Case 14 of the Mumonkan is one of those kōans that is difficult to forget.
The monks of the eastern and western halls were arguing over a cat. Master Nansen picked up the cat and said, “If you can say a word of Zen, I will spare the cat. If not, I will cut it in two.” Nobody answered, so Nansen cut the cat in two.
Later, when Joshu returned, Nansen told him what had happened and asked what he would have done. Joshu took off his sandal, placed it on his head and walked out.
Nansen said, “If you had been there, the cat would have been saved.”
It is a disturbing and strange story, and perhaps that is part of its power. It doesn’t allow me to settle comfortably into an explanation.
The monks are arguing. Each side wants the cat. Whatever their reasons, they have become caught in opposition: us and them, ours and yours.
That part is not particularly difficult for me to recognise.
How often do I become caught in exactly the same thing? My opinion against yours. My understanding against yours. My way of seeing something against another person’s way of seeing it.
And once I am caught there, the argument can become more important than whatever we were arguing about in the first place.
Then Nansen appears.
“If you can say a word of Zen, I will spare the cat.”
Nobody answers.
What could they have said?
That question interests me much more than trying to decide what the cat, Nansen or the sword represents. The moment I turn each part of the kōan into a symbol with a fixed meaning, I may simply have created another position to defend.
Then Joshu comes home.
He hears what happened, takes off his sandal, puts it on his head and walks away.
Why?
Again, I can explain it. I can say that Joshu went beyond right and wrong, escaped dualistic thinking or responded directly to the situation.
But the explanation is not Joshu putting a sandal on his head.
The explanation comes afterwards.
This is where the kōan becomes interesting for me as practice. I can notice how quickly I divide the world into positions and then become attached to one of them. I can also notice my urge to understand, explain and reach a conclusion.
Sometimes there may be something useful in that.
Sometimes perhaps I can leave the conclusion alone.
The cat is still here.
The monks are still arguing.
Nansen is waiting for a word.
And Joshu?
He has already put a sandal on his head and walked out.
