Zen Road [Gazette | A lecture by Zen monk Bertrand Schütz | Spring does not become Summer]
– www.zen-road.org –

zen, zazen
and the people
who practice it
– a web resource by friends of Zen monk Philippe Coupey

zen road gazette

spring does not become summer

Why practice in everyday life?
a lecture by Zen monk Bertrand Schütz

 

Bertrand Schütz is a Zen monk, translator and lecturer in German literature and culture who lives and works in Hamburg, where he also runs the Hamburg Zen Dojo. On March 24, 2006, he was invited to Tübingen to give a talk about Zen practice.

---

I’d like to try to explain some things about the practice of zazen, which you will have the opportunity to experience this weekend in the Tübingen Dojo.

The title of this lecture asks the question, “Why practice in everyday life?” I think in fact it’s the other way around. For most of us, that’s how we started: our daily lives confront us with questions that aren’t so easy to answer. However, human beings are inventive: there’s a question or problem, we look for a solution, most of the time the solution raises other questions, and so on. Science develops in this way. But this way of doing things is ineffectual when we’re faced with certain conflicts (someone once said that the sign of a true conflict is that there is no way out), or with the basic questions of our existence, such as that of suffering. In fact, as tradition tells us, the starting point of Buddha’s teaching is the question of suffering.

It so happens that some time ago I attended a roundtable discussion in Hamburg during an exhibit about crimes committed under the Nazi dictatorship. The debate focused on ethical questions: how should one behave in certain situations, are there rules of conduct, guidelines for behavior, etc. One of the participants said, “We can distinguish two types of problems: those to which we can find a solution, which are, in the end, technical problems; and insoluble problems. And faced with the second type, all we can do is develop an attitude.”(1) I think this speaker in fact described fairly precisely what the practice of Zen is about: developing an attitude. I talked about it in the dojo where I practice and someone said to me, “Oh, you mean keeping your poise!”(2) But that’s not at all what it’s about. It’s not keeping or maintaining, but developing. It’s an activity, a dynamic.

You probably know that Buddha, seeking an answer to the fundamental questions, tried all kinds of solutions. His era and his culture were rich in responses to the basic questions of existence. It was in India, in the 5th or 6th century before our era, and there were many kinds of ascetic practices, which of course all had as their goal to respond to the basic questions of existence. And he tried them all and judged them unsatisfactory, even harmful – he almost died from them. Then he sat down in the posture that we call zazen, and it was in this posture that he was awakened. This posture has since been transmitted in the Zen tradition, down to our times. It constitutes the heart of our practice.

So: developing an attitude.

When we practice the zazen posture, we realize that maintaining it requires both a certain level of energy and the ability to let go – a great inner mobility. As we practice, we notice that when we get stuck on something, when we’re fixated, in body or mind, we can’t hold the posture for very long. So it was in this posture that Buddha found the answer to his questions. He immersed himself in the practice and transmitted it. It has had an eventful history, coming from India to China, from China to Japan, and, since the 1960’s and 70’s, to Europe. Throughout the course of its history, it has developed different facets, due to its contact with various civilizations, while remaining the same in its essence. It undoubtedly represents one of the rare oral traditions still alive today – “oral” meaning that the essential core of the experience is transmitted from person to person, mind to mind, heart to heart. It is therefore a matter of transmitted experience. This may seem paradoxical, but experience is neither something we do or fabricate ourselves, nor something that comes to us from somewhere or someone else; it’s something that takes place as communication, or as mutual correspondence.

Described this way, it may seem a bit abstract. You can experience it for yourself at the Zen dojo here in Tübingen, or during weekend retreats; but I would also like to give you the opportunity to try it here.

(A table is brought forward, Bertrand sits in zazen on the table, facing the audience, and explains the essential points of the posture and breathing.)

As I said earlier, zazen is a transmitted experience, an oral tradition. While it is not in the realm of metaphysical discourse, there is obviously an urge to express this experience, and it is surprising to note that Zen literature is doubtlessly one of the most abundant among spiritual traditions. All authentic works in Zen literature in fact speak only about this experience of zazen. Some are very elaborate and also contain interesting philosophical aspects, but their source is this experience.

One of the major figures in Zen, to whom we often refer in our school, is Master Dogen, who lived in Japan in the 13th century. He was not satisfied by the spiritual schools that he frequented and set off to China, where he encountered the living tradition of Zen, which he brought back to Japan, like the legendary monk Bodhidharma, who left India and implanted Zen in China in the 6th century, and Master Taisen Deshimaru, who brought the practice of Zen from Japan to Europe in the 20th century. Master Dogen says in one of his major works, the Genjo Koan, “To study the Way is to study oneself.” The “Way” is a term which comes from the Chinese tao, which monks used to translate a Sanskrit term, marga, meaning “truth.” So, seeking the truth or the Way, is seeking oneself, or studying oneself. This is reminiscent of Socrates’ “Know thyself” in the Western tradition. Dogen continues, “To know oneself is to forget oneself.” And he doesn’t stop there: “To forget oneself is to be awakened (or enlightened or certified) by all beings in the cosmos.”

This truth or this Way that we seek is therefore a dynamic; the solution that we’re seeking is not something outside of ourselves. If we look outside, there is no solution. And so there’s an about-face, a turnaround. Instead of seeking a solution or an object, it’s a matter of knowing oneself. What, then, is this self? Along the way we realize that once again, there is no object to grasp.

“To forget oneself”: by renouncing the desire to seize an object, in particular in terms of oneself, we enter into a connection or communication with everything that exists, and we are thereby certified. So it’s not a matter of negation, nihilism or mortification. But we don’t find something of which we can say, “There, that’s me,” or “There, that’s the truth” or “That’s the solution.” The solution consists of this movement, this dynamic. It means abandoning the concepts that our personal consciousness forms in order to build itself an image of the world. By constructing images, objects and categories in this way, we assume a fixed point of view from which we see things, and we assume that we ourselves are a fixed point. The experience of Zen and of Buddha, which is a revolution in the truest sense, is precisely that there is no object that can be found. Which does not mean that there’s nothing.

That’s clear, isn’t it? (laughter)

That’s why the idea of mushotoku is key. It means “without goal,” and it includes many aspects: for one, the spirit in which we practice – not letting ourselves be restricted by a goal, not expecting any profit whatsoever. And when we don’t expect anything, we can expect everything. So mushotoku means no goal or gain for oneself; but it also means that the practice itself is not an object. I think, in fact, that when a spiritual practice becomes an object, what we call dogmatism or idolatry arises. But this does not mean that we practice any which way. On the contrary, it means being extremely exact, in harmony and perfect correspondence with the present moment. That’s what it means to develop an attitude, in this very moment. When you hold yourself up straight, sitting or walking, you have to consider all the particulars of the moment. As soon as you stop paying attention to one of them, you can’t maintain the posture for very long.

This is also one of the reasons why we practice from time to time for longer periods. It is possible to put up with tensions or rigidity for a certain amount of time through sheer force of will – tensions are also a way of ignoring certain things, of not paying attention to them – but the posture becomes more and more rigid and the moment comes when we can’t go on. It’s like keeping your balance on a bicycle. Obviously it’s impossible to pay attention to everything by using your discriminating thought, your personal consciousness. It’s like the centipede that thinks about which foot to move when. We’ve all experienced this, driving a car, swimming, etc. In zazen, it’s the same thing. You’re told how to sit, how to position your knees, your pelvis, how to breathe, and let your thoughts pass; but you have to do everything at once and at the same time forget it. Zazen is not the only time we do this, but, as opposed to driving a car or swimming, in zazen we do it without trying to get anything.

Do you have any questions?

Q. : When you’ve achieved something, when you’ve reached a balance, it seems hard to not want to get it back again, to not be attached to it.

A. : There’s a wonderful formula for that in Zen: simply continue zazen, and then you’ll have to let go, sooner or later.

What we describe as “reaching a balance” is an image, an impression of a pleasant state; but it’s not what’s happening in the present moment. We’d like to hold on to that pleasant state – and why? Because we ourselves would like to be fixed or permanent. Everything passes, but we stay – that’s what we assume. It’s hard for us to admit that we, too, are the result of an evolution or a progression. For example, no one remembers being born; we all think that we more or less created ourselves. And when we die, it’s probably the same: we’re surprised that no one asks our opinion. A friend of mine who practiced Zen, a nun, had cancer, was treated and lived another ten years or so. She told me, “You think, ‘Of course everybody has to die, but in my case, they’ll certainly make an exception.’” That’s what we’re looking for. Where is the fixed point or permanent state from which we can resolve everything?

Q. : I don’t understand: does zazen call into question this search for a fixed point?

A. : It’s not a matter of calling anything into question. Go ahead and try to find a fixed point!

Q. : You just said there aren’t any.

A. : There is no separate or isolated point. That’s what the title of this lecture is about: “Spring does not become summer.” It has nothing to do with global warming, don’t worry. It’s a quote from Master Dogen – again, from the Genjo Koan – who uses this image to talk about the problem of life and death. He’s saying that we shouldn’t think that death becomes life or life becomes death. It has to do with our way of seeing. He’s not saying that there are no seasons: winter exists and spring exists, just as individuality exists. But it’s a mistake to believe that this is something permanent that would change over the course of time. This is considered to be a fundamental error.

Dogen has another very vivid image in the same text. He points out that when we’re on a boat and we look at the shore, we think it’s the shore that’s moving. When we lower our eyes to the boat, we realize that it’s we who are moving. Looking outwards is an image for seeking an object – in this case, I’m steady and things are moving. When I lower my eyes, which also means that I don’t consider myself as a separate entity anymore, or, as another version says, when I am in intimate accord with sounds and colors, then I notice that I’m the one who’s moving. I remember how Master Deshimaru developed this metaphor to show how we act: a passenger falls into the water. Everyone rushes to the place where he went overboard. Someone even marks the spot on the side of the boat. And they let down a rope there in order to fish out the person at that exact place, while the boat obviously continues to go downstream. That’s what happens when we base ourselves on mistaken assumptions.

Q. : Doesn’t Zen believe in reincarnation?

A. : Zen asserts that it transmits the essence of Buddha’s teaching. Buddha denied the existence of a permanent substance, but he spoke about rebirth. He denied transmigration in the sense that there would be a permanent substance beyond death that reincarnated; but everything exists in interdependence, in interaction, and actions produce effects that can lead to a new birth. But not in such a way that you could say, “Now I’m a women in Tübingen, and in the past I was so-and-so.” Buddha deemed it unnecessary to worry too much about these questions. What’s important is what we’re doing in the present moment. If we believe that our actions have an effect in the future, then what’s essential is our action in the present moment. The Zen tradition has especially focused on this, because all other aspects are contained in it.

Q. : You said that “spring does not become summer” means that there is no thing or entity that would develop. So then, what is there? Karma isn’t about an entity, but about the idea that everything has consequences, without end.

A. : The problem is that we make distinctions. But everything is found in interaction. It’s completely pragmatic, concrete and also scientific.

Q. : But that’s one way of seeing it. To say that “spring doesn’t become summer” means “I look at spring, and then I look at summer” – in other words, I see one moment and then the next, discretely.

A. : Well, from moment to moment, there is no spring and summer. The same goes for an individual: you are you. Weren’t you you twenty years ago? Kodo Sawaki, Master Deshimaru’s master, once said, “A young girl is completely a young girl, and a woman is completely a woman. A woman is not an ex-young-girl.” That’s something we especially realize as we get older: we’re not the young person who grew older, we are the person we are now. So naturally there’s an evolution. All living beings develop in interdependence. We were conceived, we were born, we grew up, etc., but also physically, not one of your cells or mine is the same as twenty years ago. So where is this self? But it’s also a mistake to deny individuality. This is not nihilism, not at all, and not relativism either. And there you have it: spring is spring, summer is summer. Life is life and death is death.

Q. : So it wouldn’t be Zen to say that life becomes death and death becomes life, or spring becomes summer?

A. : “Zen”... nothing is “Zen.” Zen is the Japanese pronunciation of the Chinese chan, which is the translation of the Sanskrit dhyana, and it means this posture or meditation – of course we can say something is Zen or not, but that’s not what it’s about; it’s about what really is.

Q. : Since spring is also just a notion, this notion can also become the notion of summer.

A. : The notion does not change; otherwise we no longer distinguish spring from summer, just as it is clear that you are not the person you were twenty years ago.

Q. : But there is a certain continuity.

A. : What’s essential in Zen practice is to come back to reality. We can take many things into consideration, and we do – but reality does not take our considerations into account. That’s why it’s a matter of developing an attitude, that’s why I find the notion of balance very illuminating. We can only stay in balance, ride a bicycle, if we are both completely present within ourselves and completely available outwardly.

Q. : There’s obviously an evolution from the young girl to the adult woman.

A. : Yes, without a doubt.

[The organizer speaks up:] That’s how we found the title: how can a little sprout like that become such a beautiful plant? [laughter]

A. : It’s because nothing is separate from anything else. That’s what you mustn’t forget. It’s huge, but life is huge, it escapes us. I think the situations in which we realize that life escapes us are the ones that get us to practice. That’s how I started, and others as well.

Q. : And what should I do if I don’t understand things that way? How should I behave in terms of the future?

A. : By being completely present. That’s the surest way to influence the future.

Q. : Especially when I think about the future in terms of my children. They go to preschool, they go to school, they have to learn a profession – all that is for the future, they have to do all that for later. I’m paying now for my retirement.

A. : Yes, these are probably useful reflections in this particular sphere. The example of your children is very significant: naturally parents strive to plan for their children’s future as best they can. I think it’s also a wonderful inheritance or gift from the parents if, at the same time, they don’t attach excessive importance to their plans and expectations. We certainly know what a burden parents’ expectations can be to children. Obviously we strive to do our best. But if we realize at the same time – and not just intellectually – that we can’t plan everything, that things may happen in a completely different way, then I think we have freed our children at the same time. But this doesn’t mean “it doesn’t matter” or “so what, who cares” – on the contrary, don’t you think?

Q. : But when I make a decision, I’m creating a reality.

A. : Absolutely. Constantly. That’s why it’s essential to know what the source of our action is. In Zen, in Buddhism, we talk about prajnaparamita. It’s a Sanskrit term that means “great wisdom” or “the wisdom that goes beyond.” Not the small one, not our opinions or good intentions. It’s what we call awakening or Buddha nature. We all have this Buddha nature, this potential, within us, but we must always actualize it. That’s the practice of zazen. It’s not something we aim for, that we get one fine day; it’s a reality that we actualize in the moment. It’s like music: the music is not in the score, but when it’s played, where is it? It’s perfectly real – what we hold in our hands is not the music, although it’s very useful. Do you want to play music? Tomorrow, for example, you’ll have a chance, in the dojo, on a zafu.

---

(1) In German, the same word (Haltung) is used for both a physical posture and a mental attitude.

(2) Literally, “keeping one’s attitude” (Haltung bewahren).