Riccardo

In our last session, we explored the famous exchange of poems between Jinshu and Eno, or Huineng.

Jinshu wrote:

The body is the Bodhi tree,
The mind a bright mirror.
Polish it carefully, day by day,
And let no dust settle.

Eno responded:

Originally there is no Bodhi tree,
Nor any bright mirror.
Buddha-nature is originally pure.
Where could dust settle?

The Fifth Ancestor, Hongren, immediately recognised something in Eno’s response.

But he also understood the situation around him.

Eno was an illiterate worker from the south of China. He had spent his time in the monastery working in the rice-pounding shed. Around him were monks who had studied and practised for years, many of whom naturally expected the succession to come from among them.

So Hongren did not publicly declare Eno his successor.

Instead, he visited him secretly at night.

There, according to the traditional story, he taught Eno the Diamond Sutra. When Eno heard the line:

“Abide nowhere and let the mind come forth,”

something opened.

Hongren then gave him the robe and the bowl, symbols of transmission, and instructed him to leave the monastery.

What Is Transmitted?

This raises an interesting question.

What exactly was transmitted?

The robe?

The bowl?

A teaching?

Authority?

Understanding?

In Zen, transmission is often described as something that cannot ultimately be contained in words, texts or objects.

And yet there are robes.

There are bowls.

There are ceremonies.

There are teachers and students.

There is something wonderfully strange about this.

If nothing can truly be handed from one person to another, what does transmission mean?

Perhaps there is an element of recognition.

Not one person giving another something they did not previously possess, but one person recognising something in another.

Mind recognising mind.

But even that phrase can become another explanation if we hold it too tightly.

What did Hongren recognise?

What did Eno receive?

The story does not allow us to settle quite so easily.

Symbols and Their Danger

The robe and the bowl were important.

They represented the lineage and the trust of the teacher.

But symbols have an interesting quality: very quickly, what points towards something can become mistaken for the thing itself.

A robe can become my robe.

A role can become who I am.

Recognition can become my recognition.

Even an insight can become:

I understand.

I have attained something.

This is close to what Shinzan Roshi calls the “stink of Zen.”

Something living becomes something we carry around.

The identity of someone who knows.

And perhaps this is one reason the story of Eno’s transmission becomes so dramatic.

Hongren understands what will happen if the monastery discovers that the robe and bowl have been given not to one of the senior monks, but to the illiterate worker in the rice-pounding shed.

Status matters.

Recognition matters.

Ideas about who deserves what matter.

Even in a Zen monastery.

Perhaps especially in a Zen monastery.

And so Eno leaves.

The transmission that supposedly points beyond status and identity immediately produces jealousy, pursuit and conflict.

There is something very human about that.

Practice and Recognition

We may encounter the same movement in our own practice, although perhaps in less dramatic forms.

We sit.

We practise.

We may have moments of clarity or insight.

And almost immediately the mind can begin measuring them.

Was that important?

Am I progressing?

Does my teacher think I’m doing well?

Am I becoming a better practitioner?

The experience becomes another thing to evaluate, compare or possess.

But what happens before that?

Before the experience becomes my experience?

Before understanding becomes my understanding?

Before practice becomes another identity?

Perhaps this is where the story of transmission becomes interesting.

Hongren gives Eno the robe and the bowl.

And then tells him to leave.

The symbols of recognition are handed over—

and immediately Eno has to run away from the people who want them.

So perhaps the robe and the bowl leave us with questions rather than answers.

What do we believe recognition gives us?

What happens when a role becomes an identity?

And if the symbols, titles and recognition fall away—

what remains?