Friday, January 06, 2006
The Gateless Gate
When asked about the path of practice, Buddha explained that there are four ways for spiritual life to unfold. The first way is quickly and with pleasure. In this, opening and letting go come naturally, like an easy birth, accompanied by joy and rapture. The second way is quickly but painfully. On this path we might face a near-death experience, an accident, or the unbearable loss of someone we hold dear. This path passes through a flaming gate to teach us about letting go. The third form of spiritual progress is gradual and accompanied with pleasure. In this way, opening and letting go happen over a period of years, predominantly with ease and delight. The fourth and most common path is also slow and gradual, but takes place predominantly through suffering. Difficulty and struggle are a recurrent theme, and through them we gradually learn to awaken.In this matter we do not get to choose. Our unfolding is a reflection of the pattern of our lives, which are sometimes described as "our fate" or "our karma". No matter the apparent speed, we are simply asked to give ourselves to the process. It is like being in a small rowboat on the ocean. We row, but there is also a larger current; we may continually head east, but cannot know how far we have gone. The question of distance and time however, is one that arises only at the beginning. It does not matter how far we think we have gone. It is our willingness to open radically and repeatedly, just now that characterizes this journey.
It is easy to get caught in the notion that there is a goal, a state, a special place to reach in spiritual life. Accounts of extraordinary experiences can create ideas of how our own lives should be, and lead us to compare ourselves with others. In Tibet one famous yogi had lived for years practicing ardently in a mountain hut supported by the villagers below. Then one festival day he heard that all his supporters were going to visit him. The yogi carefully swept his hut, polished the offering bowls on the alter, made a special offering, and cleaned his robes. Then he sat back and waited but an unease came over him. Who was he trying to be? Finally he got up, scooped up several handfuls of dirt, and threw them back onto the alter. Those handfuls of dirt were said to be his highest spiritual offering.
The ultimate end of the koans might be seen in the following story, a bit of modern Zen humor regarding a disciple who sent his master faithful accounts of his spiritual progress. In the first month, the student wrote, "I feel an expansion of consciousness and experience oneness with the universe." The master glanced at the note and threw it away.
The following month, this is what the student had to say: "I finally discovered that the Divine is present in all things." The master seemed disappointed.
In his third letter the disciple enthusiastically explained, "The mystery of the One and the many has been revealed to my wondering gaze." The master yawned.
The next letter said, "No one is born, no one lives, no one dies, for the self is not." The master threw up his hands in despair.
After that a month passed by, then two, then five, then a whole year. The master thought it was time to remind his disciple of his duty to keep him informed of his spiritual progress. The disciple wrote back, "I am simply living my life."
When the master read that he cried, "Thank God. He's got it at last."
