Episode 27 - 'Suchness,' Zen & window cleaning

In this extended episode, I am going to talk about the notion of tathata, or ‘suchness,’ and relate this to the Zen practice of ‘bare attention.’ I will also say something about what is known as kensho in Japanese Zen – often translated as, ‘seeing into the nature of things.’ I will end by tracing a connection between these practices and the concept of Gelassenheit as used by the German philosopher, Martin Heidegger. I hope to show how this bundle of ideas and practices can have a practical application in helping us, and all beings, to live well.

Transcript

We each experience ourselves and the world from a particular point of view and our viewpoint is informed by our education and all the experiences we have had. Within the Zen tradition there is a strong claim that we can let go of some, or all, of the partiality that comes with our learning and conditioning – so that, even if it is for a moment, we can experience the world without the veil of words, concepts and conditioning that we normally carry around with us. It is this untrammelled view of the world that is called in Zen Buddhist literature, tathatā, or suchness. A 5th century CE text (Awakening of Faith in Mahayana) describes tathata, rather beautifully, as: ‘mind resting simply in its own being.’ We are still seeing the world from a particular place and time, but we see it with fresh eyes. We have been able to let go, for a while, of the acquisitive self or ego – no longer clinging and craving, free of anger and other negative emotions, and not deluded by our assumptions, preconceptions and conditioned habitual responses. 

In order to really see and appreciate what is, we have to forget what we know or imagine, forget the label and feel the presence of what appears to us – the concreteness of each phenomenon. Suchness is sheer unadorned presence – the concrete and actual rather than the abstract and conceptual. This is why in mindful meditation we learn the art of letting go, of setting aside our tendency to comment, make judgments and to be reactive in habitual ways. In this way we can be present, rather than be absent, and to experience the presence of the world from our unique perspective.

This emphasis on concreteness can be seen in the famous Flower Sermon, when the Buddha is surrounded by a large gathering of students waiting expectantly for him to speak. They hope to hear more words of wisdom and advice. Instead, the Buddha says nothing, but raises a flower in the fingers of one hand. The students are puzzled and confounded. Only one student, Mahakasyapa, realises what the Buddha is demonstrating, and he smiles. His broad smile is seen by the Buddha as an indication of realisation and the Buddha names Mahakasyapa as his successor. This transmission of understanding through action and showing, rather than through words, becomes a founding principal of Zen Buddhism.

There is a widespread belief within Buddhism that if our view of ourselves and the world is obstructed or distorted by anger, craving or delusion (preconceptions, assumptions, habitual responses) then, in a sense, we can’t be sure that it is really ‘our view’ – maybe it is so conditioned by habit and deference to others, it is not our view at all. This inauthentic, or delusory, way of seeing and being, is denoted by the term, avidya – often translated simply as ‘ignorance.’ So, it is necessary to strive for a clarity and freshness that is not the product of habit. Hence the need to cultivate a dispassionate, non-attached mindful perspective. This claim, that we can experience ourselves and the world, untrammelled by our conditioning, learning, language and conceptualising, is central to the Zen tradition, but it is contested by many contemporary thinkers, and may seem far removed from your own experience of the world. Nevertheless, it is a claim that is made over and over again throughout the history of Zen.

I will try to make sense of this claim with the use of a couple of very imperfect analogies and a few examples of how Zen teachers have described this experience.

Let’s think of our normal mode of everyday experiencing as being as if we are wearing a pair of spectacles. However, we have become so used to wearing them, that we have forgotten they are there on our nose. Our view of the world is mediated by the lenses that sit, unobtrusively, just in front of our eyes. The claim in Zen, and in the practice of mindful meditation, is that we can become aware that we are wearing the spectacles and realise how they affect and always skew, and, at times, distort our view of the world. Often the lenses of our spectacles are smudged and dirty, but we don’t notice the smudges that blur and impede our vision. Zazen and other forms of mindful meditation are methods for becoming aware that we are wearing spectacles, recognising the impact they have on our vision and (and this is the controversial claim in Zen) that we can, for a time at least, clean our spectacles and experience the presence of things as they appear fresh and clear to our eyes.

A better analogy might be that we spend so much of our time looking out at the world through an old window. Let us say that we are, sadly, imprisoned in a cell with one window. We have been there for a long time. The glass in the window has become dusty, hasn’t been cleaned in years, but we have been looking through it for so long that we no longer notice the dirt. It is only when, on one very special day, the window is cleaned, that we realise how blurry our view of the world has been and how we can now see clearly what is going on outside. Of course, on the day that we are freed from our cell, if that day ever comes, we step outside and see the world even more clearly. And it is a revelation. This bright, fresh and vivid reality we now perceive, makes us realise how dull, and delusory, was our view from the prison cell. All we have to do is to step outside of our cell – letting go of our delusory view. For, in reality, the cell itself and the dirty window are abstractions that we cling to as if they define us – but they don’t. It is when we step outside that we realise who we really are. This is the experience that Zen teachers describe as being a sudden awakening, or kensho, in Japanese– the revelation of tathatā or suchness.

In these analogies the lens or window stands for the outlook we have on the world – located always in a particular place and time. The dirt and grime that builds up on the lens or window represents the habits of thought and feeling, and the abstractions and assumptions that we accumulate, and cling to, in our daily lives. In this way our vision or experience of the world is mediated through language, concepts and habitual responses. The practice of zazen and other forms of mindful meditation are methods by which to become aware of the lens or window, seeing and cleaning the accumulated grime, and even, on rare occasions, stepping outside the prison cell of our conditioned responses and seeing the world in all its pristine freshness and beauty. This latter realisation or insight is what is known as kensho, in the terminology of Japanese Zen. 

Many haiku poems, only seventeen syllables long, are manifestations of sudden awakening to the sheer presence of things. The colloquial Japanese term for tathata, is sono-mama. The influential writer on Zen, D.T. Suzuki, suggests that sono-mama is ‘reality itself’ – a perception of the world stripped of words and theories – concrete rather than abstract, actual rather than ideal. This non-linguistic mode of experiencing is not an experience of a transcendent, absolute or ideal reality – a reality somehow outside of where we are, or beyond our everyday world. It is right here - where we are now – experiencing this moment in all its immediacy and transient beauty. (Suzuki 1970: 230) This haiku, by Kikaku (1660-1707), gives us a taste of this immediacy of perception:

A little frog

riding on a banana leaf,

trembling. (ibid: 231)

Or this one by Shiki (1869-1902) in my version:

Among the grasses,

a nameless flower

blooming white. (ibid: 232)

The second line of Suzuki’s translation of Shiki’s haiku is: ‘an unknown flower’ – but it seems to me that ‘nameless flower’ conveys the nonverbal nature of this kind of immediate perception. In many haiku it is as if the poet, for a moment or two, catches a glimpse of what appears to them in all its freshness and vivacity. There is something surprising about these glimpses and also sustaining – refreshment for the mind and body, in the fullest sense of that term. Such experiences become reference points against which other experiences are viewed and considered.

The term, KENSHO, comprises two roots: ken, ‘seeing’, and sho, ‘nature or essence’ - that is, ‘seeing into the nature of things’ – including ‘seeing into one’s own nature.’ In other words, realising that all things are transitory, interdependent and empty of separate, self-existence. Kensho, is a sudden illumination or insight - a transformative experience – and the literature of Zen is full of accounts of, or attempts to evoke, moments of realisation – a profound experience of suchness or being-here. Many haiku have this quality of sudden insight into the sheer presence of things – for example, Basho’s well-known haiku, in a translation by Dom Sylvester Houedard:

FROG

POND

PLOP

And the Japanese poet Kobayashi Issa, writing in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, put it beautifully: ‘

Simply trust

do not the petals flutter down

just like that. (Blyth 1950: 363) 

In a very different cultural context, the sixteenth-century Christian mystic, Jacob Boehme (1575-1624), puts it rather beautifully: ‘the true heaven is everywhere, even in that very place where thou standest and goest…’ (Boehme 1920: 23)

Here are a couple of my own fumbling attempts to evoke this experience of the sheer presence of some small part of the world:

summer on the blue rocks – 

a fly 

scratches

and,

in the dark forest

 - a leaf 

falls

And this, my variation on a haiku by Jack Kerouac:

in the morning frost

 – the cat steps 

slowly.

And this one by Kerouac:

The tree looks

   like a dog

barking at Heaven (Kerouac 2004: 3)


While in some Buddhist traditions nirvana is considered as the goal of Buddhist practice and is described as a permanent state of enlightenment, in Zen, kensho is regarded as part of an ongoing process of realisation and awakening. In my view most people have experienced moments of just being – moments when all cares and desires, fears and dissatisfactions, opinions and beliefs, fall away, and we are left with a profound feeling of peace, calm and connectedness – a vibrant sense of being alive and being related to everyone and everything. If we don’t value these moments, we just move on and forget them. In Zen Buddhism these moments are treasured, remembered and developed as a vital part of practice. 

Given that the experience of tathatā - the vibrant presence of just being here – is a nonverbal experience, it can only be pointed to, or shown – it can only be demonstrated rather than described. Thomas Merton, in Zen and the Birds of Appetite, writes: Zazen ‘seeks not to explain but to pay attention – to develop a certain kind of consciousness that is above and beyond deception by verbal formulae or by emotional excitement.’ (Merton 1968: 38) The well-known reservations that Zen teachers have about words and ideas are rooted in their belief in the importance of tathatā – the presence of what appears, the nameless nonverbal realm. The terms, ‘no-mind,’ ‘beginner’s mind’ and ‘don’t-know mind’ are all pointing to the activity of the mind that is non-discriminating, undivided and non-clinging – being-here – experiencing the suchness and the emptiness of all things as they appear to us without clinging, comment or judgment. 

There are countless stories in the literature of Zen of how teachers have prodded and poked their students, with surprising turns of phrase or physical actions, such that they experience this unadorned vision of the world free of the grimy window of the prison cell. There are also many attempts to evoke this sudden freedom through metaphor or poetry – for, of course, these non-verbal experiences cannot be adequately described in words. Zen practice, according to its teachers, can reveal a concrete and vivid reality unmediated by words, preconceptions and judgments – however hard it may be to describe or define the experience of this reality. This is why poetry, particularly haiku, and calligraphy and ink paintings, are considered to be so important in the culture of Zen. It is also why stories of monks experiencing tathata, are recorded and revered by Zen practitioners. If any expression could evoke these experiences, it would be laughter, shouts of glee or surprise – sounds that also resonate throughout the arts of Zen.

Most people have heard of the koan in relation to Zen – often seen as a puzzling practice of focussing on a verbal exchange between old Zen masters and their students. These koans, used as a method to bring students to a realisation of ‘awakening’ - kensho - are often themselves a record of moments of deep insight into the nature of things. In the Rinzai school of Japanese Zen, the influential teacher, Hakuin (1686-1769), used to say to his students: ‘Listen to the sound of one hand clapping.’ (see Miura & Sasaki 1965: 44) Since Hakuin’s time this has been used as a koan by many Zen teachers. It has become a cliché – widely quoted as an example of the craziness or absurdity of Zen practice. But it is really just one of many koans that can be used to prod a student into an awareness of tathata, or suchness – the wordless realm of immediate perception. For a second the rug of linguistic habits and analytical thinking is pulled from under our feet – enabling us, to have a taste of the nameless here and now – sheer presence. Hakuin’s statement is only meaningless when set against the meaningfulness of logic, grammar and verbal discourse. But when stumbled across in the literature of Zen, or spoken by someone trying to provoke bare attention in a student, it can be very powerful – a momentary cleaning of the window – an instant of release from the confines of our verbal, conceptual, habit-ridden self. Suddenly, we are really HERE.

Of course, the sound of two hands clapping is just as marvellous and mysterious as the sound of one – it can mark a moment of boundaries dissolving and opening to the presence of other beings and to the world.

I feel sure that most people have had moments of just being here – an indescribable feeling of the beauty of the world and just being alive – moments when our senses are vibrant, and we feel deeply connected to everything and everyone. In my own case, I have had many experiences of such immeasurable peace, beauty and unity – a kind of freedom from the constraints of my usual identity, free of words and abstractions and strivings for something or other – yet feeling so vibrant and alive – suddenly awake to the miracle of existence, when everything I perceive seems to glow with a wordless intensity. It may be that this is what is meant by kensho – the bare, nonverbal suchness of things as they appear to us uninflected by our own ideas, values and opinions. I have no authority, other than my own experience, for claiming that this is kensho – but it is as close as I have come to what is described or evoked by Zen teachers, artists and poets. The strange thing is, that although at these times it is as if all the usual trappings of identity have been let go of or forgotten, I have nevertheless felt both more alive - really here - yet also deeply woven into the fabric of the world. It is as if I have become nameless, yet fully myself. Somehow there is both deep harmony and wellbeing and an awareness of transience, passing through, being intensely alive – yet also being deeply interconnected with everyone and everything. Hard to describe but key moments in anyone’s life.

Within the Soto school of Zen Buddhism there is a meditation practice known as, shikantaza – often translated as, ‘just sitting,’ or ‘just being aware, or ‘bare attention.’ This is a radically simple form of mindful meditation - life is stripped down to its bare essentials – opening up to the suchness of life and existence. We just sit and be present to whatever happens – to the sights, sounds, smells, thoughts and feelings that arise as we sit – nothing added – no commentary, analysis, judgment or habitual reactions. Just being here. When just being aware, we experience the rudiments of who we are – the steady rhythm of our breathing, with senses and mind open and awake. In this way we can gain a deeper understanding of ourselves, our interdependence with the world and the fleeting nature of experiences. When we see the bare bones, we can appreciate the miracle of the whole body. When we see the leafless winter tree, we can appreciate more fully the magic of leaves emerging in spring. When we see an empty house, we can appreciate each item we put in it. If we go camping or bivouacking, we come to appreciate what it is to have a house or an apartment – also we feel in closer touch with the world about us. The practice of bare attention, the heart of being mindful, is valuable in, and for, itself – and it also enables us to appreciate all aspects of life more clearly and vividly.

It is interesting, at least to me, that we find echoes of what I have been talking about in the thinking of the German philosopher, Martin Heidegger (1889-1976). Heidegger’s emphasis on receptivity and on the openness of human being, leads him to make use of Meister Eckhart’s term Gelassenheit - often translated as, ‘releasement.’ The usual meaning of Gelassenheit in German is ‘calmness’ or ‘composure.’ However, Heidegger uses the term to denote a way of being without grasping or willing – a release from the confines of the acquisitive divisive self. He suggests that we need to learn how to practice ‘letting-be’ rather than striving and willing. Opening ourselves to the sheer fact of being here rather than trying to grasp, analyse or conceptualise what it is ‘to be.’  As John D. Caputo argues, ‘being is not something that human thinking can conceive or grasp […] but something that thinking can only be ‘granted’’. (Caputo 1993: 282) Our role is to be awake and open to being rather than to be sleepily passive: ‘The work that man can do is not to will but to not-will, to prepare a clearing and opening in which being may come.’ (ibid)

For Heidegger, human being, Dasein, is a process, an unfolding of possibilities, and in the work of living we have to learn to handle the contingency of what arises, the flux of events and conditions, and the complexity of weaving a thread in the web of relationships which constitutes existence. To be acutely aware of this unfolding of possibilities, to be open to what arises and to be flexible, responsive and adaptable, are qualities we need to develop if we are to experience and cope with life in all its richness and difficulty. In doing this we need to moderate the wilfulness and self-centredness of the ego and become attuned to the relational nature of living – this means it is often necessary to unlearn, to break habits of thought, feeling and action and to ‘let things be.’ 

It seems to me that this notion of ‘letting-be’, of being present without the psychological infrastructure of words and concepts, is remarkably similar to shikantaza, or ‘bare attention,’ as practiced in the Zen tradition. 

And so, at the heart of bare attention, and the realisation of suchness, lies a belief that this mode of attention will enable us to reduce suffering and live a better and richer life. Being able to see clearly what is going on, in and around us, less affected by craving, anger or delusion, can enable us to act more wisely and kindly than we might otherwise do. But let us keep in mind that mindful awareness, or bare attention, practiced by individuals and communities, needs always to be grounded in, and guided by, mindful ethics. It seems to me that this is one way to enable all beings to grow and flourish, working towards peace and sukha, and away from conflict and dukkha. Experiencing tathatā as part of the practice of zazen, interwoven with the development of mindful ethics and compassionate, caring action, may be the keys to wellbeing and a ‘good’ life. At least this is my hope and understanding.

Of course, you may be unconvinced by what I’ve said about suchness, or you may have reservations about other things I have said. You may feel that all experiences are mediated by language, by words. In which case, be guided by your experience and make your own mind up about the various claims made about these matters. Your understanding will evolve, as mine has, by balancing what you experience against what you read or hear about the experiences of others. There are countless paths to explore – each with its own surprises, revelations and insights. Good luck with your own dharma exploration.

Thank you for listening and bye for now.

_______________________________

Bibliography 

Blyth, R.H. 1950. Haiku, Volume 2: Spring. Tokyo: Hokuseido Press.

Boehme, Jacob. 1920. The Confessions of Jacob Boehme. London: Methuen. Online at: https://jacobboehmeonline.com/assets/docs/The-Confessions-of-Jacob-Boehme-by-Jacob-Boehme-ed-by-W-Scott-Palmer-1920.146140314.pdf - accessed 5 May 2024.

Caputo, John D. 1993. ‘Heidegger and theology’ in Guignon, Charles. B. (ed.) The Cambridge Companion to Heidegger. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Houedard, Dom Silvester. 1967. Kinkon. London: Writers Forum Poets Number 14.

Kerouac, Jack. 2004. Jack Kerouac: Book of Haikus. London: Enitharman Press.

Merton, Thomas. 1968. Zen and the Birds of Appetite. New York: New Directions.

Miura, Isshu & Sasaki, Ruth. 1965. The Zen Koan. New York: Harvest/HBJ.

Suzuki, Daisetz T. 1970. Zen and Japanese Culture. New Jersey: Princeton University Press.