The Boat is in the River

Kynan Sutherland Sensei

The Boat is in the River

Kynan Sutherland Sensei (2016)

Today I want to take up the following lines of the Shodoka:

To be mature in Zen is to be mature in expression

And full moon brilliance of Dhyana and Prajna

Does not stagnate in emptiness.

For me these lines go to the heart of what it means to be a Zen person. Not just somebody who practices to feel better, or relax, or become a good citizen, but somebody who yearns to embody the Way completely – ever more completely – deepening and refining their practice with every step for the benefit of all beings.

In other words, I’m interested in the way these lines go to the heart of why we practice Zen in the first place.

Zazen is not a selfish act. Indeed, it’s probably the most selfless act there is. When we genuinely step onto the path we unwittingly make a vow to be clearer, simpler and more direct in everything we do.

These are perhaps the “unspectacular fruits” of practice. No one, generally speaking, is going to notice a seismic shift in your personality. But people may find their own lives a little easier around you as the clutter of greed, hatred and ignorance gives way to the mystery of what is actually happening. Being available and attentive in this way is, to my mind, what the Shodoka is pointing to when it says, “mature in expression.”

Of course, being mature in expression is never limited to just verbal expression. Practice doesn’t rely on verbal dexterity (despite the fact that Zen boasts a number of remarkable poets and teachers). Instead, Zen places its emphasis on something much more grounded, earthy and full-blooded than that.

It values character. It’s who we are before we invent the idea of who we are that counts. It’s me without frills. It’s you without frills. In his free-form Shodoka, Bob O’Hearn translates a passage as follows:

 What better gift to share

Than one’s own original beauty?

To earnest seekers, all self-images

Are like frilly old costumes that never quite fit.

They appreciate the naked freedom

Of their own unself-conscious nature –

They’ve got nothing to prove.

Nothing to prove. This is one of the freedoms we observe in people who have had a long, enduring practice. A mature practice. The Melbourne Zen Group is rich with such people. I’ve always loved this group because it has such a frank, no-nonsense approach to Zen. You don’t find prima donnas here. Instead, the people who support this group, and who have supported it over many years, have sustained it with simple, unadorned, steadfast practice. This is a place where old-fashioned virtues like humility, perseverance and sincerity are prized.

 And we find these qualities in the ancestors, too: the old teachers who taught their students by embodying the way, not describing it. They were men and women who adhered to the mantra of “show, don’t tell”. We admire them because they personify what it is to be mature in expression, not showy in style.

As Dogen said, “If you really want to practice, just like the style of the old masters.”

This isn’t an invitation to ape their words. No, it goes far deeper than that. It’s an encouragement to see what makes really them tick, and see it in your own life in your own way.

*

One of my favourite old masters was Fayan (855-958). Fayan lived and taught at the tail end of Zen’s golden age, just before the Song Dynasty began. And one of my favorite old cases involves Fayan with a monk called Elder Jiao.

We don’t know much about Elder Jiao. As far as I know he only appears in this case. But I’m grateful for his visit. Like Fayan, he must have been a seasoned and respected man of the Way. Hence the title “Elder”. I imagine him as a quiet, self-reliant man, sparing with his words, travelling the roads of old China and occasionally popping in on esteemed teachers to enjoy the dharma in good company.

The conversation between these two men is one of the most beautiful in the literature. Here it is:

 Fayan asked Elder Jiao, “Did you come by boat or land?”

Jiao said, “I came by boat.”

Fayan said, “Where is the boat?”

Jiao said, “The boat is in the river.”

After Jiao had withdrawn, Fayan asked another monk, “Did that monk who just came have the eye or not?”

[Case 51 of the Blue Cliff Record]

What’s going on here?

First, Fayan greets the old monk with “Did you come by boat or land?” This is a bit like saying, “Hi there, did you catch the train or come by car?” But there’s something deeper going on here, something more than just small talk. Fayan is probing the old monk, inviting him into a deeper conversation along the lines of, “Has your journey been an arduous, step-by-step affair, leading somewhere in particular? Or have you been flowing with the current instead?”

In her new book “Red Thread Zen” Susan Murphy touches on this case and says, “Coming by land – would that be questing for something? Coming by boat – would that be giving way to its natural flow instead? We say too much even to ask.”

Indeed. This koan is so quiet and discreet that we risk soiling it with noisy interpretations. Fayan’s question allows these undercurrents to be explored, certainly, but no interpretation will ever capsize its simplicity.

Jiao answers straight away: “I came by boat.” Again, so simple. Nothing complicated. He came by boat. And yet…can you hear the long, seasoned ease of his reply? It’s so immediate and unreserved. There’s no doubt that he came by boat. And yet we also get the sense that he’s picked up on Fayan’s deeper question, consciously or otherwise. The two men are in subtle accord here, enjoying one mind as it flows into the other.

So Fayan continues, “Where is the boat?”

Again, this is something like, “Where did you park the car?” But don’t miss the undercurrent. Fayan wants to know Elder Jiao intimately. “If you came with the current, surrendering to the flow, then you must be indistinguishable from this current, and indistinguishable from this flow. So where - and what - is the boat?”

This is like asking, “Where – and what – am I?”

Fayan can see that there is little or no self in Elder Jiao. He’s delighted –  and curious. How does Jiao respond?

Without missing a beat he says, “The boat is in the river.”

The boat is entirely in the river. Just as we are entirely in the flow of our own lives, floating, swirling, tumbling down rapids.

The boat, the river, how can they be told apart? The self, circumstances, how can they be told apart? 

*

I recently read a book called “Grief is the Thing with Feathers” by Max Porter. In it, a husband grieves for his wife, along with his two sons, who are now without their mother.

Out of the blue, a great black crow arrives. The crow, straight from the father’s imagination (and his reading of Ted Hughes), parks itself in the living room and refuses to budge. It mocks the father. It consoles. It teases and toys with the children. It sings of its desire to feed on those who are grieving, now and throughout the whole history of human loss. But all the while it keeps faithful company with the father and his sons as they slowly, painfully come to terms with their grief.

What I particularly value about this story is the fact that neither the father nor the sons ever look to escape their situation. They can’t. People encourage them to seek help, find solace, ‘move on’, but they can’t and they won’t because they now have crow, who is committed to seeing them through until he isn’t needed anymore.

Towards the end of the book, the father has a revelation:

Moving on, as a concept, is for stupid people, because any sensible person knows grief is a long term project. I refuse to rush. The pain that is thrust upon us let no man slow or speed or fix.

I find this to be an extremely wise and rare observation. I’ve never liked the phrase “move on.” Moving on is a sly, disingenuous betrayal of reality. I prefer the revelation of this father, who vows to “move with” his grief rather than “move on” from it. It’s his capacity to “move with” that makes him mature.

This is precisely what Elder Jiao is showing Fayan. “The boat is in the river”, he says, come what may.

Of course, it’s not long after this revelation that crow decides he can leave. He announces his intention to the father, who asks: 

MAN      I [am] done grieving?

BIRD      No, not at all. You [are] done being hopeless. Grieving is something you’re still doing, and something you don’t need a crow for.

MAN      I agree, it changes all the time.

BIRD      Grief?

MAN      Yes.

BIRD      It is everything. It is the fabric of selfhood, and beautifully chaotic. It shares mathematical characteristics with many natural forms.

MAN      Like?

BIRD      Where to begin? Oh, feathers. Turds? Waves? Honeycomb? String? Intestines? Bones? Feathers…

Grief endures, but hopelessness is gone. This is what a genuine Zen practice offers us. We let hopelessness dissolve and in its place we experience the grief of the world directly. This grief is blameless. And when we look deeply, we’re not even sure that we can call it grief. It changes all the time… It might be equally possible to call it “feathers. Turds? Waves? Honeycomb? String? Intestines? Bones? Feathers…”

*

Compare the poverty of “moving on” with the words of another great master, Yantou.

Ruiyan asked Yantou, “What is the everlasting reality?”

Yantou said, “It has moved.”

Notice that he doesn’t say, “It has moved on.” Moving on is an anxious effort to brush things under the carpet, or file them away in some invented drawer. “I’ve moved on” is like saying, “I’m just going to ignore what happened and make sure I never think about it again.” This is a kind of numb emotional suicide.

One place we might be tempted to “move things on” to is that strange little place called ‘emptiness’. When emptiness is understood conceptually, as the monk appears to be doing in this case (remember he’s looking for an everlasting reality), it might seem like a good place to flush away all those difficult things. “Everything is empty, so nothing matters, not even the pain I’ve caused others.”

This turns Buddhism into a toilet. Anything ugly or uncomfortable is simply rejected and ignored. We move on - fear, hatred and ignorance – it doesn’t matter, everything is empty, FLUSH!!! Down it goes!

But emptiness isn’t like that. It’s not an idea. Emptiness is an experience, complete and unshakeable. Far from undermining reality, it upholds the sanctity of each thing, because we realize that all things, even the most difficult things, are precious and unrepeatable.

We can assume that when Ruiyan asks Yantou, “What is the everlasting reality” he expects to hear the word ‘emptiness’. After all, isn’t that what all the sutras say? But Yantou won’t give him that balm. Instead, he offers something very different. He offers the beating heart of Buddhism itself. He says, “It has moved.”

Which prompts Ruiyan to ask the question, “How about when it moves?”

Yantou strikes again. He says, “Then you don’t see the everlasting reality.”

The very idea of an “everlasting reality” (or “emptiness” for that matter) is wiped away once and for all. If we really look, there is only this body, this life, this moment, which expresses itself entirely and without abandon.

Remember those words from the Shodoka:

To be mature in Zen is to be mature in expression

And full moon brilliance of Dhyana and Prajna

Does not stagnate in emptiness.

Full moon brilliance of Dhyana and Prajna – that is practice at its best. Open awareness, expansive and agile.

Why doesn’t it stagnate in emptiness? Because “It moves.” The leaves flapping outside. The pang of knees on the cushion. The chirping bird – tweet tweet. It moves. And can never be distinguished from this movement.

 *

There’s a coda to our exchange between Fayan and Elder Jiao, which we mustn’t ignore either.

After Jiao withdraws, Fayan turned to another monk standing nearby and asks, “Did that monk who just came have the eye or not?”

Fayan is asking about the eye of realization. Does Elder Jiao have this eye? Fayan is daring the monk to come down on one side or the other. If the monk says yes, he’s claiming that Jiao has something - the everlasting reality perhaps - and therefore misses the point. If he says no, he’s blind to the whole exchange, and he misses the point there too. So what will he say? What would you say?

 Fayan is not simply testing the monk: he’s testing us. This is a deeply personal matter. It comes down to, “Do I have the eye or not?”

Remember Dogen, who all through the Shobogenzo insists that we are all enlightened from the very beginning, just as we are, and that only our delusive thoughts obscure this fact.

So how do we realize this for ourselves?

At sesshin once I heard these words: “If you can’t go through just as you are, you can’t go through.” This is the Zen way. Zazen is not about self-improvement or forensically deconstructing pernicious desire. It’s about noticing who we are and settling more deeply into this endlessly mysterious fact. It’s about embracing uncertainty and learning to thrive within it.  

*

I was recently reading a story to my son from the original Winnie the Pooh series. It was, “Chapter Nine, in which Piglet is entirely surrounded by water.”

Picture this. It’s pouring rain. The hundred-acre wood is flooding. Water is climbing the trees, higher hand higher, until it completely surrounds Piglet’s house.

Piglet Panics. And says what any of us might say in such a situation - or whenever we feel surrounded by a ‘problem’.

‘It’s a little anxious,’ he said to himself, ‘to be a very small animal Entirely Surrounded by Water. Christopher Robin and Pooh could escape by Climbing Trees, and Kanga could escape by Jumping, and Rabbit could escape by Burrowing, and Owl could escape by Flying, and Eeyore could escape by – Making A Loud Noise Until Rescued, and here I am, surrounded by water and I can’t do anything.’

“I can’t do anything.” Does this sound familiar? Well, when we think in terms of “having a problem”, we often freeze. But as Yantou insists, life moves, and things do open up - just as they do for Piglet here, as soon as he stops fretting about himself.

As the water tips through the window, Piglet suddenly remembers a story Christopher Robin told him about what people do on desert islands when they’re stranded. Spontaneously, he writes a quick note, plops it in a bottle, and drops it into the water.

The note says,. “Help! Help! (Piglit).” And sure enough, the bottle and note finds its way to Christopher Robin, who is already out in the rain.

Was it luck that Christopher Robin was out in the rain, ready and available? Well, we’re told something marvellous about Christopher Robin a little earlier in the book, which gives us a lovely insight into his character:

Christopher Robin didn’t mind what the weather was doing, just so long as he was out in it.

 What an excellent way of describing Zen practice! Not minding what the weather is doing, just so long as we are out in it.

In other words, being happily surrounded by water. That is exactly the art of “The boat is in the river”.

With practice, we cultivate this almost childlike enthusiasm for change. Besides, what else is there to do? Change is all there is. Not shirking the weather, but enthusiastically stepping into it - raincoat, wellingtons, pocketknife and all.

*

So, rounding off, perhaps we could say that to be mature in Zen is to embrace our circumstances completely and respond from there.

This is what Fayan, the grieving father, Yantou and Christopher Robin all do. They let the world in, flow with it, and let their actions bubble up unbidden.

Meditation is never pre-meditation. We can’t respond meaningfully unless we’re immersed in our situation.  

So how do we live with this koan, “The boat is in the river?”

What relevance could it possibly have for us today?

Think about the plight of refugees. Think about our warming planet. Think about the lies, racism, misogyny and self-aggrandizement of politicians. Think of the nastiness of so much online culture. Think of the Great Barrier Reef, dying.

There’s so much happening right now. We might be tempted to run away and hide. But dreaming of a safer, more agreeable world – this only betrays the many beings and makes a mockery of their pain. There can be no salvation in a virtual world.

 So what is there to do but shake in all this? I think of Derek Walcott’s mysterious lines:

I looked down each canal

With shaking self.

Indeed. With practice, we discover ourselves reflected in each thing - even the troubling, revolting, intolerable things. The point is to discover ourselves right there, in the shaking.

So when we’re walking to the car, the boat is in the river. When we’re hanging out the washing, the boat is in the river. When someone we love is suddenly no longer available to us, the boat is in the river. When we learn about the eight year old girl who was destroyed by that senseless bomb in Manchester, the boat is in the river.

We don’t need answers. We don’t need anything special. We simply need to trust where we are, confident in the fact that when we remain open and respond from here, everything is fluid.

This article was first offered as a talk to the Melbourne Zen Group in 2016