Tag Archives: Dogen

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begin after noon

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The story goes that Dogen saw the elderly tenzo of Mt. Tiantong drying some mushrooms.

He had a bamboo stick in his hand and no hat on his head.  The sun was very hot, scorching the pavement.  it looked very painful; his backbone was bent like a bow and his eyebrows were as white as a crane.

I went up to the tenzo and asked, “How long have you been a monk?”

“Sixty-eight years,” he replied.

“Why don’t you let a helper do it?”

“Others are not myself.”

Who else would do the work of my life?  Who else can see the delusions, graspings, and blindness?  Who else can see the pleasures, contentment, and skilfulness? Are there another set of eyes that can discern better the wisdom in the choices I’ve made or the wild lack of insight in the choices that lead to disaster?

In Instructions to the Cook, Bernie Glassman and Rick Fields use Dogen’s Instructions for the Tenzo as a template for Glassman’s social action work that lead to the creation of the Greyston Mandala, a network of businesses and not-for-profit organizations.  With metaphoric recipes, Glassman addresses the way we can become the tenzo of our lives.  I cringed a lot through the massacre of the central metaphor of menus, courses, and ingredients and thankfully that was only the first few pages.  Once he settled down to the business of creativity, the ideas became useful.

Before diving into sharing Glassman’s occasional gems, I went back to the source, Kaz Tanahashi’s translation of Dogen’s Instructions for the Tenzo (in Moon in a Dewdrop).  This sentence struck me – and perhaps only because I feel I’m at a juncture of my life where a shift is about to happen that couldn’t happen before this moment.

The cycle of the tenzo’s work begins after the noon meal.

This is when the tenzo, with the officers of the kitchen, plans the meals for the next day.  I wonder, is it past noon already in this lifespan?  What is the meal I am to plan?

From Glassman,

Zen masters call a life that is lived fully and completely, with nothing held back, “the supreme meal.”  And a person who lives such a life – a person who knows how to plan cook, appreciate, serve, and offer the supreme meal of life, is called a Zen cook….

Of course, the supreme meal is very different for each of us.  But according to the principles of the Zen cook, it always consists of five main courses or aspects of life.  The first course involves spirituality; the second is composed of study and learning; the third course deals with livelihood; the fourth course is made out of social action or change, and the last course consists of relationship and community.

Intimidating to think of my life as a “supreme meal!”  I’ve never been a good short-order cook and, in a real kitchen, the grilled cheese sandwiches are best left The Kid with the “two eggs side by each” left to Frank.  I’m more of the “supreme spread for 10,000 hungry bodhisattvas” prepared in ten courses with ingredients that require braving the wilds of Chinatown.  In the matters of life, it’s the same.  The rapid-fire decisions and changes in current generate more struggle and doubt than those with longer stale dates.  And with that comes a narrowing of vision and an unwillingness to take a chance – or in Zen koan terms – to leap off that 100-foot pole.

But there’s no one else who can prepare to cook this life of ours and we are always past noon.  The ingredients or the skills may not have been available before this but here they are now.  Time to clean the kitchen, gather ingredients, and fire up the coals!

Thank you for practicing,

Genju

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the third thing

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I like feeling gobsmacked.  All you, dear friends, who respond to these posts, keep me well gobsmacked by your compassion and wise, wise teachings.  And then, there is a lovely lung-filling moment when that turning word appears in a book and I feel deliciously gobsmacked that I knew this and now know it again in a deeply different way.
 Continuing with Teachings of the Insentient, Loori writes,

Master Dogen addresses the secrets of the river and of all water: The river is neither strong nor weak, neither wet nor dry, neither moving nor still, neither cold nor hot, neither being nor non-being, neither delusion nor enlightenment. It is none of the dualities.  Water is H2O, composed of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen, two odorless and tasteless gases.  You bring them together and you get water.  But water is not oxygen, and it is not hydrogen.  It is not a gas.  It is what D.H. Lawrence calls in one of his poems “the third thing.”  It is the same was with absolute and relative, with all the dualities.  It is not either one or the other; it is always the third thing.

Evan Thompson and Joanna Macy speak of emergent properties – the third thing that arises when things come together.  In another career incarnation, I was an archaeological chemist and in rifling through the detritus of civilization, it always amazed me that things remained recognizable despite not being what they originally were.  Talk about deep contact with the koan “What was your original face?”  The hairpin that could only be known as such because of the shape of the corrosion, the shards of glass that used to cohere as a decanter, the lengths of water-logged beams that once knew itself as a ship – these are all original faces.  All transformed intimately by trusting and letting go, becoming just what they are.

This very moment of being –
our original face –
eternally the third thing.

Thank you for practicing,

Genju