Cutting Through Duality: Reflections on Koan 14 – Nansen Cuts the Cat in Two

Cutting Through Duality: Reflections on Koan 14 – Nansen Cuts the Cat in Two

In this post, I’d like to share my experience with Case 14 of the Mumonkan, a Zen koan that has become one of my favorites over the years.

It’s a story that is at once cruel, funny, and profound. I return to it often—because each time, it reveals something new. It challenges the way I think, the way I relate, and the way I act. Let’s begin with the story itself.

The Koan: Nansen Cuts the Cat in Two

Nansen Osho saw monks of the Eastern and Western halls quarreling over a cat. He held up the cat and said, “If you can give an answer, you will save the cat. If not, I will kill it.”
No one could answer, so Nansen cut the cat in two.
That evening, Joshu returned. Nansen told him what had happened.
Joshu took off his sandal, placed it on his head, and walked out.
Nansen said, “If you had been there, you would have saved the cat.”

There are four characters here (five if you count the cat):

• Nansen, the master.
• Two monks, quarreling over something.
• Joshu, who appears only at the end.
• And of course, the cat—the silent center of the drama.

The two monks are having an argument. Perhaps about the cat. Perhaps about something the cat symbolizes. Perhaps it’s a debate over temple protocol or some metaphysical point. Either way, their argument becomes heated enough that Nansen steps in.

When I visualize this scene, I can feel its tension. Two minds locked in opposition—each trying to be right, trying to win. Sound familiar? It’s something we’ve all done. We cling to opinions. We defend identities. We get caught.

This is where the koan begins to reveal its depth. Our Zen practice isn’t about erasing thought—but about not getting stuckin it. Ideas are useful—beautiful, even. But when we grip them too tightly, they divide us.

The two monks, in their fixation, create a division: East vs. West, right vs. wrong, my view vs. yours. Nansen sees this and challenges them. He holds up the cat and says: “Give me an answer, or I will kill it.”

They say nothing.

And so, Nansen cuts the cat in two.

Of course, we’re not meant to take this literally. Zen koans speak in images. Nansen’s action is a dramatic symbol. The cat—so often interpreted as a representation of the One—is split in two by dualistic thinking. The master responds not with words or clever arguments, but with a decisive, cutting act.

It’s shocking. Cruel, even. But also precise.

Sometimes, we need something sharp to wake us from our trance of division.

Later that day, Joshu returns. Nansen tells him what happened.

Joshu says nothing. He simply takes off his sandal, places it on his head, and walks out.

Nansen smiles: “If you had been there, you would have saved the cat.”

What does this mean?

Joshu doesn’t take sides. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t explain. Instead, he offers a spontaneous, absurd, wordless response. His action goes beyond right and wrong. It’s not “correct.” It’s free.

Joshu isn’t stuck in duality. He responds from something deeper.

This koan has become part of how I see myself—especially when I feel stuck.

Sometimes I’m the monks: locked in ideas, defending a position.
Sometimes I’m Nansen: seeing a need to cut through confusion with clear action.
And sometimes—when I’m lucky—I remember to be Joshu: to step aside from the whole game and act freely.

Whenever I notice myself caught in a rigid view—whether with others or within my own mind—I remember: there is always an action waiting. Not a solution. Not a perfect argument. But a living act, arising from presence.

Sometimes it’s clear. Sometimes it’s weird. Sometimes it’s funny. But it comes from dropping the mental commentary and trusting the moment.

The cat is still here. Every time we divide the world into two, we threaten to cut it again. East/West. Me/You. Right/Wrong. It happens in families, workplaces, online debates, and even our own thoughts.

But we also always have the chance to save the cat.

Sometimes by doing something brave.
Sometimes by doing something absurd.
Always by remembering: we are not separate.

This koan continues to teach me. It reminds me that wisdom isn’t found in winning arguments—but in dropping them. In acting from a place beyond division.

So the next time you find yourself trapped in your head, trying to be right—maybe just put a sandal on your head and walk out.

You might just save the cat.