When asked “What is the difference between Chinese and non-Chinese students?” my teacher Master Sheng Yen once replied, “When you tell Chinese people what to do, they do not challenge the teacher; they do what they are told.” This is the outcome of an ethos of Chinese society that emphasizes order and conformity; those who ask questions are often seen as troublemakers, even though all they want is to understand and learn. This is an element of much of Chinese culture and conditioning, and it shows up in all sorts of ways, including a susceptibility to strict regimes.

I grew up in Hong Kong, so of course I understood this, but because I was Western-educated—first in British schools and then at American universities—I also knew we each have our own minds and views and can each be our own person. Early in my practice, I wanted to know why and how meditation worked, and I had a lot of questions. After all, I was trained in science; I needed a verifiable explanation! That type of inquiry is not always encouraged in a Chinese environment. Even though I was completely committed to Master Sheng Yen as my teacher, there was a cultural barrier I couldn’t break through. Somewhere inside me, I was wondering if I had been going about meditation in the wrong way.

Although I’d been practicing meditation for about five years and had been “recruited” for and considered the monastic path on several occasions, I continued not to take this route. After careful consideration, I was certain I wanted to live in the world, work as a college professor, and get married—yet I still knew my calling was to share Chan teachings and the dharma. I was happy to help Master Sheng Yen offer Chan in the West by serving as his translator. That was my favorite task as a volunteer, and it was one of my life’s greatest blessings to help in that manner. Still, the question intrigued me: Could a layperson practice Chan well and share the dharma in a meaningful way? This was during the years before we would look up everything on the internet, and I was unaware of the many lay dharma teachers already teaching in the West.

I began to find my answers when I had an opportunity to meet John Crook, Master Sheng Yen’s first lay dharma heir, at a forty-nine-day retreat—seven weeks of intensive Chan practice led by Master Sheng Yen. It was very much like the intensives I’d attended at the Chan Center in the past, and I was serving as one of the translators. Six of Master Sheng Yen’s most experienced monastics traveled from Taiwan to assist him by conducting teaching interviews and supervising the meditation hall.

My experience shifted when John Crook joined us during the final week. He’d spent time in the Himalayas studying with Tibetan yogis and had devoted himself to the serious study of both Zen and Tibetan Buddhism for many years before training with Master Sheng Yen. Not only were John Crook and I both Westerners dedicated to the Chan path; we were also both trained in the sciences—his fields biology and psychology, mine sociology.

What really touched me was when I offered to explain to my fellow retreatants what the Chinese words in the texts meant so they could understand what we were reciting in the precepts ceremony where practitioners commit to the ethics of Buddhism. John Crook attended my class! Here was a contemporary of and dharma heir to my teacher and yet he came to learn from someone like me. I was moved by John Crook’s manner and how from that moment on he always took the time to give me space and to listen. He treated me as an equal, which wasn’t expected, especially when I was used to a more hierarchical environment.

A year after our first encounter, John Crook was invited to lead the Western Zen Retreat at Dharma Drum Retreat Center in New York. This was an innovation in Buddhist retreats, offering serious practice in a context more relatable for Westerners. In the traditional Chan retreats I attended during that time, the monastics discouraged asking a lot of questions. We were instructed to only ask questions related to meditation practice in face-to-face interviews with Master Sheng Yen. At this point I was doing fine in my sitting meditation, or so I thought. I had begun my practice using the method of counting the breath and moved on to working with the huatou (derived from a koan) method—using a question to focus the mind and reveal emptiness—but would not say that I actually got it. I was good at sitting still and being calm, so I didn’t have much to ask about meditation itself in the interviews, but I still had questions about suffering, how to penetrate what was going on in my mind, and most importantly, how meditation was supposed to help me with my life.

That is why there was a bigger piece to my encounter with John Crook than bridging the East-West chasm. It had to do with my meditation practice. Beginning with that first Western Zen Retreat, he showed me that what I had understood as silence was not silence. Silence does not mean to push away or avoid all noise; doing that is resisting the present moment and the joy and liberation it holds. Silence means to refrain from succumbing to our habitual reactivity that gets in the way of fully experiencing the present moment as it is. As Master Sheng Yen told John Crook, “Even under the Bodhi tree thought was present. The sutras show clearly that the Buddha was aware of his experiences in a way that could be expressed in thought.” It was during that retreat that the dharma teachings I learned began to make sense—when study and practice finally connected.

During my work with John in my first Western Zen Retreat, he made it explicit that instead of trying to let go of thought, stop thinking, or tell myself my thoughts are illusory, it was OK to pay attention to them. Thoughts are not the enemy; they are just thoughts. He helped me see how we, perhaps especially as Western-educated people, must make full contact with whatever shows up in the mind—all the thoughts and feelings, however intense or frightening they are—to fully appreciate how our minds are truly empty. It is not a matter of being in a removed position or being a detached observer for whom meditation becomes nothing more than labeling thoughts while still inhabiting a place of me versus everything else—othering, self-cherishing, reifying, and spiritual bypassing. Thanks to John, after years of trying to silence my mind and failing to gain insight, I was able to truly meditate for the first time—this was transformative.

Silence does not mean to push away or avoid all noise; doing that is resisting the present moment and the joy and liberation it holds.

In all my study of meditation I’d never heard anyone, even Master Sheng Yen, talk about thoughts in this way before. Having grown up in Hong Kong and practiced Buddhism in the United States, I am more a British-Chinese-American Buddhist than a Chinese one. Maybe there was something that “real” Chinese people understood in the nuances of the language and could get immediately from Master Sheng Yen’s teaching, but as a Westerner I’d been missing it. John Crook showed me that when it comes to Buddhism, there is much talk about emptiness, yet being willing to investigate our lives at an experiential level is an integral and often overlooked part of our practice.

It is what I now teach in retreats, because most people who are interested in meditation face challenges like mine. Connecting with the reality of emptiness, bridging the gap between concept and direct experience, can be tricky. What I do may be a little different from other students of Master Sheng Yen because I also trained with John Crook and later Simon Child, Master Sheng Yen’s second lay dharma heir, who first studied with John Crook. I am a fusion.

Since that first retreat with John many years ago, I’ve used what I learned from my teachers to help practitioners recognize how the earnest effort to block out thoughts obstructs them and causes suffering.

Seven years after Master Sheng Yen passed away, I received dharma transmission from his disciple—and my current teacher—Simon Child; I became a full heir in the Chan lineage. It is said that while speaking to a large gathering, Shakyamuni Buddha handed his disciple Mahakasyapa a single flower. He responded to the Buddha’s gesture with a subtle smile and in that moment received the first dharma transmission. Nobody in the crowd knew what was going on, and as they tried to deduce the meaning, Mahakasyapa remained fully present with the Buddha. In that interaction, according to Chan tradition, the Buddha and his disciple understood each other so perfectly that words were unnecessary.

Students, seekers, and scholars have analyzed the story of Mahakasyapa and the Buddha and imagined all the implications of how grasping at conceptual thought to understand the present moment is futile. Conceptual analysis distorts and obscures what enlightenment and dharma transmission are.

Enlightenment cannot be expressed in words or evaluated conceptually. Whenever we impose language or thought on an experience, feeling, or phenomenon, we are no longer entirely present. Whatever we are talking about is not exactly it. This is a truth many people find incredibly mysterious, and therefore the role of the Chan master is to validate and authenticate the enlightenment experience of their students. As Master Sheng Yen pointed out, only someone who has a verified enlightenment experience can confirm it in another. That is what is meant by mind-to-mind transmission in Chan.

Many people misunderstand dharma transmission as an accomplishment. They think it represents having achieved something or attained a status. That is not an accurate understanding. Master Sheng Yen described dharma heirs as those who have accepted a heavy responsibility to carry on the lineage—tasked with finding and training the next generation of lineage holders—as custodians of that continuous thread the Buddha passed to Mahakasyapa. A dharma heir must have a stable personality and correct understanding of the Buddhist teachings; they must have given rise to bodhi mind (compassion balanced with wisdom) and made a great vow to share the practice to benefit all sentient beings. Master Sheng Yen taught that lineage transmission means a commitment to making dharma practice the most important priority in life.

As John Crook showed me, there is a power in being an outsider. Although monasticism is a means of preserving the sanctity of the dharma, it is not a requirement; the beauty of Chan is that because it is a formless practice, I do not have to refrain from activities like maintaining close ties with family or pursuing a professional career. Living in the world, I have access to and understanding of challenges like emotional relationships, political divisiveness, sexuality, ambition, oppression, and money worries. As a lineage holder yet a lay teacher, my family and my job are not a distraction from practice but rather integral to it. Life does not get in the way; it is the way.

♦

Adapted from Illumination: A Guide to the Buddhist Method of No-Method by Rebecca Li © 2023 by Rebecca Li. Reprinted in arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Inc. Boulder, CO.

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In the long transmission history of Chan Buddhism from the legendary days of Bodhidharma, few figures shimmer as luminously as the Southern school Chan master Shenhui (684–758). Born during the dynamic days of the Tang dynasty (618–907), considered by many a golden age of Chinese cosmopolitanism, Shenhui lived during a time of intense cultural production, political intrigue, and military activity. As Buddhism’s influence wove itself into the fabric of culture and daily life, Shenhui emerged as a central figure in the philosophical and historical development of the Chan Buddhist identity. Infusing the tradition with a spirit of revolutionary vigor, he dispelled any notion of Buddhist quiet wisdom with his piercing insight and vociferous wit.

Emphasizing the doctrine of “sudden enlightenment,” Shenhui’s teachings and the controversy surrounding him propelled the Southern school to dominance. Criticizing the teaching of “gradual enlightenment” promoted by the so-called “Northern school,” Shenhui argued that enlightenment is instantaneous, a realization that lies dormant awaiting insight. His radical views not only set his contemporary Buddhist world on fire but also set the trajectory for Chan, ushering it toward a distinct identity. 

Yet what makes him truly captivating is his larger-than-life personality and his reemergence as a central Chan player over a thousand years after his time. An adroit orator, deft debater, and learned master of the dharma, his sermons are said to have drawn huge crowds, and he wielded sharp criticism and penetrating wisdom, making his dharma talks both impactful and enlightening. But within a few generations, his lineage died out. As a student of the famed Sixth Patriarch Huineng, his contribution to the history of Chan was eclipsed and mostly overlooked until the discovery in 1900 of manuscripts in the Library Cave at Dunhuang. This discovery changed the course of how we understand Chan history.

In the posthumously published Zen Evangelist: Shenhui, Sudden Enlightenment, and the Southern School of Chan Buddhism, preeminent Chan expert John R. McRae’s (1947–2011) lifetime of work on Shenhui challenges our understanding of the Sixth Patriarch’s central place in the Chan narrative and presents, for the first time, Shenhui’s surviving body of work in English translation. While much of this rich tome is for those acquainted with Chan history, the translation of Shenhui’s recorded teachings will ring a familiar tone with seasoned practitioners, reminding us to remain vigilant when observing our dualistic thinking.

These adapted excerpts from McRae’s book reveal Shenhui’s polemical attacks on the Northern school teachers and his unyielding adherence to the Middle Way. Most likely compiled at the end of Shenhui’s life or just after his death, these excerpts offer a taste of this towering figure who shook the foundations of Chan and often left those who encountered him without words.

The Teachings of Shenhui from Zen Evangelist:

I have witnessed Reverend Shenhui preach from the lion’s seat: “There is no one else in China who understands the teaching of Bodhidharma’s Southern school. If there were someone who knew, I would never preach about it. I preach today in order to discriminate the true and the false for Chinese students of the path and to define the teachings for Chinese students of the path.” To witness such inconceivable events made me gaze upon Shenhui with awe.

At the time there was present in the dharma assembly a dharma master named Chongyuan from that monastery whose fame had already spread to the two capitals and beyond the seas. His words were like a bubbling spring, and his questions truly exhausted the origin of things… 

On this day Dharma Master Chongyuan entered the assembly, raised his eyebrows, and lifted his voice in total dedication to victory in battle over Shenhui. Then the attendants rolled up the screen, calling to the officials present that they would serve them. 

His Reverence Shenhui said, “This screen is not the usual sort used at the gates of people’s homes. Why is this place of enlightenment being destroyed only to allow officials in?” Dharma Master Chongyuan then pointed at the screen and rebuked His Reverence by saying, “Do you call this an ornament or not?” His Reverence replied, “It is.” Dharma Master Chongyuan said, “The Tathagata has preached that ornaments are not ornaments.”

His Reverence said, “What the sutra preaches is, ‘Do not exhaust the conditioned and do not abide in the unconditioned.’” 

The dharma master asked once again, “What does it mean to ‘not exhaust the conditioned and not abide in the unconditioned’?”

His Reverence replied, “To ‘not exhaust the conditioned’ means that from the first generation of bodhicitta up to achieving perfect enlightenment seated under the bodhi tree and entering nirvana between the two sala trees, one never discards any dharma. This is to ‘not exhaust the conditioned.’ To ‘not abide in the unconditioned’ is to study emptiness without taking emptiness as one’s realization, to study non-action without taking non-action as one’s realization. This is to ‘not abide in the unconditioned.’”

The dharma master was silent then, waiting for a while before speaking. He said, “Lust and anger are the path, which is not in ornamentation.” His Reverence said, “Then ordinary people must have attained the path.” Dharma Master Chongyuan said, “Why do you suggest that ordinary people have attained the path?” His Reverence said, “You have said that lust and anger are the path, and since ordinary people are those who practice lust and anger, why would they not have attained the path?”

Dharma Master Chongyuan asked, “Do you understand or not?” His Reverence answered, “I understand.” The dharma master said, “Understanding is non-understanding.” His Reverence said, “The Lotus Sutra says, ‘From the time of my attainment of buddhahood, I have passed through immeasurable and unlimited eons.’ Indeed, the Buddha did not attain buddhahood. And indeed, he did not pass through immeasurable and unlimited eons.”

Dharma Master Chongyuan said, “This is the preaching of Mara.” His Reverence said, “Monks and laypeople, listen all! This is Dharma Master Chongyuan, who is recognized by everyone from Chang’an and Luoyang to the farthest corners of the ocean for his brilliance in doctrinal exposition. He is one who has lectured on the sutras and treatises of the Mahayana without error. On this day he is saying that the Lotus Sutra is the preaching of Mara! What, I wonder, is the preaching of the Buddha?”

At this point, the dharma master realized that his error was egregious, and he appeared dazed before the assembly. After a little while he tried to speak again, but His Reverence said, “You’ve been pinned to the ground. Why do you need to get up again?”

His Reverence said to the dharma master, “My holding this unrestricted great assembly and ornamenting this place of enlightenment today has not been for the accumulation of merit, but in order to define the principle of Chan for the students of the path in China and to distinguish the true and the false for the students of the path in China.”…

His Reverence said, “If I were studying under the dharma master, I would recognize his teachings as the dharma master’s as soon as I examined the case. If the dharma master studied under me, he would pass through three great incalculable eons without being able to achieve buddhahood.”

When His Reverence said this, the dharma master became thoroughly ashamed and afraid, looking at Shenhui with his face pale. Although the two bodhisattvas were questioning each other, they were both standing up and had not yet sat down on the lecture seat and chair, respectively. What was said was subtle and had not yet exhausted the feelings between the two men. At this point, as soon as Dharma Master Qianguang, one of the elder monks there, saw that Dharma Master Chongyuan was defeated in this opening debate but was going to continue to resist, he had someone set out chairs. He then requested that they reopen the discussion and explicate their doctrines again, and at last, he got His Reverence and Dharma Master Chongyuan to sit down… 

***

Dharma Master Jian of Mount Lu asked, “What is the meaning of the Middle Path?”

Shenhui answered, “It is the extremes.”

“I just asked you about the meaning of the Middle Path. Why do you answer that it is the extremes?”

“The Middle Path you just mentioned is necessarily dependent on the meaning of the extremes. Without depending on the meaning of the extremes, one cannot posit the Middle Path.”

***

Duke Zhang of Yan asked, “You always preach the dharma of non-thought and exhort people to spiritual cultivation, yet I wonder whether the dharma of non-thought is existent or nonexistent.”

Shenhui answered, “Non-thought cannot be said to be existent and cannot be said to be nonexistent. To call it existent would be to have it identical to worldly existence, and to call it nonexistent would be to have it identical to worldly nonexistence. Thus, non-thought is not identical to existence or nonexistence.”

“What does one call it?”

“It’s not called anything.”

“What is it like?”

“It’s also not like anything. Hence, non-thought cannot be explained. Just now, my saying ‘explained’ has to do with responses to questions. Unless given in response to a question, there would never be an oral explanation. It is like a bright mirror: unless presented with an object, the mirror never manifests an image. My saying ‘manifests an image’ just now means that the image is only manifested as the response to an object.”

“Does it not illuminate when not responding to an image?”

“Saying ‘illuminate’ has little to do with responding or not responding to objects; in both cases the mirror always illuminates.”

Duke Zhang asked, “You have said that there is no object or image and also no oral explanation, and that all of existence and nonexistence is entirely beyond being posited. Now you refer to illumination, but what kind of illumination is it?”

Shenhui responded, “My reference to ‘illumination’ means that all of this exists because of the brightness of the mirror. Because of the purity of mind of sentient beings, there naturally exists a refulgence of great wisdom, which illuminates the world without exception.”

“How does one get to see a non-thing, and seeing a non-thing, then call it a thing?”

“One does not call it a thing.”

“Then if you do not call it a thing, what is the buddhanature?”

Shenhui replied, “To see and not see without any thing is true seeing, constant seeing.”

⧫

Adapted from: John R. McRae, Zen Evangelist: Shenhui, Sudden Enlightenment, and the Southern School of Chan Buddhism, edited by James Robson and Robert H. Sharf, with Fedde de Vries, p. 81–84, 152, 155–157. © 2023 Kuroda Institute (University of Hawaii Press).

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Non-abiding is your fundamental nature…all worldly things are empty.

–The Platform Scripture of the Great Sixth Ancestral Master, excerpt translated by Guo Gu in Silent Illumination: A Chan Buddhist Path to Natural Awakening

In the line above, from The Platform Scripture, the Sixth Patriarch Huineng identifies nonabiding—to not dwell in or on any object, sensation, or experience—as the fundamental descriptor of the awakened mind. Along with no-thought—not getting caught up in any sort of mental formation, or attributing value judgments to thoughts, feelings, and emotions—and no-form—the true nature of all beings and phenomena being empty of inherent self and fluidly dependent on everything around them—nonabiding serves as a unifying central concept to the experience of awakening in Chan. 

In Silent Illumination: A Chan Buddhist Path to Natural Awakening, Guo Gu makes the case for the paramount importance of nonabiding in achieving enlightenment and how the concept is realized through two traditional Chan practice methods of gong’an and mozhao (silent illumination). As the founding teacher of the Tallahassee Chan Center and a longtime student and former personal attendant of the late Master Sheng Yen, Guo Gu continues his teacher’s work by laying out the “Three Gates” of Chan as the gong’an’s huatou (critical phrase), silent illumination, and their more accessible entry point of meditation on the breath.

Gong’an and silent illumination could not appear to be more different. Known as a “public case,” or koan, a gong’an often describes a discourse between a teacher and student, including as its punch line a huatou, that exposes the limits of language to present an unsolvable, paradoxical riddle. Think about the sound of one hand clapping. Chan master Dahui Zonggao (1089–1163), a prominent figure of the Linji lineage, was a proponent of the use of huatou as an object of meditation. In one of the most famous huatous, a disciple asks the Chan master Zhaozhou Congshen (778–897) a seemingly innocuous question: “Does a dog have buddhanature?” Espousing the existing framework of Mahayana Buddhism, a Chan student would have been intimately familiar with the idea that all sentient beings, including humans, dogs, insects, and others, have within them the potential for awakening, the “embryo of buddha,” or “buddhanature.” Whether the disciple was challenging Zhaozhou or employing some other rhetorical device has been lost to history, but of utmost importance was the master’s one-word reply: “Wu!”—in Japanese, “Mu!”—which has been translated varyingly as “No!,” “Emptiness!,” or “Does not have!” The whole story is a gong’an; the punch line “What is No (Wu)?” is the huatou.

The apparent contradiction in this huatou is meant to stimulate a niggling sense of uncertainty in the Chan practitioner, like an itch that can’t quite be scratched or a name that is on the tip of one’s tongue. The huatou of the gong’an in the case of Zhaozhou’s dog becomes the object of meditation until the anxiety develops into a deep sensation of curiosity or wonder, known familiarly as the “Great Doubt.” Zonggao was a main proponent of the use of huatou to stoke the flames of this Great Doubt, which, given the right circumstances, could suddenly shatter one’s preconceptions and leave the practitioner seeing things as they truly are, signifying a moment of awakening. Any response that appears must be put down, until the mind is held in a state of nonabiding, continually questioning.

Silent illumination, or mozhao chan, on the other hand, which was employed by Chan Buddhist monk Hongzhi Zhengjue (1091–1157), takes a different approach. Unlike huatou and other forms of Buddhist meditation, silent illumination is considered a “methodless method,” without an object to serve as the mind’s focus. Instead, the practitioner is meant to direct their attention to the experience of meditation itself, beginning with zhiguan dazuo, or “just sitting.” Over time, the experience of sitting has the potential to shift into simply experiencing, which can also drop away into awakening.

The phrase “silent illumination” is actually a descriptor for the awakened mind’s natural state: quiescent and luminous. Free of all the usual vexations exhibited by the false sense of a static, Cartesian “self” at the core of one’s being, the practitioner’s wisdom deepens to imitate the true nature of all phenomena: empty of inherent existence and instead dependent on everything around them to function. (In a curious quirk of history, although silent illumination is most clearly associated with Hongzhi, it’s likely that the term was not actually popularized by the Caodong master at all but by his peer, Dahui, in sarcastic reference to others who claimed to be practicing Chan, but to the Linji master were perhaps not doing much of anything at all.) 

Both the practice of silent illumination and the description of awakening that it represents incorporate nonabiding as a central tenet. In this “methodless method,” the mind is said to not abide anywhere, performing its luminous function without the need for dwelling on words or concepts. The experience of sitting itself is the focus of meditation, directing one’s attention to the moment-to-moment awareness without the false duality of subject and object. In fact, allowing the mind to stagnate while presuming to be correctly using the method is one of the known pitfalls of silent illumination practice, called the “ghost cave on the dark side of the mountain.”

Guo Gu brings together huatou practice and silent illumination by emphasizing their shared principle of nonabiding—nonabiding in paradox and nonabiding in form—while also introducing a new element: curiosity, or wonder. It is easy to see how curiosity shows up in huatou, yet Guo Gu also incorporates the underlying attitude of “wanting to know” into silent illumination where appropriate. It’s not a conceptual grasping by the seeking mind that is in search of an answer. Rather, it is a methodological openness that helps to safeguard the practitioner against dwelling on any one object during meditation, preventing stagnation, and aligning the mind in proximity with its true nature: luminous; pure; without a fixed, rigid center; and nonabiding. This openness as a form of wonder or curiosity may not itself be representative of awakening, but it’s a unique approach that can add a helpful layer to any meditation practice and shift one’s underlying feeling tone from one of stagnation to one of nonabiding. 

This nonabiding is also the seed for compassion. 

Because wonder can help prevent a practitioner from getting caught up in notions of or “abide in” a static self that in turn causes harm to others, a fruit or function of wonder is then compassion. If you’re angry about something that I have done, for example, I may be attuned to a compulsion to immediately go on the defensive and tell you a hundred and one things that you’ve done to me in the past that have led to your misplaced indignation. Conversely, if I’m curious about or open to your feelings and the reasons for which they’ve manifested in this moment, I’m more likely to listen to what you have to say and seek a peaceful reconciliation that benefits everyone involved. In other words, nonabiding and wonderment represent a concrete way to practice selflessness, where there’s no room for ego or the false dichotomy of “self” and “other,” and where compassion emerges effortlessly. With nonabiding, we are left in a state of wonder, nondwelling and free of form, luminous, compassionate, and closer to our true nature. 

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Around 9 p.m. on November 25, 1948, Ananda Jennings (1894–1971) was seated in the cold, stone-floored Meditation Hall of Nanhua Temple. Empty Cloud (ca. 1864–1959), one of China’s most revered Chan masters, was telling a story. “When the Buddha was alive there was an outsider who came offering flowers with both hands,” he explained. “The Buddha, watching this person approach, said ‘Let go.’ Hearing this, the outsider dropped the flower from their left hand. The Buddha again said, ‘Let go.’ The outsider then dropped the flower from their right hand. Again, the Buddha said, ‘Let go.’ The outsider was surprised and said, ‘I held flowers in both hands as offerings to the Buddha. Now the venerable Buddha has instructed me to let them both go. I have no flowers left, but still the Buddha tells me to let them go. What is the meaning of this?’” 

Empty Cloud was the abbot of Nanhua, the remote mountain monastery where the legendary Sixth Ancestor of the Chan lineage—Huineng (trad. 638–713)—lived and taught after receiving dharma transmission from master Hongren (ca. 600–674). Huineng’s mummified body, in fact, still sat on the altar of the monastery’s main hall. As the fifty-fourth-generation lineal descendant of Huineng, Empty Cloud was working to revive his ancestor’s temple as part of his larger effort to reinvigorate the Chan tradition in China. That November, over one hundred monks, nuns, and laypeople had converged on Nanhua to participate in a seven-day intensive meditation retreat. Along with everyone else, Ananda Jennings had been up since 4:30 a.m., alternating hourlong periods of seated meditation with shorter stints of fast walking meditation. Brief evening lectures provided a rare respite from the days’ lengthy silences. 

Concluding his comments for the night, Empty Cloud arrived at his main point: “The Buddha, taking pity, explained, ‘I was not urging you to let go of the flowers. I was urging you to abandon the six sense objects, the six sense organs, and the six sense consciousnesses. This is called ‘letting go’.’” Chan practice, Empty Cloud reminded his disciples, demanded that one abandon all attachments. It was a basic tenet of the tradition, but as the story was meant to illustrate, it was not always easy for outsiders to understand.

Ananda Jennings was the first Western woman to participate in an intensive Chan retreat in China. She was, in that sense, very much an outsider. But she had spent the previous two decades studying Buddhist doctrine and practice while living in coastal California, and she felt a special affinity with the Chan tradition. The reason she had come to China, she told the monks at Nanhua, was to study the sudden teachings of the Chan school, which the Indian Patriarch Bodhidharma had transmitted from India some 1,500 years earlier. After learning that those teachings still flourished in China, Jennings determined to visit the body and the monastery of the celebrated Sixth Ancestor and study under an awakened master of the Chan lineage. Like Bodhidharma, she felt called to enact a transmission of the dharma, not from India to China but from China to the United States. Jennings, who had converted from Christianity to Buddhism in her 30s, was thus a new kind of missionary. She devoted her life to spreading the Buddhist teachings in the Christian West. 

At the conclusion of the retreat, participants gathered for a group photo outside the monastery’s gate. In the image, Empty Cloud sits in the center flanked by 118 men, women, and children. Almost everyone is dressed in the drab black, gray, blue, or brown robes typically worn by monastics and laypeople. The 54-year-old Jennings, with her medium-length white hair, pale white skin, and crisp white dress suit, stands out. Sitting to the right of Empty Cloud, she almost glows in the old black-and-white photo. 

The monks staying at the monastery were understandably curious about both Jennings’s path to Nanhua and her understanding of the Buddhist teachings. While she was there, a monk known as the “Mendicant” (Qishi) questioned Jennings with the help of a layperson who spoke some English. Their conversation was deemed significant enough to transcribe and later publish in a local journal. It begins with Qishi asking Jennings about her intentions. 

Qishi: You have sailed across the sea to come to China, to meet Venerable Empty Cloud, visit Nanhua Temple, venerate the Sixth Ancestor, and sit a seven-day Chan retreat. What is the point of expending so much effort?

Jennings: To study the buddhadharma.

Qishi: Those who study the buddhadharma must understand life and escape death. If one does not understand life and escape death, they will be unable to study the buddhadharma. What is your understanding of life and death?

Jennings: Fundamentally, there is no life and death. What use is understanding and escaping?

Qishi: Since there is no life and death, why must you study the buddhadharma? 

II

Ananda Jennings had spent many months traveling to Nanhua Temple from her home in California. Why did she expend so much effort to study Buddhism in China? As a Western woman in a Chinese Chan monastery, she was venturing into unfamiliar territory, but she was also following in the footsteps of a handful of Americans and Europeans who had developed an interest in Buddhism after living and traveling in China. Like Jennings, most of these Westerners were reared as Christians. Several, in fact, had initially come to China as missionaries. Their turn toward Buddhism went against the grain. Most missionaries harbored an undisguised antipathy toward Chinese Buddhists.

Like Bodhidharma, she felt called to enact a transmission of the dharma, not from India to China but from China to the United States.

The Reverend William Remfry Hunt (1866–1953), for example, had been living in China for over twenty years when he described the native religious traditions as “black rot” whose only remedy was eradication. “The debris of Confucian, Buddhistic, and Taoistic systems is as the parasitic smut and worm dust of the East,” Hunt pronounced. “In lands where every prospect pleases and only man is vile, this moral blight has not only to be destroyed, but buried deep in its grave, and the humanity endangered by it kept in careful quarantine.” For missionaries like Hunt, it was obvious that the religious traditions of China promoted “filth, murder, lying, demonology,” and sin. “Anyone who has seen heathenism in the streets, homes, highways, temples, among its priests and patrons in the gilded palaces, as well as in the hovels, will never, unless his sense of refinement is a minus quantity, flatter, fawn, or wink at its darkness and sin. No!” If Buddhism was a disease infecting the people of China, missionaries were paramedics, and Christianity was the cure. 

Some missionaries were more sympathetic to Chinese religious traditions, and a few even developed an abiding admiration for the Buddhist monks they encountered. Dwight Goddard (1861–1939), who served as a Congregational missionary in China, eventually converted to Buddhism and published The Buddhist Bible to make some of the tradition’s sacred texts available to Anglophone readers. The Norwegian Lutheran missionary Karl Ludwig Reichelt (1877–1952) became convinced that Mahayana Buddhism was an outgrowth of Christianity and founded the Nordic Christian Buddhist Mission in the city of Nanjing to nurture Buddhist-Christian dialogue. One of the most prominent early evangelists of Buddhism in the West, Alan Watts (1915–1973), was an Anglican priest. These were all educated men of “refinement,” to use Hunt’s term, and yet they saw Buddhism not as a “putrid sewer” but as a deep, sophisticated, and largely benevolent religious tradition. “The Buddhist ideals of purity, goodness, moral beauty, mercy, kindness, love, faith, [and] trust,” wrote Goddard, “are identical with Christian ideals.” Ananda Jennings came to a similar conclusion, and she made the long and arduous journey to China with the intention of bringing these ideals to the West. The Reverend William Remfry Hunt would have been scandalized. Not only did Jennings’s efforts run counter to his attempts to destroy Chinese Buddhism through displacement, but the agent of this sabotage was none other than his own daughter.

III

Jennings: Originally, there is no Buddha. The student is Buddha.

Qishi: A Buddha has thirty-two major marks and eighty minor marks. When he presses his toes into the earth, an oceanic seal radiates light. Can you do this?

Jennings: Can, cannot—these are both frivolous statements.

Qishi: What you say is true and demonstrates a subtle understanding. Talking about eating, however, does not satisfy hunger. Can you express the ultimate in a single sentence? 

Jennings: The ultimate has no sentence. Speaking of emptiness is also empty. If you will permit some rambling words: inconceivable awakened nature is the mother of the ten thousand things.

Qishi: Everything you have said accords with the ancestors’ intentions, but the single word “knowledge” is the gateway to all misfortune. You are a person of understanding, so let me complicate matters by asking you: without speaking, what is your original face? 

IV

Ananda Jennings was born Mabel Hunt on April 22, 1894. Her father, William Remfry Hunt, had come to China from England six years earlier as a member of the United Christian Missionary Society. The Reverend Hunt studied Chinese and even translated some works of Chinese literature, but he devoted most of his energies to selecting and training Chinese Christian evangelists. In the spring of 1893, he married Annie Louisa White. The couple was living in Nanjing, where Hunt was working at the Red Cross Society and teaching at seminary, when Mabel was born. 

Mabel was the eldest of five children, all of whom were initially homeschooled in the Hunt household. Their education involved extensive Bible study, and the children inevitably absorbed the conservative Christian views of their parents. At the age of 11, Mabel announced her future plans: “When I grow up and am able to be a missionary in China, I shall be so glad to tell these poor people who bow down to their idols of the dear, loving Jesus, and to lead them to Him.” Her father’s scathing critique of Chinese religions, Heathenism Under the Searchlight, was published just three years later. 

Most European and American missionaries working in China sent their children abroad for secondary schooling. Mabel accordingly traveled to the English town of Seven-oaks to attend Walthamstow Hall, an all-girls academy that catered to the daughters of foreign missionaries. She would later remember her favorite mistress at the school, a young woman named Emily Buchan, who taught physical education and domestic economy. In an uncanny twist of fate, Buchan was the soon-to-be mother of Alan Watts, born just a few years after Mabel graduated from Walthamstow.

At the age of 25, Mabel Hunt married Frank Dickinson Coop (1893–1976), a Christian theologian educated at Cambridge. It was around this time, she told the monks at Nanhua Monastery, that she began to take a serious interest in Buddhism. What initially drew her away from her husband’s and parents’ firm Christian faith is not entirely clear, but her move to California may have played some role. The Reverend Hunt, “worn by the strain of war and revolution,” left China in 1920 and eventually accepted a teaching position at the Baptist Theological Seminary in Los Angeles. Mabel settled in nearby Ojai. In the 1920s and 30s, the small, largely rural town of Ojai was becoming a center of Hindu and Buddhist-inspired religious movements. The Happy Valley Foundation, established by Annie Besant (1847–1933) and Jiddu Krishnamurti (1895–1986), was based in Ojai, as was the Krotona Institute of Theosophy. Neither Theosophy nor the teachings of popular India gurus much impressed Mabel, however. She would later express her disappointment with the British Buddhist Lodge precisely because of its Theosophical origins, and she dismissed the Indian path of “Worship” as inferior to her preferred method of “letting undivided Mind flow through.” Soteriological differences aside, Mabel’s residence in Ojai put her in close proximity to several of the alternative, Eastern-inflected religious communities that were taking root in coastal California at that time.

Mabel’s turn towards Buddhism may have been a factor in her divorce from Coop several years later. As she explained to the author and self-styled mystic Paul Brunton, “The churches very sensibly advocate a normal married life for those on the religious stage. But, in this final stage, which we teach, one has to be alone.” It was therefore imperative, Mabel said, that “whoever wishes to follow this [Buddhist] teaching must give up everything and live like a hermit.” Following her divorce, she began a four-year period of isolation during which, according to her own account, she did not read, did not meet with anyone, did not eat in the evening, and did not “engage in any activity whatsoever.” She emerged from this period transformed. She would later say that after her retirement, “I found to my surprise that all my discoveries therein during meditation were recorded in the Buddhist Bible.” It was probably during this time that she adopted the name of Shakyamuni’s great disciple, Ananda. (How she acquired the surname Jennings, like many other details of her biography, remains a mystery.)

By the 1940s, Jennings was giving Sunday morning teachings at her house in at Whale Rock Ranch on the northeastern edge of the Ojai valley. Her talks were open to all, but select students were granted access to her “advanced teachings.” Those who came to her seeking advice on more mundane matters were turned away. “I refuse to discuss the personal or worldly problems of disciples,” she announced, “as I am living on a level far above all that sort of thing. I refuse to advise any of them.” She believed that the depth of her realization set her apart from other people. “I do not know of any other women who have become Buddhas. I have special work to perform with the Buddhas.” 

Jennings’s claims of exalted status can come across as arrogant, but she had a point about the rarity of prominent female Buddhist teachers. In the 1930s and ’40s, English-speaking authorities on East Asian Buddhism were nearly all laymen. D. T. Suzuki, R. H. Blyth, Alan Watts, Eugen Herrigel, and Christmas Humphreys all authored influential books, gave lectures, and established themselves as Buddhist experts. These laymen promoted a tradition that was itself deeply patriarchal; the famed Zen lineage is of course made up almost entirely of men. While no one denied the capacity of women to achieve awakening, there was little precedent for female masters instructing coed communities. In the United States, as in East Asia, women were more often portrayed as the devoted followers of their male masters. Jennings was not satisfied to sit on the sidelines. Although she was unaware of “other women who have become Buddhas,” unbeknownst to her, several American and European women were traveling to East Asia to deepen their understanding of Buddhism. Ruth Everett Sasaki (1892–1967) is the best-known example, but there were others. An incomplete roster of women who engaged in Zen training in Japan would include Miriam Salanave (1876–1943), Kristine A. Segulyev (1884–1964?), Georgia Forman (1871–1955), Ida Russell (1886–1962), L. Adams Beck (Elizabeth Moresby; 1862–1931), and Helen M. Hayes (1906–1987). The biographies and published work of these pioneering figures, unfortunately, have received scant attention. Although some of these women eventually settled in California, Jennings does not appear to have been aware of any of them. She could find no model for what she was attempting to do. 

V

Jennings: The Diamond Sutra says, “Anuttara-samyak-sambodhi is not anuttara-samyak-sambodhi.”

Qishi: It seems like this but seeming is not it. If such matters are not received from a master, it would be like [Master] Jiashan never encountering the Boat Monk. Your words are simple, but they accord with principle and agree with the sutras. If you do not cut off the life root, however, you will remain in the realm of intellect. We want you to have a sudden realization.

Jennings: I have only read a very small number of sutras. In the past, I was in sealed retreat for four years. When I emerged and spoke with people, they all said I spoke the buddhadharma. For that reason, what I say is not derived from the sutras, and it is different from intellectual knowledge.

Qishi: Knowledge is not only gained through reading scriptures and commentaries; it is also generated through quiet contemplation. This knowledge can surface from previous lifetimes. Knowledge from past lives is also a kind of intellectual knowledge. You have come from far away; I hope that you will not reject gold to carry straw.

VI

Jennings had indeed come a long way. She was too young to meaningfully engage with Buddhist monastics when she was in China, even in the unlikely event that her parents would have permitted it. Her point of entry into the tradition was not contemporary Buddhist culture but medieval Chan texts. These she accessed mainly through the English translations published in Dwight Goddard’s The Buddhist Bible (1932) and John Blofeld’s The Zen Teachings of Huang Po (1947) and The Path of Sudden Attainment (1948). Goddard and Blofeld, who had both lived in China and spent time with Chan teachers, served as distant guides for Jennings.

In his younger years, Goddard made a fortune as an engineer and inventor, but after the premature death of his wife, he walked away from a successful career to join the Hartford Theological Seminary. Ordained in 1894, he set out for China shortly thereafter. Contrary to many of his fellow missionaries, Goddard perceived a kinship between Buddhism and Christianity. He explored what he saw as their shared purpose in early publications with titles like, “A Vision of Christian and Buddhist Fellowship in the Search for Light and Reality” (1924) and “Was Jesus Influenced by Buddhism? A Comparative Study of the Lives and Thoughts of Gautama and Jesus” (1927). These works, unsurprisingly, were not enthusiastically received by many of his Christian colleagues. 

As Goddard delved deeper into Buddhist traditions, he felt particularly drawn to the teachings of Chan and Zen. With the support of D. T. Suzuki, he spent eight months in 1928 at Shōkoku Monastery in Kyoto under the supervision of the abbot Yamazaki Taiko (1875–1966). Back in the United States, Goddard split his time between his native Thetford, Vermont, and Santa Barbara, California, self-publishing his writings and commissioning translations of Chinese Buddhist texts. (Goddard could not read Chinese, and so worked with two native speakers—the monk Waidao and the layman Wong Mou-Lam—to produce the translations.) His The Buddhist Bible brought together English versions of texts central to the Chan tradition: The Lankavatara Sutra, The Diamond Sutra, The Heart Sutra, and The Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch. Reading these works some years later, Jennings felt that they validated the experiences and insights she had arrived at independently while in seclusion. 

In the early 1930s, Goddard attempted to establish a new Western Buddhist monastic order called the Followers of Buddha. He envisioned that its all-male community would split their time between his properties in Vermont and Santa Barbara. The movement never took hold, however. Despite his best efforts, Goddard was unable to persuade a Chinese Chan monk to serve as teacher, and as of 1934, the order had just one member. Goddard’s would-be monastery in Santa Barbara was situated near Jennings’s home in Ojai, but there is no record of the two ever meeting. By the time Jennings was preparing to make her own pilgrimage to China in search of a Chan master, Goddard had passed away. 

A more immediate inspiration for Jennings’s decision to study Chan in China was John Blofeld (1913–1987), the English author and sinologist whose translations of Tang dynasty Chan texts, she told others, mirrored her own teachings. Unlike Goddard, Blofeld was fluent in Chinese and had traveled extensively throughout China seeking out prominent Buddhist and Daoist teachers. In 1936, Blofeld visited Nanhua Monastery and met Empty Cloud, whom he described as an “almost mythical personage.” In Blofeld’s recollection of their conversation, Empty Cloud was perplexed by his persistent questions about what constituted “pure” Chan (as opposed to Chan that was mixed with Pure Land practices)— “Why insist so much on this difference?” Empty Cloud asked. Blofeld came away from the brief encounter impressed by the old monk’s understanding. It is probably no coincidence that Jennings, who closely followed Blofeld’s writings, also followed in his footsteps, traveling to Nanhua to put her own questions to Empty Cloud and his disciples.

VII

Jennings: I understand that the value of the Buddha’s teachings lies in realization, so I do not place much weight on intellectual knowledge. But what actually is realization? Please be compassionate and instruct me.

Qishi: Realization is not getting mired in the sutras and commentaries and not clinging to appearances. When you raise a single thing, from head to tail, tail to head, every aspect is the buddhadharma. Everything is reality. From beginning to end, the ancestors’ teachings all elucidate this. As for this, it can be spoken of, but it is without substance. Do you understand? 

Jennings: The buddhadharma is fundamentally pure awakened nature. I understand that there is not a single thing, but I dare to ask: what is the mental state that understands that there is not a single thing?

Qishi: An excellent question! This understanding that there is not a single thing is something the ancients manifested in many ways. These days, we must adapt to circumstances and make use of clumsy words to explain it, saying, “Treasure mirrors in all directions illuminate all things without obstruction.”

Jennings: I have heard that in China, the ancestral masters of the Chan school use form to illuminate the mind, holding up a flower to transmit the teachings. Allow me to ask, leaving behind words, what can be used to express the totality of the buddhadharma?

Qishi: Did you see that sparrow fly past? 

VIII

Jennings’s first stop on her journey to China was England, where she visited Christmas Humphreys’s Buddhist Society to inform the group of her intention to tour the world in support of the “Buddhist world movement.” While in London, she also met Francis Story (1910–1972), an Englishman who had served in the medical corps in India during World War II. Following the death of his wife, Story resolved to return to India to devote himself to the study and propagation of Buddhism. He and Jennings made the next leg of the journey together, presumably traveling from London by steamer through the Suez Canal, down the Red Sea, and across the Arabian Sea to arrive at the port of Bombay three weeks later. From Bombay, they made their way to Sarnath, where they stopped for a month at the Maha Bodhi Society. Story took the new name of Priyadarshi Sugatananda and was henceforth known as Angarika (Lay Renunciant). Jennings began dressing in saffron robes and was called Mahopasika (Great Laywoman). The two converts appear to have acquired some standing in India; when they arrived in Calcutta, they were invited to speak at the Maha Bodhi Hall. 

In Jennings’s address, titled “The Gnosis of Buddhahood,” she summarized what she saw as the underlying message of the Buddhist teachings, namely that the duality and relativity that characterized ordinary human thought must be transcended to arrive at a state of pure awareness. This insight, she explained, had been perfectly expressed by Zen masters in China and Japan, but, except for the few individuals who were “completely illumined,” such teachings were very rarely realized. In Jennings’s estimation, the minds of most people were divided, or “split.” They made false divisions between self and others. The “Gnosis of Buddhahood” that she extols in her talk thus refers to the unified knowledge that she believed constituted awakening. Such understanding collapses the distinction between subject and object: “With the Gnosis comes this Knowledge which no longer burdens the mind with concepts of a subjective self thinking about the way out; but the Knowledge that is Itself the way out. For in the twinkling of an eye, one knows, and is free!”

Shortly after delivering this talk, Jennings set sail for Ceylon. There she made the case to the International Buddhist Study Circle that young Ceylonese monks should be sent to Western countries as missionaries. She then continued by ship to Singapore, where an article published in the newspaper The Straight Times, with the byline “our woman correspondent,” marveled that this “slender, white-haired American” woman dressed in yellow robes was planning to meditate in China. Jennings told the reporter that she was part of a movement among Western thinkers to study the essence of Buddhism. Having lectured in India and Ceylon, she now hoped to address the Buddhists of Singapore. But her layover would be brief. She explained that she was expected in Hong Kong to meet the great monk Empty Cloud. 

When Jennings’s ship docked in Hong Kong on October 25, Empty Cloud, who was then staying at Liurong Monastery in the city of Guangzhou, already knew that she was coming. A government official had sent a communique informing him that an American woman had requested an audience. For the sake of the diplomatic relations between China and the United States, the official urged Empty Cloud to receive her. When Jennings arrived at Liurong Monastery some days later, she prostrated herself before the elderly monk (then reputed to be 109 years old). Empty Cloud, noting her sincerity, agreed to let her accompany him and his entourage to Nanhua Monastery, roughly 150 miles away to the north. 

It was a dangerous time to be on the road. The civil war was raging and the route to the monastery snaked through forested foothills and mountains that sheltered encampments of Communist guerillas. On November 15, three regiments of Communist troops slaughtered a battalion of Nationalist soldiers conveying supplies up the Dong River, 160 miles east of Nanhua. Five days later, more Nationalist troops were ambushed and killed even closer to the monastery. Local officials, not wanting to risk the safety of this distinguished foreign visitor, dispatched a contingent of soldiers to escort Jennings to Nanhua. She arrived at the monastery unscathed, but the troops created some problems along the way. As she explained to Empty Cloud, “The soldiers sent to protect us unintentionally caused the trouble—for force is naturally met with force and resistance.” Empty Cloud, acknowledging that troops could surreptitiously use her visit as an opportunity to harass and intimidate local people, entrusted her wellbeing to the protective spirit of Bodhidharma. Safe at Nanhua, Jennings paid her respects to the lacquered body of Huineng. She also formally took refuge with Empty Cloud, receiving the Dharma-name Kuanhong (“Great Vastness”).

Jennings’s conversation with Qishi took place around this time. In the transcript, we see Qishi probing and at times challenging her presentation of the teachings. Could she go beyond words to directly express her understanding? During her talk in Calcutta two months earlier, Jennings had urged her audience to seek a mental state free from dualities. Qishi, however, gently gestured to the dualism that still seemed to linger in some of her statements.

IX

Jennings: Nothing exists outside of awakened nature; I already understand this. 

Qishi: This is not the principle of Buddhism. That is why we say that the one word “knowledge” is the gateway to all calamities. The root of your knowledge runs deep, but it is like adding feet to a painted snake. Now I will use a little demonstration to illustrate the incomprehensible teachings of the ten directions and three worlds. Please pay attention. I am filling this teacup with tea. This is an expression of the one dharma. Now if I take the tea in this cup and pour it out and then turn the teacup upside down, this is also the one dharma. Then again, if I were to pick this teacup up and toss it behind me, the teacup would immediately shatter. This is also the one dharma. In each of these things, the dharma is complete. If you know this, you know. If you do not know, it cannot be discussed.

Jennings: The buddhadharma is incomprehensible; I have long intuited this. I am exceptionally grateful to receive the master’s compassionate instruction. Now that we have finished, I would like to request that the master and the venerable monk Empty Cloud come to the United States to spread the dharma. Would this be possible?  

Qishi: In recent years, Venerable Empty Cloud has been expending all his energy day and night to restore Yunmen [monastery]. People from all the provinces in this region also invite him to come and spread the dharma. Telegrams are constantly arriving, and many people come to meet with him. This happens many times each month. Now the great disciple requests the Venerable to go to the United States to spread the dharma. Because my capacities are shallow, I am afraid it will be difficult to realize at this time. I am ashamed that I have no way to spread the dharma; my insufficient language abilities would be an obstruction. Let us wait until conditions are right and language is no longer an issue. Then we can decide.

X

What did Empty Cloud and the monks at Nanhua make of Ananda Jennings? Although she had spent her younger years in China, she spoke no Chinese. She had traveled a long and dangerous road back to her natal place, and she had done so essentially alone. At Nanhua, she kept the rigorous schedule, sitting upwards of ten hours of meditation every day and sleeping only four and a half hours each night. She ate simple vegetarian food, slept in communal living quarters, and used pit toilets. The monks and laypeople would have been accustomed to this way of living. Jennings, on the other hand, had lived a life of relative comfort. Nanhua was a far cry from her spacious ranch in Ojai. She did not have to travel halfway around the world to spend a week in Nanhua’s meditation hall, yet there she was.

Empty Cloud seemed to be impressed by both her knowledge and her tenacity. He had met thousands of devotees, only a small number of whom merited a mention in the autobiography he later wrote. Jennings, perhaps because she had come all the way from the United States to call on the master, made the cut. Empty Cloud’s entry for the year 1948 reads, “In the winter, an American woman named Jennings came seeking the precepts. A seven-day Chan retreat was held. She left full of joy.” The editor of Empty Cloud’s autobiography, Cen Xuelu (1882–1963), noted with regret that although Jennings “had some practice and realization, she unfortunately lacked the ability to communicate” in Chinese. Fayi, the monk who first published the dialogue between Jennings and Qishi, also expressed his admiration for this Western woman. Not only had she diligently studied Buddhism for over twenty years, but she also traveled to several countries to engage with various Buddhist masters. For that reason, Fayi observed, her understanding of the teachings was exceptional. By publishing the transcript of her dialogue with Qishi, Fayi hoped to show his colleagues that “the study of Buddhism in the West is actually not superficial.” This revelation, he suggested, should inspire Chinese Buddhist monks to go to the West to spread the dharma.

Despite Jennings’s entreaties, neither Empty Cloud nor Qishi ever did make it to the United States. The Communist Party marched on Beijing shortly after Jennings’s departure, and Empty Cloud was arrested at Yunmen Monastery in 1951. The beatings he endured left him with several broken ribs, and he was unable to eat for nine days. He was eventually freed and went on to serve as the honorary president of the newly formed Chinese Buddhist Association. Despite multiple invitations to relocate outside the borders of China, Empty Cloud continued his work in the mainland until his death in 1959. It fell to two of his disciples to bring his teachings to the West. Jy Din (1917–2003) arrived in Honolulu in 1956 and established the Hsu Yun [Empty Cloud] Temple a decade later. Hsuan Hua (1918–1995), who had met Jennings during her time in China, settled in northern California in 1962 and founded the City of Ten Thousand Buddhas in 1974.

Ananda Jennings never studied with Empty Cloud’s successors in California or Hawaii. After her return to southern California in the early months of 1949, her life becomes difficult to trace. The 1950s and ’60s represented the height of the so-called Zen Boom in the United States: D. T. Suzuki lectured at Columbia; Kerouac published On the Road and The Dharma Bums; Shunryu Suzuki established Tassajara, the first Zen monastery in the United States; and Martin Luther King Jr. nominated Thich Nhat Hanh for the Nobel Peace Prize. Jennings’s dream of bringing Zen to the West was finally being realized, but she played no visible role. She wrote on Buddhist topics, occasionally publishing her teachings in periodicals, but she never attracted a significant following, had no known disciples, and never established a center. She died in 1971 in relative obscurity.

In the end, Jennings may have left a deeper impression on Chinese Buddhists than she did on convert communities in the United States. The photos documenting her visit to Nanhua were published and preserved in China. The most detailed accounts of her life are also found in Chinese journals and newspapers. Despite her remarkable biography and her concerted efforts to promote Buddhist teachings in the West, she is barely mentioned in English-language sources. We can only speculate about why this devout, driven, and accomplished woman has faded so completely from the collective memory of American Buddhists. Was she not charismatic enough? Did her teachings simply not resonate with American audiences? Was it because she was a woman in a movement dominated by men? Whatever the case, although she was inspired by the example of Bodhidharma bringing Chan to China, Jennings was ultimately unable to enact a similar transmission in the West. And yet her missionary work did succeed, if in unanticipated ways. Rather than conveying Chinese Buddhism to the United States, Jennings introduced aspects of American Buddhism to Buddhists in China. Through her efforts and her example, Empty Cloud and his community learned of Western converts’ sincere commitment to the dharma. In this way, Jennings helped to lay the foundation for exchanges that continue to this day. Traveling from afar to find common cause with the people of China, she was, in her own way, following in her father’s footsteps. 

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The Gateless Barrier (Ch., Wumenguan; Jp., Mumonkan) is a thirteenth-century work that offers forty-eight entryways to wake up to your life. These entryways are presented as a “barrier” or checkpoint at a gate. They are short cases of life scenarios that show where you are stuck. The truth is, there is no gate or barrier. Where you feel stuck is precisely where you realize awakening or freedom. In other words, all of life’s ups and downs are opportunities to realize your true nature. This is why these checkpoints or entryways are “gateless.” The main message of this work is clear: You are already free. But knowing this is not enough. You have to live it. Take everything you meet as an opportunity that can free you from bondage. 

If you allow the entryways or cases in The Gateless Barrier to stand as mere stories from the distant past, unrelated to your life, then even if you read this book a hundred times you will still meet barriers everywhere you go. But if you take these cases as insights to aspects of your life, then they will come alive and you will wake up from the slumber of delusion, vexations, and suffering. You will open up to wisdom.

Chan master Wumen Huikai (1183–1260), whose name actually means “open to wisdom [and realize] the gateless” is the compiler of The Gateless Barrier. In 1228, he compiled and edited forty-eight cases of past Chan masters’ interactions with their students, many of which involve awakening experiences. These short, insightful cases are called gong’ans (Jp., koans). Each case is followed by Wumen’s own comments and poetic verses as pointers. The pointers show you how to approach and investigate each gong’an. In [my] book, [Passing Through the Gateless Barrier], I comment on both the gong’ans and Wumen’s pointers to make them more accessible.

Below is an excerpt from Case 16: “The Sound of a Bell, the Seven-Piece Robe”:

Yunmen said [to his assembly of monk practitioners], “The world is so vast and wide—why do you put on your seven-piece robe at the sound of the bell?”

Wumen’s Comment:

All who learn Chan and study the path must avoid following sound and pursuing form. Even so, awakening to the path by hearing sound or illuminating your mind by seeing form is quite ordinary. Little do you know, patch-robed monks ride on sound and hover over form and yet, with each circumstance, illuminating [this great matter] and taking up each and every wondrous opportunity. But even so, tell me, does the sound come to the ear, or does the ear reach out to the sound? Even if sound and silence are both forgotten, when you reach this point, how do you understand words? If you use your ears to hear, it will be difficult to understand. But if you listen to sound with your eyes, you will be on intimate terms with reality.

If you understand, all are one and the same; 
If you do not understand, there are thousands of differences and distinctions.
If you do not understand, all are one and the same;
If you understand, there are thousands of differences and distinctions.

***

Guo Gu’s Comment:

As with the previous case [in Passing Through the Gateless Barrier], Chan master Yunmen exercised his wisdom [in this case]. He ascended the dharma seat and basically said that the sky is so vast, so great, you have such freedom in your life, where nothing binds you; why, then, in hell did you put on your robe when you heard the bell ring? Why do you let signals and bells govern your life? Putting this in another way: You are so free. Why do you get up when you hear the alarm ring in the morning? Why do you go to work? Why is it that you do the things you do? Why do you engage in Chan practice?

The Veils of Conditioning

In Chan monasteries, the bell and other instruments govern the activities of the day. Before a dharma talk, a monk strikes the temple bell.

When monks hear it, they put on their robes. The five-piece robe is for novices or for fully-ordained monks or nuns on ordinary occasions. The twenty-five-piece robe is reserved for abbots to wear for special occasions. A seven-piece robe is what a fully ordained monk or nun wears for formal occasions such as attending a dharma talk. So here, the bell rings and the monks put on their robes.

If you reflect on why you get up in the morning when the alarm rings, you may think that if you don’t go to work you’ll get fired. Yunmen is not functioning at that level. Yunmen is not questioning your obligations or talking about the kind of freedom that allows you to do whatever you want.

In general, practice involves distinguishing between what are wholesome and unwholesome, beneficial and harmful, skillful and unskillful activities—especially with regard to others. You must not hurt people, you must not hurt yourself, and the most obvious way to avoid suffering for yourself and others is to be careful of your reactions to form and sound. Because of your attachment, you are easily affected by what you hear and see. Therefore, the text says that all who learn Chan and study the path must avoid following sound and pursuing form.

If you examine your life, you will see that when you are miserable, when you’re feeling frustrated, when you are anguished, it’s because you have heard something from someone, or you have seen something you didn’t want to see. You are conditioned to see things a certain way. In practice you have to see through the veils of your conditioning, the process through which you ritually and habitually relate to those around you based on your own standard of actions and words. For example, you may see someone walking down the street, and without much self-awareness you are already categorizing and judging that person as this or that just by the way he or she is dressed. Or if that person says something, your discriminating mind is already at work: Is what the person is saying beneficial or harmful to me?

“It’s All Good”

While seeing and hearing cause vexations, when vexations are absent, sound and form can also liberate. After getting a master’s degree from the University of Kansas, I wanted to take a year off to prepare my PhD applications. I went to Boston, as I wanted to attend Harvard to study with a certain professor. That was a very stressful time in my life. I had one friend in Boston with whom I moved in temporarily. I thought I would easily find a job within a week or two, then get my own place and go on with life according to my plans. I was greatly mistaken—there were no jobs in Boston for someone like me with an MA degree in religion. It took me a whole month to find work. As I didn’t want to take advantage of my friend, I finally took the first job I could find, that of a doorman, and moved out. It was a low-paying job. I had to wear the required blue polyester suit and stand on the ground floor of a large corporate building filled with new graduates with MBA degrees. My job was to check their identification cards, “Can I see your ID, please? Okay, you can go in.” “No, ID? Sorry, you can’t go in.”

It was interesting how people treated me there. Not one of my doorman coworkers ever went to college; I’m not even sure if they all had high school degrees. They were minorities, either Black or Hispanic. As the only Asian person at the place, I stood out like a sore thumb. It was especially odd to me when Asians with MBA degrees were obviously trying very hard to avoid acknowledging me as one of their own as they went in and out of the corporate building. During this time I was preparing for my GRE test (Graduate Record Examination) for the PhD application. In one pocket I had a list of GRE words, and in the other, math equations. So between one “May I see your ID please” and the next, I was memorizing words or math formulas to prepare for my test. Most people ignored me. Some looked down on me. It felt rather strange to be looked down upon and alienated by people who were seemingly categorizing me into a certain stereotype. What I saw and what I heard were wearing me down.

I learned a lot of slang during that time. One particular phrase I heard a lot from my doorman colleagues was, “Yo man, it’s all good; it’s all good.” I call it “IAG.” One time, several young professional men and women were walking by me as I said my routine, “May I see your ID, please?” They stopped chatting, showed me their IDs, then broke into laughter and walked away. In that moment, I overheard two fellow doormen talking and one saying, “It’s all good!” Suddenly, everything dropped away. I said out loud, “IAG! It’s all good!” How wonderful!

The humiliation was good practice.

What is form? What is sound? When you encounter a difficulty in your life, an impasse, solve it. If you can solve it, it’s good. If you can’t solve it, it’s still good, as it’s no longer your problem if you can’t solve it. It’s only a problem when you solve it. So when you encounter challenges in life, when you are obstructed by form and sound—it’s all good!

In your own dream of vexations and obstacles, you are already so busy. Why are you busying yourself living in somebody else’s projected dream of you? People looked down on me in my silly polyester suit, repeating the same words over and over. They formulated an image of me.

But that image was their image. What did it have to do with me? If you feel sad or humiliated, you are affected. If you ignore it, pretend it’s not there, you are also affected. Reacting to a dream is an illusion. Yet the sky is so vast and wide, why aren’t you free?

Riding on Sound, Hovering Over Form

In the beginning of your practice you have to figure out, examine within yourself, just how much you live in dreams in all the projections that you have on the world through your interaction of sound and form. Avoid fabricating form and sound. This doesn’t mean that you move into the mountains and isolate yourself from the world. No! You live amid form and sound, and through them you see freedom. True practice is to “ride on sound and hover over form, and yet with each circumstance, illuminating [this great matter] and taking up each and every wondrous opportunity”—it’s all good! And if you discover that somehow it’s not all good, then you need to examine form and sound a little closer because they are a mirror reflecting your true nature. The greater the obstacle, the clearer the reflection. Wumen provides a hint: “Does the sound come to the ear, or does the ear reach out to the sound? Even if sound and silence are both forgotten, when you reach this point, how do you understand words?” Some seasoned practitioners say that “sound and form are okay; they don’t bother me.” Wumen says that when you have reached this point, you must still manifest form and sound. Tell me, what is this realization?

In the beginning of your practice you have to figure out, examine within yourself, just how much you live in dreams in all the projections that you have on the world through your interaction of sound and form.

I got an e-mail recently from someone who has been practicing for many years. She’d had the opportunity that summer to do a long retreat, a couple of months by herself somewhere in the mountains. She wrote me a very beautiful e-mail describing her experiences as “utter tranquillity.” What was there but the sound of the birds in that cabin, the Amish people rolling by in their horse cart, and her meditation? It was a very beautiful, peaceful time, she said, with no vexations, no projections or categorization, no compartmentalization. I wrote to her briefly, “What did you realize?”

She wrote back: Silence. Then she included a short poem by Zen master Ryokan (1758–1831) from a book she was probably reading. I guess, in her mind, the poem expressed her realization. So, “Here, read this!” was how she presented her realization to me. I didn’t respond. At that point, I knew she was not ready for any teaching because she was quite satisfied with what she had found. Anything I might have said either would have offended her or might not have been very useful. Had she said, “I’d like to come see you,” then things would have been different.

When Wumen suggests, “If you have found silence and peace, are you free in noise and chaos?” he is not saying, “When you reach silence then there’s just silence.” No! When you reach true peace you should be free, at ease, in sound and form. True practitioners ride the wave of sound and freely intermingle with form.

Freedom from Form and Sound

Wumen says, “If you use your ears to hear, it will be difficult to understand. But if you listen to sound with your eyes, you will be on intimate terms with reality.” Some of you may be wondering, “I don’t think we covered this topic in biology; how can one hear with eyes and see with ears?” There are insects, animals, and different types of fish that don’t have eyeballs yet know when a big hungry predator is coming their way. There are blind people who “see” people better than those who can see. The passage is not talking about supernatural powers. It is questioning you, asking if you are bound by your senses.

Are you bound by the categories you create?

This verse from Wumen is even more puzzling:

If you understand, all are one and the same;
If you do not understand, there are thousands of differences and distinctions.
If you do not understand, all are one and the same;
If you understand, there are thousands of differences and distinctions.

Usually, if one does not understand the form or sound one perceives, one is probably stuck in the distinctions, discriminations, or differences in ideas and notions. If one does understand, then the form and sound probably conform to one’s own preconceived ideas. However, Wumen, being a compassionate teacher, says that whether you understand or not, there are different forms and sounds everywhere; whether you understand or not, everything is also just the same. What is “the same?” What is “different?” Do these words define what you see and what you hear? Are you bound by the categories you create? Forms and sounds are not the issue. Being bound by them is. It cannot get any simpler than that.

♦

Adapted from Passing Through the Gateless Barrier by Guo Gu © 2016 by Guo Gu. Reprinted in arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Inc. Boulder, CO. www.shambhala.com.

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“Meditation” is a vague term.

Even in English it has two opposing meanings: thinking and not-thinking. But unsurprisingly, since the word meditation is derived from Latin, the term can be even more confusing when it comes to Buddhist meditation and its recent offshoot, secular mindfulness.

In the Pali canon, there’s no single word for meditation. Mindfulness (sati) is part of vipassana bhavana, or the cultivation of insight. It’s also part of the eightfold path—though the Pali word “sati” may or may not correspond to Jon Kabat-Zinn’s helpful definition of nonjudgmental, moment-to-moment noticing.

But sati is only one of the meditative elements of the eightfold path—the other major one is samadhi, or concentration. And here’s where things get interesting. In most of the Pali canon’s discussion of samadhi, it’s described not simply as one-pointed concentration in general, but as the ability to enter the four jhanas—distinct, concentrated mind states—in particular.

Eventually, dhyana, the Sanskrit for jhana, became chan in Chinese, and later zen in Japanese. These words became roughly synonymous with meditation itself and later identified with various specific meditation practices such as zazen.

But a funny thing happened to the jhanas within Theravadan traditions, particularly in the “dry insight” Burmese lineages that evolved into Western insight meditation and from there into secular mindfulness: jhana practically disappeared.

Why? Perhaps the problem is that the meaning of jhana was never entirely clear. The suttas do describe what these states are like. The second jhana, for example, is often described as “gaining of inner stillness and oneness of mind . . . without applied and sustained thinking, and in which there are joy and pleasure born of concentration.” Sounds nice, right? Dozens of such descriptions appear in the Pali canon.

But how do I get there, exactly? How do I know it’s a jhana and not just a passing pleasant mind state? What does it mean to “enter and remain” in that state?

Commentaries, especially the fifth-century Visuddhimagga, said that for jhana to be real, it has to be a wholly immersive and absorptive mind state. If you can hear anything, think anything, or even note the passage of time, you weren’t experiencing jhana.

With that high of a standard, cultivating jhana became a practice only for elites. Regular chumps like you and me didn’t have a chance.

Thus, while developing concentration remained central to these forms of Buddhist practice, jhana itself did not. This was an unfortunate development for two reasons.

First, given that the Buddha spells out exactly what he means by Right Concentration [one of the required spokes of the eightfold path]— cultivating jhana—surely it must be a mistake to jettison the practice entirely. Why would the Buddha say that jhana is essential and that the path is accessible to anyone, and then prescribe a practice that is inaccessible to all but a few?

Moreover, as my teacher Leigh Brasington summarized in his recent book, Right Concentration, there are numerous instances of nonabsorptive jhana in the suttas themselves. In one such account, practitioners talk to one another while experiencing jhana, which hardly comports with the notion that jhana is all-absorptive. (The Visuddhimagga says they must have been psychic.)

Now, it’s clear that jhana can be absorptive, and it is deeply profound when it is. I’ve had those experiences on long retreats, and many teachers still teach that way today. But jhana is also powerful without full absorption. As the Thai Forest teacher Ajahn Chah put it, the four jhanas are like four pools of water; they can be deeper or shallower, but they’re the same four pools.

Which is the second reason why it’s a shame to jettison jhana: because jhana is good for you. In my experience practicing and teaching the jhanas, there are numerous benefits to both beginner and advanced meditators. The states themselves are so profound as to be transformative in themselves, especially for shaking the mind free from attachment to other pleasant mind states, whether spiritual or pharmacological or otherwise. The pleasure they bring is regarded as “pure.”

And then there’s their main benefit: they spur you toward awakening. In one famous Tibetan analogy, building concentration is like sharpening the sword that cuts off the head of delusion. On its own, concentration doesn’t get you anywhere. But concentration, and jhana in particular, can make any meditation practice easier, sharper, and more effective.

There are two other, more modern reasons why a contemporary meditator should consider adding jhana to their repertoire.

The first is variety. We all get in dharma ruts now and then. Practices get stale, and even sitting with the staleness gets stale. Cultivating jhana really is different from mindfulness and other popular forms of meditation; it inclines the mind differently, builds different skills, yields different fruit. And while it’s difficult to attain jhana off retreat, it’s not hard to translate jhana skills into everyday life, infusing regular sits with concentration or noticing the wholesome feelings of bliss, equanimity, and so on when they arise. Jhana spices up meditation.

Cultivating jhana also, I think, addresses some of the big reasons laypeople meditate today: stress reduction, relaxation, and the pursuit of bliss. Despite its use for stress reduction, mindfulness done properly can often be stress inducing, as you see harmful habits of mind, deconstruct the self, or notice how everything arises and passes so quickly. I actually think that it’s the concentration aspect of mindfulness meditation—the calming, centering, focusing part—that actually holds appeal for most beginning meditators.

Of course, meditation’s not meant to be a narcotic. But most beginners are experiencing real dukkha [suffering] and they are searching for ways to lessen it. Mindfulness, meta-cognition, insight, and building witness consciousness are great ways to do so. But so are building concentration, focus, and calm—and that’s where jhana meditation excels.

And not just for beginners! Personally, I have a “day job” as a political pundit and columnist. I can vouch from firsthand experience that building samadhi is a key part of my own meditation toolkit. Creating islands of calm amid the insanity of our culture enables me to rest, recharge, and go back to the work of justice.

Leigh Brasington authorized me to teach jhana in the lineage of his teacher, the Ven. Ayya Khema. This method cultivates jhana as described in the Pali canon, rather than in the commentaries. In my experience, jhana meditation can lead to transformative experiences, aid in the work of insight, add variety to meditation practice, and provide valuable tools for modern life. It’s a vital part of the eightfold path.

Which I guess is why it’s there.

This article was originally published September 22, 2016.

The post Jhana: The Spice Your Meditation Has Been Missing appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Welcome to Tricycle Meditation Month, our annual challenge to commit to a daily practice throughout March. Whether you’re new to meditating or a longtime practitioner, our free 31-day challenge is a great way to kickstart your practice and set aside more time for calm and clarity in your life. We’ll be supporting you along the way with an array of meditations, tips, inspiration, and resources. Our free offerings throughout the month include:

• A new guided meditation video each week from our Meditation Month teacher Guo Gu, a leading Chan Buddhist teacher and author 
• Two live calls with Guo Gu to ask any question you have about your practice
• A steady stream of helpful articles on Trike Daily, including classic and contemporary Buddhist teachings
• A Facebook discussion group where you can share your experience and connect with practitioners from all over the world
• An interactive group on Insight Timer, a free meditation app. Go to your Insight Timer Profile > Groups > and search “Tricycle Meditation Month 2021.”
• A weekly newsletter to keep you up to date on everything going on
• Our evergreen meditation section of Buddhism for Beginners

Sign up here to take the Meditation Month challenge.

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SILENT ILLUMINATION with Guo Gu

Guo Gu is a Chan Buddhist teacher and the founder of the Tallahassee Chan Center.  For three decades he studied under the late Master Sheng Yen as one of his senior and closest disciples. Guo Gu also teaches at Florida State University as the Sheng Yen Associate Professor of Chinese Buddhism.

Starting on Monday, March 1, Guo Gu will lead a series of four guided meditation videos from the Tallahassee Chan Center in Tallahassee, Florida. In his series, Guo Gu will draw from Chan Buddhist teachings on silent illumination, an idea that reflects the true, spacious nature of mind. He will also offer guidelines for taking the clarity of mind cultivated on the cushion into your daily life. New videos will be posted every Monday.

The schedule is:

• March 1: Relax and Connect
• March 8: Breathe and Experience 
• March 15: Contemplate and Perceive
• March 22: Let Go and Break Through

You can also tune into Guo Gu’s live calls on Saturday, March 6 at 12:00pm EST and Friday, March 19 at 5:00 pm EST to ask him any questions you have about your practice. Sign up here.

♦

The post Meditation Month 2021: Silent Illumination appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Where did you grow up? I was born in Taiwan and grew up in the New Jersey–New York area.

When did you become a Buddhist and why? In 1972, my whole family and I took refuge in the three jewels [the Buddha, his teachings, and the Buddhist community] with an ascetic monk in Taiwan named Master Guangqin (1892–1986). I had no idea what it meant to be a Buddhist, but I was naturally drawn to seated meditation and Guangqin. He taught me how to sit in the full lotus posture and focus on my breath.

Who became your teacher? After coming to New York, I met Master Sheng Yen (1931–2009) when I was 11. I consider him my root teacher, my spiritual father. The three decades with him shaped every aspect of my life.

What’s your favorite breakfast on retreat? We were served only oatmeal and fruit, so that became my favorite!

What’s your daily practice? Each day is a new beginning. This moment is practice: grounding and offering. Grounding means relaxing into whatever situation I am in. Offering means responding to anyone or anything I encounter by not injecting my sense of self. This last part is the key—offering oneself by letting go of the self.

What’s the longest you’ve gone without meditating? How do you get back on track? After so many decades of daily seated meditation practice, I never really stopped. But this is a limited way of understanding seated meditation. The position is not important; what is important is the attitude.

What was your first job? At a vegetable farm picking tomatoes and peppers. I was 13, and it was totally illegal. My older brother and his friends were all hired to work there, so I got hired. I have fond memories of tomato fights whenever the boss was not around.

Most used emoji? 🙏

♦

This March, join Guo Gu for Tricycle Meditation Month and his Dharma Talks video series, “Silent Illumination,” at tricycle.org/dharmatalks.

The post Visiting Teacher: Guo Gu appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

“The perfect place to get free of your name.” That’s how the prolific Tang Dynasty poet and devoted Chan (Jp. Zen) student Po Chu-i described Thatch-Hut Mountain, a complex of approximately 90 peaks in south China. When he arrived there in 815 C.E., monks and sage-recluses had already resided among the craggy ridges for centuries: chopping wood, growing veggies, attending to their breathing, slowly and steadily emptying their minds. Thatch-Hut was a hotbed of name-escapers.

It could be argued that Chan practice—the hours sitting in meditation, the weeks and months and years contemplating paradoxical riddles, the entire shebang—is fundamentally concerned with the prison of the name, in other words the illusory self and the not-so-illusory limitations it puts on our experience of the world and our way of being. Better to establish a home in the nameless rhythm of inhale-exhale, the flow of weather and seasons out your hermitage window, than in the ego’s fears and desires, right?

Well, maybe. Although I want to assume Po’s ancient ideal of Chan namelessness resonates across the ages, it’s likely that your typical 21st-century American relates to the ink on her birth certificate differently: “S-A-M-A-N-T-H-A. I was born Samantha, and thus I will forever be Samantha. I know who I am. I am me. Samantha. When I die, that’s what they will engrave on my headstone.”

OK, sure, easy enough for Samantha—this imagined woman—to identify with her name, but what if that string of letters wasn’t so approachable? What if it failed to offer the security of the familiar and was instead slippery, amorphous, a moving target? What if Samantha’s name was…

“Hi, I’m Leath. Pleasure to meet you.”

Pause.

“Um, sorry, come again? Leaf? Like on a tree? Like Leif Erikson the Norse explorer? Like Keith? Really, I’m sorry, it’s this darn earwax problem of mine. Did you say Heath? Like the candy bar? Is it L-E-A-S-H, like for a dog?”

From preschool up through yesterday at the supermarket (I was chatting with the deli guy, Ralph), my life has been a streaming pageant of people mishearing, mispronouncing, and misspelling this odd name my parents gifted me. Originally a surname (Mary Leath, Ephraim Leath, Ebeneezer Leath), it came down the family tree like a nut dropped by a squirrel, meaning it hit many branches en route, including my great-grandfather (Leath Postlewaite). Partly as an homage to him, partly because my folks enjoyed the sound, their nameless newborn became L-E-A-T-H.

And there’s been confusion ever since.

Take this scenario from childhood. A gluttonous little brat, I insisted on a Dairy Queen ice cream cake for my birthday party. Pick your battles, Kind Patient Mom thought, reaching for the phone. Of course, the poor soul at DQ was being set up for failure, and when the cake made its grand appearance, aglow with seven cheery candles, the script of chocolate frosting read: Happy Birthday Leith.

Still a gluttonous brat a year later: Happy Birthday Lee.

And the following year: Happy Birthday Leahea.

That one got us all chuckling.

Yes, chuckling. I can’t remember ever caring what I was called or not called. Is Leath eating the cake or is Leahea? Beats me! Cut a fat piece and enjoy! Early on, apparently, I was given the gift of not taking my legal appellation too seriously. That silly thing? Whatever. It isn’t me.

I don’t intend to imply a version of enlightenment here, like I’ve pricked my ears to the ringing silence that is the true source of everything, including tags and designations, cognomens and sobriquets. Au contraire, I’m a bumbling idiot—monkey mind extraordinaire. By chance, though, my weird moniker has nudged me a couple inches nearer to certain aspects of Buddhist philosophy, and for this, I am deeply grateful.

When bad news approaches—something trivial but undeniably miserable, like mysterious clanking automobile troubles—I hear a voice saying, Don’t worry, that’s Leahea’s crappy car, and he always manages to push through the muck and muddle eventually. Hearing this voice respond to good news is challenging yet, ultimately, more valuable: I’m glad Leahea is recognized as smart, handsome, funny, and compassionate, but sheesh, I hope it doesn’t go to his head, because lord knows it would go to mine. Rather than acting as a sticky flycatcher that draws the “good” and the “bad” to my body, holding them close, my name acts as a sort of repellent, a shield that deflects those pesky insects (mechanic’s bill, glowing praise) and thereby allows me to keep on with the vital business of the next breath, the window-framed birds and clouds.

About that window. I don’t live in a hermitage on Thatch-Hut Mountain, but I do live in a snug cottage surrounded by Colorado’s gorgeous 13,000-foot peaks. Taking long solo hikes on these peaks, without maps and usually without the aid of a trail, happens to be my favorite hobby. The boulders and trees and jumpy creeks out there in the backcountry don’t know what to call me (though they likely wouldn’t know what to call Ralph, the deli guy, either). I fully agree with Po Chu-i: Wildlands are indeed a fine place to get free, free, free. The trick is carrying that freedom to the valley, to the daily grind of office and kitchen and commute and telephone and—mailbox.

This last autumn, there inside the mailbox, it happened again. I had published a collection of essays and—surprise, surprise—my name was spelled incorrectly on the back cover. Ha! This ain’t my book! This is some other dude’s book! I laughed a hearty laugh, thinking of Po and my Dairy Queen birthdays and the luck of the draw—how sometimes, effortlessly, we escape ourselves. Is Leath standing in the sun at the end of the driveway, shutting the mailbox and flipping the book over in his hand, double-checking to confirm that the universe has, not for the first time and not for the last, allowed him to slip past the copy editor and the ego? Or is that Leahea? Or is it Leaf? Or is it Keith? Or is it…

Probably doesn’t matter. Blow out the candles. Enjoy.

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