Joshu’s wash your bowl

In the case 7 of the Mumonkan we have Joshu’s “wash your bowl”. In a few words, a monk is entering a monastery and asks Joshu to teach him. Joshu replies, “have you had breakfast? “Yes, I have” the monk replies. “Then you want to wash your bowl” Joshu replies. We learned that the monk gained insight. Here to follow is my reflection on this koan.

We have this monk entering a monastery. We can easily imagine how full of good intentions, hopes, and the desire for insight he must be. Isn’t that how it is for most of us? Why do we take up meditation? Why do we join a community of practitioners? Why do we seek a teacher?

In my life, I’ve joined several spiritual communities — starting with Catholicism while growing up in Italy. Later, I encountered meditation in Cambridge. I listened to countless talks on spirituality. I travelled to India three times to live in an ashram. And yes — I was full of expectations. Expectations kept me going in my practice for a long time. I expected clarity, insight, opening, fearlessness, the disappearance of negative emotions.

And then the first glimpses came: a bit more courage, a bit more understanding of difficult emotions. But the expectations only grew — I wanted more.

I think expectation is a natural and even necessary element at the beginning. Don’t be discouraged if you hear people say you shouldn’t have any expectations. I’d say be cautious with such advice. We don’t join a practice or community or seek out a teacher without some desire for something to happen.

In all traditions, people stay connected to their spiritual path because of some kind of hope or aspiration: heaven, rebirth, peace with the past. Even small expectations — often unconscious — are part of the path. And that’s okay. They have a role to play.

So here we have this monk, freshly arrived at the monastery. I like to imagine him with big expectations. He wanted insights, powerful teachings, grand sermons — he wanted to know the big answers of the universe. And he says as much. He approaches Joshu and asks, “Please teach me, I’ve just arrived here.”

Joshu replies, “Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes,” the monk says.

“Then go and wash your bowl.”

Joshu brings the conversation straight back to the ordinary. To the intimacy of the present moment. To the mundane, the real, the practical.

The story says the monk gained insight in that moment. We don’t know exactly what it was — but we can speculate. Maybe he saw that the teaching was in the act itself. That he was being invited to connect fully with the present reality. He was expecting big words and was asked to wash his bowl.

Perhaps he saw that the true teaching is taking care of what is here. You’ve had your porridge. What’s next? Wash your bowl. Take responsibility. No need for fireworks. The action is clear, simple, and direct.

This is the teaching: Can we meet the requirement of this moment? Can we avoid skipping steps in the flow of things? Can we simply take the next step, naturally and spontaneously, as part of cause and effect?

Joshu reveals that the truth is not far away — it’s right here, in what’s in front of us. And if your bowl is dirty, who will clean it? Are you waiting for someone else? That’s worth reflecting on.

I had a long, enthusiastic “career” as a spiritual seeker. I even studied philosophy. I was always looking — for answers, for something to rely on, something that would finally make sense. I sought teachings, traditions, philosophies. But what does this koan teach?

There’s no need to search for something out there. No need to grasp for grand teachings or rituals. Joshu doesn’t give the monk a map for some future enlightenment. He shows him where he already stands. He points him back to the now.

How much more direct could he be?

We’re often tempted by seeking — I know I’ve often lost myself in thought, waited for signs, hoped for insights, longed for permission to act. But the koan suggests the answer is often right in front of us. Just do the next simple thing, with full attention.

The bowl is dirty — wash it.

I love reading books on Zen, I enjoy listening to teachers. But the intimacy of the present moment — the connection with what’s real — is only found here, now. The present moment is our true teacher. It speaks without words. It always shows us what to do — tirelessly, patiently, and for free.