Tracking Bodhidharma (24 page)

Daoxin termed the Zen practice of this type of meditation to be the “single practice samadhi,” and called it the “single universal expedient for attaining the Buddha Way.”

Daoxin's description of this mind can be confusing. Note that while he speaks of “thinking of Buddha,” he doesn't mean thinking about a historical figure or personage. He means observing the undifferentiated experience of consciousness without bifurcating or otherwise dividing it up with thought or intention. Daoxin describes this mind as
ming jing
, a term that translates as “bright and pure.” This is observing without an observer, perception unsullied by thought or intention, not even by the idea of “mind.” Daoxin says that it “is not thinking about Buddha, nor is it grasping mind, nor is it observing mind, nor is it considering mind, nor is it engaged in thought, nor is it observing practice, nor is it [in any way] unsettled—just in this direct way [it transpires].”

In Chinese, one term that Daoxin used to explain this expedient practice, the term
nian fo
, has shades of meaning that nuance Daoxin's teaching and in a sense subvert it. On the one hand, the term means to “think of (or concentrate on) Buddha.” Yet another meaning is to “chant Buddha('s name).” So in practice, although Daoxin was emphasizing that this practice was, to use Bodhidharma's phrase, just directly pointing at mind, less sophisticated practitioners interpreted the phrase
nian fo
to also mean “chanting Buddha('s name).” Thus the true meaning of Daoxin's teachings was in a sense degraded by the practice of a different Buddhist sect called Pure Land Buddhism. That sect saw the literal act of chanting Buddha's name as the path to salvation. As time went on, the prevalence of actually chanting Buddha's name itself became ever more widespread even in the Zen community, in apparent contradiction to the intent of Daoxin's teachings.

When I first visited the place fifteen years ago, the road to the Fourth Ancestor's temple was truly wretched, a washboard of massive ruts that jarred passing vehicles and their occupants into a numb dizziness. I was surprised that the first taxi driver to ferry me over this road persevered and didn't turn back to save the vehicle of his livelihood. On that occasion, aside from the problem of the washboard road, we arrived in the middle of the rice harvest, and grain carts assembled to use a weigh station aside the road blocked our passage. Happily, since that time, and under the guidance of the monastery abbot, the famous and respected Chinese Dharma teacher Jinghui (the same Jinghui who was previously abbot at Cypress Grove when I gave the lecture there), the monastery and its access road have been rebuilt and transformed into a comfortable and welcoming place.

An ancient covered bridge sits aside the paved approach to the Fourth Ancestor's temple. It rests serenely above a waterfall and once served any visitors approaching the place, spanning the creek that drained the monastery's mountain valley. Now a new road bypasses the bridge, but its classic and graceful architecture hints at the gravity and importance of this ancient temple.

The Fourth Ancestor's temple faces toward the southwest, and the late afternoon sun reflects warmly off its dark yellow walls. As we approach I look high on the hill to the left, to the landmark that marks the spot where the Fourth Ancestor was buried fourteen centuries ago. His old stupa is still there, a big structure about thirty feet high that commands a view of the temple valley and surrounding peaks. According to Zen records, after the Fourth Ancestor died, his body was first placed in the stupa. A few weeks later, a storm came up and the old door to the stupa blew open, revealing that his body had not decayed. Shocked at this, his disciples moved it to a “True Body Hall,” where it remained for many centuries. Eventually the body was interred in the temple, but the destruction caused by subsequent wars caused it to be lost.

While the temple is formally named True Enlightenment Temple, Chinese people usually call it by the short name “Sizu,” which simply means “Fourth Ancestor.” On previous visits to Sizu, I've found the place to be a very quiet, peaceful refuge from China's dusty cities. But today as I
arrive the temple is alive with activity. Buses fill a new parking lot outside the temple gate, and groups of people are milling around. Everyone is here to prepare for a grand ceremony that will take place tomorrow at a place not far away. That grand ceremony is the formal opening of another rebuilt temple, the teaching seat of a teacher known as Laozu (“Old Ancestor”). Sizu, with its large guest hall and dining room, is a staging area for people who have come to join the celebrations that will occur at Laozu Temple tomorrow morning.

I pass the Heavenly Kings Hall and make my way into the monastery's interior. The monastery halls rest on the steep slope of the valley, and I have to carry my luggage up the stairs that link its big halls on the temple's central axis. From a wide plaza built in front of the Buddha Hall, I see organized groups that have come to take part in the festivities. A crowd is packed inside the hall itself, and the bells and chants of afternoon service float across the landscape and the mountain valley's greenery.

Tired from traveling, I retreat to the temple office where I encounter an old friend, a monk named Mingyi. He looks a little harried. As the temple
weina
, or director, he has a lot on his mind today. Mingyi formerly lived at Cypress Grove Monastery in North China, the place where I've spent so much time. Friendly and accommodating, Mingyi taught our visiting groups there about traditional Chinese Zen practice and meditation. A few years ago he was transferred here to the Fourth Ancestor's temple to help Jinghui, the “Old Master,” carry out new construction.

“Are you alone?” Mingyi asks me.

“Yes, I'm alone,” I reply.

Some relief sweeps across his face. It's clear that housing for all the visitors is a big problem that's preoccupying him. “We have a room for you,” Mingyi says.

This makes me feel only slight less awkward. I know he would say this whether they have one or not. But it turns out to be true, and a little later, after dropping my bags in a special room complete with a private bath, I go out to see what's going on. The pilgrims that have arrived to take part in tomorrow's ceremonies are in high spirits. They cluster around the Buddha Hall, chanting and bowing with the proceedings. A big crowd of people is in the temple gift store and bookshop buying up
everything in sight. People in China love to buy souvenirs, and whatever such goods are labeled with the name “Fourth Ancestor's Temple” appear to be in high demand.

Seeing the Buddhist religion so enthusiastically embraced in China is still a little bit of a shock. I remember, in my college days, a professor of Chinese studies saying that there would never be business or religion in China again. From the looks of the milling, excited crowd, it seems as if the Chinese were simply lying in wait for the latest political tide to subside so they could get back to doing business and being Buddhists again.

An hour later the big monastery dining room is packed with pilgrims. There are too many people for everyone to eat at once, and as some people finish eating at the long wooden tables, others pour in to take their place. The mood is festive, a contrast to the somber air of a monastery. The fare is rice and vegetables with some tofu and chili peppers on the side. China's celibate monastics avoid onions and garlic, vegetables that they claim cause sexual arousal, but they don't have any qualms about offering super hot chilies, which apparently don't have the same effect. Visitors and monks from Hunan, Jiangxi, and Sichuan, provinces where people are devoted to devouring the hottest chilies imaginable, eagerly scoop up these side dishes.

As I walk down the long sidewalk that leads from the dining room to my guestroom, I listen to groups singing in the different courtyards of the temple. It's obvious that these people haven't come around here to devote themselves to “observing the nature of the mind.” They are part of China's big “intertwined” community that is again gaining steam.

A KNOCK ON MY DOOR at four fifteen alerts me that the morning looms.

The story of Laozu, which means “old ancestor” and refers to another Indian monk who came to China, is an incredible tale that leaves most Westerners and many Chinese shaking their heads. Although he was called “Old Ancestor,” his actual religious name was Bao Zhang (“Treasured Palms”). Treasured Palms (as in the palms of your hands) was an Indian monk said to have arrived in China by way of what is now Myanmar and Sichuan Province at the end of the Han dynasty, around the year 212 CE. Astonishingly, he was said to have already attained the formidable age of 628 years at the time he arrived in the Middle Kingdom. Even more astonishing, he eventually died in China in the year 657 at the age of 1,072. Various Zen texts dating from the ninth to fourteenth centuries tell his story and refer to him as “Thousand Year Treasured Palms.” There are assorted historical records that describe this monk, so, regardless of whether he really lived to be over a thousand years old, his life seems to be widely known and documented in China's Zen records.

It's said that Bao Zhang, though a Buddhist monk, did not finally realize full enlightenment until he had resided in China for 300 years. Thus, he finally achieved enlightenment when he was over 900 years of age. The reason why this bears on Bodhidharma's story is because Bao Zhang is recorded to have achieved this goal by traveling from his residence at Laozu Temple down the Yang-tse River to someplace near Nanjing. There he reportedly met Bodhidharma and asked for his teaching. Bodhidharma, who apparently was living in or near Nanjing, offered a teaching that allowed Treasured Palms to reach full enlightenment. His story goes on to say that Emperor Wu thereupon invited Treasured Palms to visit his court, honoring him because of his great age.
Being old commands respect in traditional China, so you can imagine how much respect would flow to someone who had celebrated more than 900 birthdays. Treasured Palms, even if he was, say, 150, would still have garnered huge interest. As I mentioned above, China's Taoist alchemists had long tried to make potions by which China's emperors could gain immortality, but, at least since the time of the legendary Yellow Emperor, they seem to have failed at this task. Yet here was a foreign Buddhist monk who had lived far beyond the lifespan of any ruler of China. Emperor Wu, it is recorded, received Treasured Palms with great ceremony. But then Bao Zhang's Zen philosophy, which he allegedly received from Bodhidharma, caused the two men to “not connect, as though they spoke different languages.” This is an interesting story, particularly since Treasured Palms was described as a student of Bodhidharma, and the latter reportedly had a similar experience with Emperor Wu. Treasured Palms went on to eventually travel and teach farther south in Zhejiang Province, where he is said to have died in the year 657 at a mountain called Huiji near Shaoxing City. Thereafter, during the Tang dynasty, a ditty circulated throughout Eastern China that described Treasured Palm's meeting with Bodhidharma and his final fate:

I'm entirely uncertain what's in store at the “Blessing” ceremony that I'm to attend at Treasured Palms's old temple. The woman in charge of the temple guestrooms told me that breakfast would be served at 5:00 AM and the buses would leave at 5:30.

“Where exactly is this place we're going to?” I asked.

She said, “Old Ancestor's Temple!”

“And what are we doing there?” I ventured.

“An official blessing! You know what a blessing is, don't you?”

“Yes, of course I know,” I said. Well, actually I have only a vague idea what a blessing is. I know that high-ranking monks open new temples, new meditation halls, and so on by performing “blessings,” but I don't
know exactly what is involved. “Blessing” is not a very good translation of what's going on. But I can't think of a better way to say it right now. A “blessing” is sort of another way of saying “christening,” but that term obviously isn't a good way to translate the official reopening of a Buddhist temple. It's the opening ceremony or inauguration of the place, but neither of those terms seems to convey the right meaning either. Maybe the literal translation of the Chinese characters is best. They mean “Open [the] Light.”

So when the attendant knocks on my door at 4:20, I roll out of bed and brew myself a cup of coffee to stiffen me against the morning chill. Then I dress, splash some water on my face, and walk to the dining hall, which I find is a busy scene indeed, with hundreds of people serving themselves bowls of rice gruel from large wooden pots, topping off the gruel with spicy pickled vegetables ready-cooked from plastic packages. I manage to gulp down a bowl, which surprisingly tastes not half bad, perhaps because my body is still too asleep to know the difference. Soon the coffee has taken full effect, and I'm ready to go.

But there's one more problem. Bright Sea, the abbot of Bai Lin Monastery, called me last night at about ten thirty, waking me from a deep sleep. He asked where I was, and when I told him I was at the Fourth Ancestor's Temple, he said, “Fine! Tomorrow we'll go up to Old Ancestor's Temple together.” He didn't say where he was, and I assumed he was at the same temple where I'm staying. Now, with an array of buses sitting in front of the temple loading pilgrims and Bright Sea nowhere to be seen, I need to decide whether to board the buses with them or wait for my promised ride. I try calling Bright Sea on my cell phone, but there is no answer. So I approach one of the monks directing traffic near the buses and ask him, “Do you know if Abbot Bright Sea is here?”