In our last session, we explored the famous exchange of poems between Shenxiu and Eno, or Huineng.
Shenxiu wrote:
The body is the Bodhi tree,
The mind a bright mirror.
Polish it carefully, day by day,
And let no dust settle.
There is something immediately recognisable here.
We practise.
We pay attention.
We notice the habits, thoughts and reactions that cloud our experience.
And we return.
Again and again.
There is effort in practice. Discipline. Attention.
We polish the mirror.
Then Eno responds:
Originally there is no Bodhi tree,
Nor any bright mirror.
Buddha-nature is originally pure.
Where could dust settle?
And suddenly the ground shifts.
Shenxiu tells us to polish the mirror.
Eno asks us to look again.
What mirror?
The two poems seem to point in different directions.
One towards practice, effort and continual attention.
The other towards something that cannot be improved because, originally, there is nothing to polish.
So which is it?
Do we practise?
Of course.
We sit.
We observe.
We return to the breath.
We notice when the mind wanders.
We become familiar with our habits and reactions.
And yet, if practice becomes a project of constructing a better version of ourselves, what exactly are we polishing?
Who is doing the polishing?
And what are we hoping eventually to find underneath all that dust?
Perhaps the tension between these two poems is more interesting than choosing one of them.
We practise wholeheartedly.
And at the same time, Eno’s poem quietly removes the ground beneath the idea that there is some fixed self that will eventually arrive at awakening.
Polish the mirror.
There is no mirror.
Practise.
Nothing to attain.
Can both be true?
Bringing It Into Our Own Experience
During the session, we explored two questions:
- What belief or idea about yourself do you cling to most strongly?
- If you release that idea, even for a moment, who are you?
Not philosophically.
Experientially.
We all carry descriptions of ourselves.
I am this kind of person.
I am good at this.
I am bad at that.
This is what happened to me.
This is who I have become.
These stories are not necessarily false.
But what happens when, even briefly, we don’t need to defend them?
What happens before we reach for the next description?
Before we decide what this experience means?
Before we turn it into another story about ourselves?
We can continue to practise.
Continue to sit.
Continue to notice.
Continue to polish.
And perhaps, occasionally, we can also hear Eno asking:
Where is the mirror?
Where is the dust?
And if, for a moment, there is no mirror to defend, no dust to remove, no story to maintain—
what is left to polish?
