnia.
My dance company is called Komo Danceworks, and its mission is to bring Zen and dance and meditative movement practices into manifestation through performance, practice, and ritual. I have established the Zen Shinji Centre here in Austin. It is home to the creation of work that I take all over the country.
On October 24th, in Liverpool, England, I will receive lay transmission from my Zen teacher, Abbot of the Yokoji Mountain Center in California, Charles Tenshin Fletcher, Roshi. He has authorized me to teach these practices of meditation, movement, and the mindfulness-based arts of dance and Tai Chi Chuan and Chi Kung. My studio/Zendo is affiliated with Yokoji Mountain Centre (Zen Mountain Center).
Just This asked Sumi questions about her experience in Zen Dance.
JT: Were there other ways Merce Cunningham was influenced by Zen and passed the influence on?
SR: Merce (and John Cage) changed the whole fabric of dance, not only through Merce’s choreographic methods but also by altering the way people viewed art. Merce did not use narrative or story line and instead let the dancers dance and the piece be whatever the viewer saw it to be. The artists—dancer-choreographer, musician, lighting, set—all were separate and equal.
The coming together was bringing different forms into co-existence in time and space. This was very revolutionary and demanded an awakeness in dancer and viewer.
JT: How has doing this kind of dance (and the process of creating it) changed you?
SR: Every time I go into the studio to move and create, I attempt to be awake in the moment to what is and be present...to possibility. Sometimes I may start with chanting a sutra and moving, sometimes in silence.
JT: Has your understanding and approach changed over the years?
SR: I am always experimenting and most recently, in the last year, I have been blessed with the opportunity to work with Deborah Hay, who offers an outside eye and keeps me honest and clear. The lack of pretense and personality in performance is one of the things I am looking for.
JT: What makes Zen dance different than other kinds of Zen? what is its heart?
SR: In most of our practice of Zen, we have the formality of zendo and prescribed rituals and chants. I started with Zen moving, which takes Zen off the cushion into movement and awakened practice. I also believe, from my own experience, that there is a diamond body of light that is awakened from our practice...and that can be brought out through Zen dance and the space of the heart. It is bringing forth from the kikai point to the heart-mind energy of Shin. This can allow us a space from living only in the intellectual, sometimes rigid world of Japanese Zen.
JT: How do we find the feminine face of Buddhist practice?
SR: It is possible that the grace and power of moving Zen and Zen dance can bring flow, grace, clarity, and an energy of emptiness to our practice. Both Maezumi Roshi and Prabhasa Dharma Roshi saw that the way for me is creative energy through dream and dance and bare attention movement. Perhaps like tea or archery, Zen Dance can be another Way of practice.
Marianne Mitchell on Merce Cunningham
Moving is a mysterious thing. Most of what we do with our bodies and what our bodies do to us is invisible, at least to the person doing the moving. Sometimes we can identify what emotions cause us to move in a particular way, the more obvious the better — running with fear away from some impending harm, running towards someone with love. And then there are all the particular forms our bodies learn as they perform tasks — mundane tasks as we take care of our lives, ecstatic forms as we enjoy ourselves. We can be sure, though, that the mind is initiating the movement, this kinetic energy.
This might be an arcane subject to many, but for some it is the sole object of their lives, as it was for Merce Cunningham. Using your body to make space visible, you would have to be a dancer, a mathematician, an explorer, a mapmaker, and then you'd stand a chance at being successful if you were incessant in your practice. As Merce said, ”dance is not for unsteady souls.“
Setting apart dance from music, from costume, from backdrop sets, Merce relied on movement only to trigger more movement and more movement. Other arts that would enter later could almost be a separate story. One thing they were not was a support for initiating movement. By keeping the elements in the dance separate, he had a better chance of immersing himself in only the movement.
In a science story I once read, the author asked a mathematician if he could define space. His answer was to experience a Merce Cunningham dance. As someone who studied with Merce, that was my experience as well. In the particular way Merce had of creating dances, he made space visible, not just the lines of the body making the movement. Now that's mysterious.
Merce died July 26, 2009. You can see excerpts from his dance pieces on http://youtube.com.
bowing to merce, marianne mitchell
This might be an arcane subject to many, but for some it is the sole object of their lives, as it was for Merce Cunningham. Using your body to make space visible, you would have to be a dancer, a mathematician, an explorer, a mapmaker, and then you'd stand a chance at being successful if you were incessant in your practice. As Merce said, ”dance is not for unsteady souls.“
Setting apart dance from music, from costume, from backdrop sets, Merce relied on movement only to trigger more movement and more movement. Other arts that would enter later could almost be a separate story. One thing they were not was a support for initiating movement. By keeping the elements in the dance separate, he had a better chance of immersing himself in only the movement.
In a science story I once read, the author asked a mathematician if he could define space. His answer was to experience a Merce Cunningham dance. As someone who studied with Merce, that was my experience as well. In the particular way Merce had of creating dances, he made space visible, not just the lines of the body making the movement. Now that's mysterious.
Merce died July 26, 2009. You can see excerpts from his dance pieces on http://youtube.com.
bowing to merce, marianne mitchell
Upon a Time
Once Upon a Time...
What's that, you ask?
"What is a TIME?"
Is a TIME a flat, smooth thing
that you have put your cup upon?
Is a TIME a slithery thing
that you would never step upon?
Is a TIME a smooshy thing
that you can rest your head upon?
Is a TIME a shining thing
that every night, you wish upon?
Is a TIME a spiraling thing
that you may climb upon?
Is a TIME a speeding thing
that you will ride upon?
TIMES are smooth, slithery, smooshy,
shining, spiraling, speeding things.
TIMES are whatever you need them to be,
And you have all of them you need.
So as I was saying,
"Once upon a TIME..."
—Poem by Martha Burgin, Drawings by Kim Mosley (http://kimmosley.com/blog)
What's that, you ask?
"What is a TIME?"
Is a TIME a flat, smooth thing
that you have put your cup upon?
Is a TIME a slithery thing
that you would never step upon?
Is a TIME a smooshy thing
that you can rest your head upon?
Is a TIME a shining thing
that every night, you wish upon?
Is a TIME a spiraling thing
that you may climb upon?
Is a TIME a speeding thing
that you will ride upon?
TIMES are smooth, slithery, smooshy,
shining, spiraling, speeding things.
TIMES are whatever you need them to be,
And you have all of them you need.
So as I was saying,"Once upon a TIME..."
—Poem by Martha Burgin, Drawings by Kim Mosley (http://kimmosley.com/blog)
Glen Snyder Photographs
Leaping Monkey, Xanjiajie National Forest, Hunan, China
Shinkansen Approaching Hiroshima
Jonesboro Cotton Field
Discovering Emptiness in a Spinning Top
When I looked at th-
e spinning top the w-
ords became concent-
ric circles.
—Kim Mosley (http://kimmosley.com/blog)
e spinning top the w-
ords became concent-
ric circles.
The Wednesday night reading group has been reading Nagarjuna's The Fundamental Wisdom of the Middle Way for a while now. We are just getting into the best part. And it is no more difficult than figuring out a child's top that you spin with your forefinger and thumb. Here's why:
Last night we talked about how emptiness is not the same as believing in nothing (nihilism). And that emptiness means “no abiding self,” or in the case of a child's top (which wasn't mentioned), no essence.
Barbara was quick to say that hearing these ideas and practicing with them are very different. So today I went to the Blanton Art Museum and the Ramsen center to practice (shirking my volunteer duties to AZC).
First I ate in the Blanton's new cafeteria. I don't like to see art with my stomach growling. Then to the museum store where I found a child's top. It had words printed on a flat round disk. I spun it and voila, the words turned into concentric circles. That proved it, I thought. In one spin I saw how foolish both Nagarjuna and Barbara were. It was obvious that the essence was the top standing still (with words), and when moving, is just appeared different (with concentric circles). I was satisfied that my mission was accomplished, and left the store (at $3.26, I though it was too expensive to buy the top that had disproved emptiness).
Walking out to the street, I started thinking about a hypothetical top that is attached to an electric motor. The normal state (essence) of that top would be the concentric circles, and seeing the words would be just an abnormal view of the top. But suppose that one day the motor dies and the top comes to a stop. Then has its essence changed (a contradiction for if essence changes then it is not essence)? Then my mind went to the earth, which spins and rotates as if there was no tomorrow. What is the essence of that (a spherical object in motion?). I started to doubt the validity of my “there is an essence” argument.
A minute later, as I went outside, I saw an old truck with scratches, dents and faded paint. So what was this truck's essence, it if had one? Was it the way it was yesterday, the way it is now, or the way it will be tomorrow? Suddenly essence disappeared and Nagarjuna (and Barbara) made more sense.
Nagarjuna wrote,
Last night we talked about how emptiness is not the same as believing in nothing (nihilism). And that emptiness means “no abiding self,” or in the case of a child's top (which wasn't mentioned), no essence.
Barbara was quick to say that hearing these ideas and practicing with them are very different. So today I went to the Blanton Art Museum and the Ramsen center to practice (shirking my volunteer duties to AZC).
First I ate in the Blanton's new cafeteria. I don't like to see art with my stomach growling. Then to the museum store where I found a child's top. It had words printed on a flat round disk. I spun it and voila, the words turned into concentric circles. That proved it, I thought. In one spin I saw how foolish both Nagarjuna and Barbara were. It was obvious that the essence was the top standing still (with words), and when moving, is just appeared different (with concentric circles). I was satisfied that my mission was accomplished, and left the store (at $3.26, I though it was too expensive to buy the top that had disproved emptiness).
Walking out to the street, I started thinking about a hypothetical top that is attached to an electric motor. The normal state (essence) of that top would be the concentric circles, and seeing the words would be just an abnormal view of the top. But suppose that one day the motor dies and the top comes to a stop. Then has its essence changed (a contradiction for if essence changes then it is not essence)? Then my mind went to the earth, which spins and rotates as if there was no tomorrow. What is the essence of that (a spherical object in motion?). I started to doubt the validity of my “there is an essence” argument.
A minute later, as I went outside, I saw an old truck with scratches, dents and faded paint. So what was this truck's essence, it if had one? Was it the way it was yesterday, the way it is now, or the way it will be tomorrow? Suddenly essence disappeared and Nagarjuna (and Barbara) made more sense.
Nagarjuna wrote,
For him to whom emptiness is clear,
Everything becomes clear.
For him to whom emptiness is not clear,
Nothing becomes clear.
Language and Words
Introduction
by Seirin Barbara Kohn
In the beginning was the word. What word? In the beginning of humans becoming humans they created concepts expressed in language, i.e. Words. These words have developed into complexities beyond even the Buddha's expectation. We use words to describe the indescribable. We use words to love and to hate. The old saying, "sticks and stones can break my bones but names can never hurt me," shows a deep misunderstanding of what human suffering is all about. Words bruise the psyche and they soothe the psychic beasts and demons. What we think, how we name, our descriptions and actions all contribute to the wondrous and awesome experience of being people. In this copy of Just This, our topic is language/words. We asked folks to use words to speak of words or to paint a picture leaving the words to the viewer. Please join us in the remarkable creative possibilities of our language instinct.
— Seirin Barbara Kohn is the head teacher of the Austin Zen Center, and currently on sabbatical.
In the beginning was the word. What word? In the beginning of humans becoming humans they created concepts expressed in language, i.e. Words. These words have developed into complexities beyond even the Buddha's expectation. We use words to describe the indescribable. We use words to love and to hate. The old saying, "sticks and stones can break my bones but names can never hurt me," shows a deep misunderstanding of what human suffering is all about. Words bruise the psyche and they soothe the psychic beasts and demons. What we think, how we name, our descriptions and actions all contribute to the wondrous and awesome experience of being people. In this copy of Just This, our topic is language/words. We asked folks to use words to speak of words or to paint a picture leaving the words to the viewer. Please join us in the remarkable creative possibilities of our language instinct.
— Seirin Barbara Kohn is the head teacher of the Austin Zen Center, and currently on sabbatical.
Dogfight Sutra
by Brandon Lamson
The Diamond Sutra begins,
and eating his meal of rice,
the Bhagavan put his robe and bowl away, washed his feet, and sat down.
During his morning rounds sparrows dove from dusty trees
and stole grains of rice from the bowl he held steady for them,
so the seamstress who ladled the rice into his bowl
was feeding the birds who woke her at sunrise, singing
on a branch outside her window.
without a soul.
frayed like a cloak of leaves, burnt oranges and yellows
scored with holes
and their colors blend.
In Baltimore, tribes gather on street corners at dusk
sharing tins of food with mongrels
they’ve saved from sodium pentothal and dogfights.
Devin crashing my place with his gutter punk friends,
stinking of leather, greasy studs and Mohawks
to a high gloss, rooster combs melting in the heat
as we listened to Vic Chestnutt’s “Drunk”,
Years later in D.C. I worked in a furniture store
assembling wrought iron chairs and huge marble tables,
their surfaces shot through with veins of green and black,
like a meteorologist’s chart predicting ceaseless downpour.
During lunch I walked to the stoop on the corner
Floyd smiling as he did the first day
he asked me for change then offered me a drink.
The seams in his face cracked open,
to let the spirits out,
red bandanna tied around his dreads now darkened to rust.
I sat with them as we passed around a forty bottle
observing suits gliding by
My meditation practice has contributed deeply to my writing practice, as both are ways for me to dwell in a stillness that is both generative and a source of renewal. These stillpoints, whether anchored in the emptiness of the blank page or in the canvas of the mind, enable me to engage the contemplative arts as other-expression rather than self-expression. The qualities of patience, compassion, and non-judgement that they cultivate help me to temporarily escape the boundaries of ego and the limited self. As I am about to take the bodhisaatva vows, the intention to dedicate my actions to the liberation of all beings underscores my creative work which explores the connective tissues that bind us to each other and the world, the passionate language of thought and feeling that enlivens our experience. Speaking of the dark, soulful quality he called duende, the poet Federico Garcia Lorca said it is "drawn to where forms fuse themselves into a longing greater than their visible expression." For me, writing and meditation are forms that point to an essence of luminous clarity that is invisible, unfathomable, and infinitely generous.
— Brandon Lamson, a Zen practitioner at the Houston Zen Center, is also a poet and graduate student in the Creative Writing Program at the University of Houston.
Languages at the Austin Zen Center
by Mark Bykoski
The Soto Zen Buddhist tradition practiced at the Austin Zen Center could be said to come to us from Japan by way of San Francisco. Its more distant origins, however, are fairly complex. To describe its roots chronologically, Buddhism began in India, spread to central Asia, and then to Tibet and China. When Buddhism met with the native Daoist tradition in China, there developed a school known as Chan (禪, from the Sanskrit dhyana, meditation). As Chan spread, it became known as Son in Korea and as Zen in Japan.
As Buddhism spread geographically, it developed different modes of expression in the various cultures where it found a home. Texts traveled and were translated from one language to another. New texts were composed, drawing from the multilinguistic background of the tradition. This process began as Buddhism first started to spread through different regions of India, and it continues in our own culture today.
Here at the Austin Zen Center, we encounter texts and terminology from languages such as Pali, Sanskrit, Chinese and Japanese. This material comes to us through various layers of translation and transliteration, making for a linguistically complex body of scripture and lore.
The earliest extant Buddhist writings are in Pali, a language of ancient India. Pali belongs to the Indo-European family of languages and is distantly related to English and to most of the other languages of Europe. The refuges are often chanted in Pali during retreats at AZC, at the end of the day:"Buddham saranam gacchami... Dhammam... Sangham...." (I take refuge in the Awakened One... in the Teaching... in the Community....). Pali texts may also be encountered in classes at AZC. Sometimes it may be confusing to run across Pali words that correspond to Sanskrit words that we are more familiar with. A few examples:
| Pali | Sanskrit | English |
| dhamma | dharma | teaching; element of experience |
| nibbana | nirvana | "extinction," leaving cycle of birth and death |
| bhikkhu | bhiksu (or bhikshu) | monk |
| arahant | arhat | "worthy," one who has extinguished passions |
| anatta | anatman | no self |
| paticca-samuppada | pratitya-samutpada | dependant co-arising |
| magga | marga | path |
| sutta | sutra | "thread," a talk given by the Buddha |
| khanda | skandha | "heap," aggregate, element of sensory experience |
The later Mahayana ("Great Vehicle") tradition that developed in northern India generally used the Sanskrit language (a close relative of Pali) in writing. While Pali was one of a number of regional languages, Sanskrit had for centuries been the main literary language of India. It is Mahayana, with its Sanskrit literature that eventually spread to China and Japan. In addition to the words mentioned above, Sanskrit terms encountered at AZC include, bodhisattva ("enlightening being", one dedicated to the liberation of others), prajna-paramita (perfection of wisdom), and dana (generosity).
Buddhism started to make its way into China in the first century of the Common Era. Most of the many terms of Chinese origin used at AZC are known to us by their Japanese pronunciation. Occasionally we run into words in their Chinese form (transliterated into our alphabet), particularly Daoist philosophical terms such as dao (道,"the way"), and wuwei (無爲, "without doing", effortless action). One text that is chanted in English at AZC is known to us by its Chinese title, Xinxinming (信心銘, Trust in Mind Inscription).
The Chan/Zen teaching stories known as koans (公 案, Chinese: gong'an,"public case") were mostly written in China in the tenth to thirteenth centuries (based on anecdotes reputed to go as far back as the fifth century). They are sometimes studied at AZC in English translation.
The earliest translators attempting to find Chinese equivalents for Buddhist Sanskrit terminology tended to use terms from Chinese philosophy, such as dao (道,"the way") for dharma. Later translators moved away from that approach. The word that was eventually settled on as the standard translation of dharma is fa (法, Japanese: ho), which originally means"law" or"method". In Chinese Buddhist contexts, however, it may be used much the way dharma is used in Sanskrit: to refer to the Buddhist teachings, or to mean"element of experience" or"phenomenon." Translating that term from Chinese (or Japanese) into English, we usually render it using the original Sanskrit word dharma, transliterated into our Roman alphabet. The Chinese also chose to transliterate the sounds of some Sanskrit terms, rather than translate them according to their meaning (for example, niepan for nirvana). The Chinese Buddhist lexicon eventually settled into a combination of translation and transliteration for terms derived from Sanskrit. When Buddhism made its way into Japan, the Japanese generally used the Chinese terminology.
The Japanese did not write their language until they had come into contact with the Chinese. Chinese and Japanese are very different languages, and when the Japanese began to use the Chinese writing system around the fourth century of the Common Era, they did not initially write their own language, but rather learned to write in the Chinese language of the time. The Chinese written characters are called Kanji in Japanese. At some point the Japanese began using certain Kanji for their sound rather than their meaning, to represent syllables of the Japanese language. That system is known as Manyogana. Eventually, in order to make the characters used for their sound distinct from those used for their meaning, the Manyogana characters were stylized to form two different sets of phonetic characters, Hiragana and Katakana. Kanji continued to be used for their meaning, but were now supplemented by Hiragana and/or Katakana to represent all of the grammatical endings and particles that had no equivalent in the Chinese writing system. Modern Japanese usually uses Hiragana for grammatical elements, and Katakana for newer foreign words or for emphasis.
The Japanese not only imported Chinese characters, but a great many Chinese words as well, especially technical terms relating to government, philosophy, religion and the arts. The Japanese pronounced these loan words according to the Chinese pronunciation at the time, adapted to the sound system of Japanese. This is why some Japanese words sound similar to their Chinese equivalents, while other words bear no resemblance. Kanji were used not only to write loan words from Chinese, but also to write native Japanese words according to their meaning. Consequently many Kanji have at least two pronunciations in Japanese. The pronunciation derived from Chinese, used for loan words from Chinese is called On-yomi. The pronunciation for native Japanese words is called Kun-yomi. For example, the character meaning"heart" (心, pronounced xin in modern Chinese) has the On pronunciation shin in loan words such as Shin Gyo (心經, Heart Sutra), but it also can be used to write the native Japanese word for"heart," kokoro, (its Kun pronunciation).
Most of the Japanese technical terms used at AZC are loan words from Chinese pronounced according to On-yomi. (Examples: zendo, zafu, han, kinhin, chiden, mokugyo, tenzo, doshi, shuso, oryoki, shikantaza, dokusan)
The Japanese imported words from Chinese during more than one historical period, with the result that some Kanji have more than one On pronunciation. For example, we pronounce the transcription of Maha Prajnaparamita as"Maka Hannya-haramitta" in the Heart Sutra, but as"Moko Hoja-horomi" in the"Jiho sanshi" chant (the latter appears to be closer to the modern Mandarin pronunciation, Mohe Boreboluomiduo).
Rather than translate the Chinese Buddhist texts into Japanese, the Japanese monks generally chanted and studied the Chinese texts, using Japanese pronunciation. This Chinese language chanted in Japanese is sometimes referred to as"Sino-Japanese." The Maka Hannya-haramitta Shin Gyo, Enmei Jukku Kannon Gyo and the Robe Chant are examples that are chanted at AZC.
In cases where the sound of the original language was believed to have special power, the Chinese chose to transliterate rather than translate certain Sanskrit texts. An example chanted at AZC is Daihi Shin Dharani, a text originally written in Sanskrit, transliterated according to ancient Chinese pronunciation into Chinese characters, and now chanted using Sino-Japanese pronunciation (the end result of that convoluted history does not sound much like Sanskrit).
Some texts chanted or studied at AZC were originally written in Japanese. Sandokai is an example that is chanted in Japanese. The difference from the Sino-Japanese language is readily apparent.
Eihei Dogen, the thirteenth century Japanese Zen ancestor who traveled and practiced extensively in China, and who founded Soto Zen in Japan, wrote in both Chinese and Japanese. His works, some which are characterized by inventive wordplay, are chanted and studied at AZC in English translation.
— Mark Bykoski is a member of the Austin Zen Center. He studied Chinese at the University of Maryland and has traveled to China."Zhaozhou's Dog" from the Wumenguan
by Mark BykoskiThe Chinese text is given in the top row. Below that is the modern Mandarin pronunciation spelled in the Pinyin system, and then the English meaning of each word.
| 趙 | 州 | 狗 | 子 |
| Zhào name of an ancient state in China | Zhōu state, region | gŏu dog | zĭ [suffix for nouns] |
| 趙州- name of a Zen ancestor; Japanese pronunciation: Joshu | 狗子 - dog | ||
Zhaozhou's Dog
| 趙州 | 和尚、 | 因 | 僧 | 問、 |
| Zhào Zhōu | héshang master, monk | yīn because, reason | sēng monk (from sangha) | wèn ask |
As for Master Zhaozhou, because a monk asked,
| 狗子 | 還 | 有 | 佛 | 性 | 也 | 無。 |
| gŏuzi dog | hái even, also | yŏu have | fó Buddha | xìng nature | yě [word separating clauses], also | wú not have, (Japanese pronunciation: mu) |
"Does even a dog have Buddha nature, or not?"
| 州 | 云、 | 無。 |
| Zhōu | yún say | wú not have |
Zhaozhou said, "It does not."
"Zhaozhou's Dog" is the first koan in the Wumenguan (Japanese: Mumonkan; often translated as the Gateless Gate or Gateless Barrier; or to put it more architecturally, the Gateless Gatehouse), a collection of koans with commentaries written in China in the thirteenth century of the Common Era by Wumen Huikai (Japanese: Mumon Ekai). A koan (Chinese: gong'an, "public case") is a story that is used in the Zen Buddhist tradition to teach insights not readily conveyed in discursive language. Often they involve a dialogue between student and teacher, as in this example. The teacher featured in this koan is Zhaozhou Congshen (Japanese: Joshu Jushin), who lived in China in the ninth century.
A rather literal translation of the koan is offered above, even though it may be awkward English, in order to point out a few features of the Chinese text not reflected in most translations. The following comments are concerned mostly with the surface meaning of the language, rather than the deeper significance of the koan. The surface meaning is only a starting point for the study of a text such as this, but it may be helpful to devote some attention to the starting point.
After the title, the koan begins with Zhaozhou Heshang (Japanese pronunciation: Joshu Osho), "Master Zhaozhou." The grammatical construction here would appear to be topic-comment, with "Master Zhaozhou" as the topic ("As for Master Zhaozhou…"), and the rest of the koan as the comment.
The next word, yin ("because") is usually not translated in English versions of this koan. It may serve the purpose of pointing out that Zhaozhou's statement concerning the dog and Buddha nature are made in the context of the monk asking the question. Zhaozhou did not go before the assembly of monks at his temple and suddenly announce to everyone that dogs do not have Buddha nature. Rather, he responded to a monk's question on a specific occasion. The "because" may be there lest we misinterpret Zhaozhou's answer as a general statement about dogs and Buddha nature.
The version of this koan that appears in another koan collection, the Book of Serenity, does not include the "because." Also, it does not use the topic-comment construction, but rather subject-verb-object ("A monk asked Master Zhaozhou...."). In that version, Zhaozhou is asked the same question by two different monks, and he gives each monk a different answer. His answers are apparently contradictory, so that author did not need to emphasize that his statements are to be taken within their contexts.
The monk's question includes two important Chinese words, you ("to have," "there is") and wu ("not to have," "there is not"). When used as verbs in conjunction with an explicit subject (in this instance, "dog"), you and wu mean "have" and "not have." When used as verbs without a subject, they can mean "there is" and "there is not." However, when used without an explicit subject in a context where a previously mentioned subject is implied, they can still mean "have" and "not have." Zhaozhou's answer is an example of that last scenario, because it is an answer to a question, echoing the verb from the question. In that context, the subject from the question is implied.
Sometimes, in ancient philosophical contexts, you and wu are construed as nouns meaning "being" and "nonbeing" (or, as the scholar A.C. Graham prefers to translate them, "that which is, something" and "that which is not, nothing"). This koan does not present such a grammatical context.
While most Chinese verbs are negated by placing the word bu (不, "not") before the verb, you is a special case in that it is negated in ancient Chinese by replacing it with wu (rather than "buyou").
Wu can also function as a prefix meaning "without" in compound words.
The monk's question is formed by a positive statement ("Even a dog has Buddha nature") followed by a negation of the verb ("not have"). This is a common grammatical construction for forming questions in Chinese. The question tag does not really need to be translated, but it is rendered here as "or not" to convey the literal sense.
Chinese does not have a single word for "yes" or for "no." The most common and concise way to answer in the positive is to state the verb from the question (in the version of the koan in the Book of Serenity, Zhaozhou's answer to the first monk is "You," meaning "[It] has," which is equivalent to "Yes" in this context). The most common and concise way to answer in the negative is to state the negation of the verb from the question, which is what Zhaozhou does here. His answer, "Wu" (literally "[It] does not have") is equivalent to "No."
Zhaozhou's answer appears to contradict the standard Buddhist doctrine that all sentient beings have Buddha nature. There are many ways this could be interpreted. Some point out that it is misleading to speak of beings as "having" Buddha nature, as if beings and Buddha nature are separate things. Some infer that Zhaozhou is shaking the monk out of his attachment to the literal words of doctrine. It is said that this "no" is intended to disrupt the monk's (and our) habit of conceptual thinking and point to reality beyond.
Some English translations of this koan do not translate Zhaozhou's answer, but render it as "Mu," which is the Japanese pronunciation of wu. This may create the impression that his answer is not translatable, but that is misleading. Zhaozhou was asked a question, and his reply is the most ordinary, straightforward and concise way that one could answer in the negative in that language. In the context of this dialogue, the most straightforward English translation of wu/mu would be "No." For this translation, however, I chose "It does not," to try to reflect that the answer echoed the wording of the question.
Translations that render the answer as "Mu," generally do not include "mu" in the translation of the question, even though it is there in the Chinese text. That may create the impression that the monk asks his question in ordinary language, and then Zhaozhou replies with this strange word mu from out of the blue. Actually, the monk says mu first (in the question tag, "or not"), and Zhaozhou's answer echoes it.
Many people seem to have the impression that mu is a special word whose meaning is to unask a question, or that it means "neither yes nor no." Zhaozhou's intention may perhaps have been to unask the monk's question, but this unasking is not a general meaning of the word wu/mu in the Chinese language in which the koan was written. It is from the koan as a whole and from its context within the history of Chan/Zen and the wider history of Buddhism that one might infer that the question was unasked. When Zhaozhou says, "No," it raises the question, "Why did he say, 'No'?" While Zhaozhou's answer may point beyond the surface sense of his words, nevertheless the surface sense is a negative answer to a specific question, expressed with a very ordinary word.
It may be fair to say, however, that the subsequent use of this particular koan has given rise to the use of mu to unask questions or to convey "neither yes nor no" among some Japanese and English speakers who practice or are interested in Zen.
Some English versions of the koan have Zhaozhou shout "Mu!" but the Chinese text does not indicate the manner of his speech.
Having learned that at least on the surface, wu/mu means "does not have," we might next consider this warning from Wumen's verse on the koan:
As soon as you concern yourself with "have" (you) or "not have" (wu),
You lose your body and lose your life.
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