There were only nine present at the temple on Sunday the day after Christmas 2004. When we had recited in unison the "Heart of Great Perfect Wisdom Sutra" we prostrated ourselves three times and then arranged our mats and cushions in a semicircle around the master and seated ourselves. It was my turn to be doan. When the master joined his palms in gassho, I struck the keisu, the big brass bowl, and together we all chanted:
The unsurpassed, profound, and wondrous dharma
Is rarely met with even in a hundred thousand million kalpas.
Now I can see and hear it, accept and maintain it.
May I unfold the meaning of the Tathagata's truth.
In his dharma talk the master read aloud the koan of Bodhidharma's disciple Huiko, who cut off his arm to persuade the teacher to accept him as his student so that Huiko could receive the teaching and be free of suffering. In his personal reconstruction and interpretation of the tale the master explained that Huiko had come from a place of deep suffering and desperation.
This I understood.
"I wish to be your student," Huiko announced.
"No, you don't have what it takes," said Bodhidharma. "Go away."
Huiko would not be deterred. He returned and asked again to be accepted as a student so that he might study under Bodhidharma and practice the Way.
"Please?"
"No!" said the teacher. "Go away!"
In the master's retelling, Huiko returned again and again and each time he encountered the same refusal from Bodhidharma. Finally, Huiko cut off his left arm—the master pointed to a spot three inches above his left wrist—and returned to the teacher's cave and asked once more, now offering his severed arm and hand to Bodhidharma as evidence of his sincerity and commitment.
Bodhidharma relented.
"All right."
He accepted Huiko as his student.
"Yes."
Though the master did not elaborate upon it, I could imagine the shock, horror, compassion, and pity Bodhidharma felt for Huiko when he saw what the postulant had done; and also the sorrow, perhaps, and the guilt at his own miscalculation of Huiko's commitment, perseverance, and will. Had not both men tragically misjudged the mind of the other?
Consider first Huiko's idea of the teacher. Was Bodhidharma really a teacher who would ask or expect a prospective student to sever an arm as evidence of his sincerity? I could not believe so.
I thought not.
But on the other hand according to legend the young Bodhidharma himself had vowed to meditate until realization, an ordeal that took nine years, and in his frustration that he repeatedly fell asleep as he sat in meditation, legend says, Bodhidharma cut off his own eyelids.
So perhaps as a teacher Bodhidharma did expect such extremes.
But—
Was Huiko the kind of student his teacher Bodhidharma first thought he was—a man lacking both the character and the commitment necessary for realization?
Clearly he was not.
Bodhidharma had at first vastly underestimated the virtue of the postulant, had he not? Nor, in the master's retelling, had Huiko immediately attained realization. He continued to suffer. His enlightenment occurred only later in a second famous encounter with his teacher.
"Master, my mind is not at peace," Huiko told Bodhidharma.
"Bring me your mind and I will pacify it," his teacher replied.
"I have searched for my mind and I cannot find it," Huiko responded.
"What remains then to be pacified?" his teacher asked.
Huiko was instantly enlightened.
These two koans reminded the master of a third, one he had recited dozens of times and one I myself loved and had repeated for others again and again.
"Master, show me the way to liberation."
"Who binds you?"
"No one binds me."
"Then why do you seek liberation?"
When in the past the master had retold the koan of Huiko cutting off his own arm, the master had always emphasized and described in detail the psychological context of the postulant's request—his profound suffering, his unhappiness, his discontent, and his desperation. But on this day the master's theme was instead the depth and sincerity of the postulant's commitment. Only after thirty minutes of discursive commentary did the master invite our questions.
I put my palms in gassho.
"Yes?"
"It was crazy for Huiko to cut off his arm," I said.
The master was indignant.
Uh oh.
He looked mightily annoyed.
"It's crazy to you maybe!" the master exclaimed, scowling in my direction. "But what is sane and what is insane is relative and subjective. It's not insane to me. Not at all! I love this story."
The master cited a book he had just read about Roger Bannister and John Landy and the four-minute mile. In their training, the master insisted, the two athletes had given everything they had. To achieve their goal they had pushed themselves beyond the limits of human endurance, the master explained. Yes, that I believed. But now it seemed that the master was interpreting the amputation by Huiko not as literal but as metaphorical and symbolic truth. Huiko had cut off his arm and offered it to Bodhidharma, the legend said, to show the teacher that he was willing to make any sacrifice for the teaching. I did not consider the dedication of the milers to be madness. It was cutting off an arm I thought insane.
I raised my hands in gassho.
"Yes?" asked the master.
"I do understand their sacrifice," I conceded, "and I admire it. I understand the concept of giving up everything for the teaching, and I like that idea, but Bannister and Landy did not cut off their arms."
The master appeared disgusted.
"No, I don't think you do understand," said the master. "No, you don't understand."
The master looked suddenly sad as if disappointed in my superficiality and in my misunderstanding of his lesson. It seemed I had let the master down. He thought for a few seconds, looking first at me and then at others present.
"The expression is even in our language," the master said. "I'd give my right arm for that, we say. For that I'd give an arm and a leg, we say."
The master paused.
"I love this story," the master stated again. "It is one of my favorites and I love it dearly."
The master paused.
"Huiko threw his life away for the teaching."
He paused again.
"Huiko threw his life away!" the master exclaimed.
I was familiar with this expression. The necessity of throwing one's life away in order to receive the teaching and to wake up to the Way was an idea common in the Tibetan literature I had read. The master continued. He compared the sacrifice of Huiko to the crucifixion of Christ. Jesus had thrown his life away for others, the master said. Had I not understood that, the master wondered. Had I not understood that? The master affected incredulity.
I objected to this analogy.
"But Jesus didn't kill himself," I said. "He was murdered."
The master frowned darkly. He looked disgusted with me. He cited Islamic fundamentalists who strapped bombs to their chests and detonated them in the service of their god.
The master talked again of giving all, giving everything.
The master looked weary.
From his zafu immediately to my right Ryan raised his hands in gassho. When the master had acknowledged him Ryan offered remarks in my defense.
"I think I have to take Bob's side on this," Ryan said tentatively.
Ryan paused.
"What kind of a teacher would want his disciple to cut off and present his arm in order to be taught the teaching?" Ryan asked.
The master frowned.
The master insisted again that the principle behind such a commitment was the Way. Ryan's question had made the master even more impatient with our misunderstanding. He looked at Ryan and then again at me and then out at the other six members of our sangha present in our semicircle.
"You all want the teaching to be nice!" the master said, his leaden sarcasm falling on the word "nice." "Everybody always wants the teaching to be so nice! It's not nice! The Way is not always nice!"
His each utterance of the word "nice" did not merely drip with sarcasm, it splashed with sarcasm and with sarcasm it splattered.
"Niiice!"
The master's inflection had transformed the word "nice" into a synonym and euphemism for shit. Inviting comment, again the master looked slowly around our small semicircle of seated students.
There was none.
The master turned to me.
"You should examine your understanding of the word 'crazy'," the master said. "What is crazy to you is not crazy to me."
I felt slightly insulted.
If anyone understood the relativity of the concept of "crazy" it was me. Just five months earlier in his dharma study the master had called anyone who wanted to die "crazy," "mentally ill," and "deluded." Only after a quarrel had the master reluctantly conceded that a very small number of people—"a drop in the bucket," he said—did want to die; and the master had added that most people who do attempt to take their own lives—"the vast majority"—simply seek attention.
To me this sounded like slander.
My father took his own life; and every quarter I had in my classes half a dozen to a dozen students who wrote that they had attempted to end their own lives or wanted to. They felt unloved, angry, alienated, depressed, confused, lost, empty, and sad. They were desperate to understand life and be free of their suffering and pain. To them life did not make sense.
Was this desperation not the same as that of Huiko? To what teacher could they appeal? Were their suicides somehow different from Huiko's cutting off his arm? Were they and their gestures crazy and Huiko and his gesture sane? Did not all arise from despair? If the master were right and the attempts of my students to end their own lives were only pleas for attention, how did their situations differ from the plight of Huiko? Were they not all calling out in desperation? "I don't understand! It hurts! I will do anything for an end to this torment! Please, help me!"
I wondered.
The previous quarter six of my students had confessed they were cutters. In the privacy of their bedrooms and bathrooms they used razor blades, pocket knives, and even paperclips to tear a hole and make themselves bleed. The physical pain, they wrote, seemed easier to bear than the mental pain. Could not the same be said of Bodhidharma's disciple? To receive the teaching Huiko had offered his severed arm to his teacher. My students, ignorant of the Way and contemptuous of the whole idea of such a teacher, offered their blood to the void. Willing to throw their lives away to end their pain they tried to hurt and to kill themselves. In just a few words, in a single sentence, clumsily I had tried to make this analogy for the master.
He didn't understand. To the master it seemed an irrelevant digression. He looked annoyed.
"What does suicide have to do with Huiko?" the master demanded. "Explain what you mean!"
The master glared at me.
The vehemence of his response startled me. I stammered and had to restart my sentence two or three times.
"They're lost, confused, suffering, in pain, and they act out of desperation," I said.
I paused.
"They all seek help and understanding."
The master listened.
He seemed neither to approve nor to disapprove of my analogy and the master returned to the topic of the commitment and sacrifice of Huiko. Now the master seemed to imply that his own students, too, should be willing to give an arm for the teaching. I was certain that the master meant this only metaphorically.
But while I considered my words and searched for the right ones, Martin raised his hands in gassho.
The master nodded.
"Yes?"
"I am glad that Huiko did cut off his arm for the teaching," Martin said, "because, if he had not, Bodhidharma would not have accepted Huiko as his student; Huiko would not have received the teaching; the teaching would not have been transmitted through the lineage to Dogen, and to Katagiri, and to you, my teacher; and I would not be here now with the teaching that has meant and still does mean so much to me."
Martin waited as the master considered his response. His words sharp with irony and even, I thought, contempt, the master replied.
"Those are very pretty words," said the master, "and I'm sure they sound quite beautiful and nice to many people but I do not think that you have even the slightest idea of what you have said or what those words really mean."
Oof!
We all looked at Martin.
Martin sat calmly.
We waited.
Martin appeared unfazed.
We all sat silently reflecting upon what had so far transpired. I was fascinated. To me it seemed all so interesting! A full minute of silence went by, maybe more, yet no one appeared visibly uneasy. We regulars in the sangha had all grown comfortable with such silences. It had become part of our practice. I again raised my hands in gassho.
The master acknowledged me.
"Kudo," I said, my voice thick and unsteady with entreaty, "you would not want Edward to cut off his arm as evidence of his commitment. If Edward cut off his arm and brought it to you as an offering you would be aghast. I know you! You'd say, 'Edward, what have you done, you moron! How stupid!'"
The master listened calmly to my scenario. He seemed unimpressed. He remained silent for several seconds before he responded.
"No," the master replied contemplatively, "I don't know how I would respond."
The master and I looked over at Edward sitting directly across our semicircle from me. Edward returned our gaze, blankly, and then looked down at his hands resting in his lap in the mudra.
Edward remained silent.
"You mean 'cut off his arm' as a metaphor," I said. "As metaphor it makes sense."
The master thought about this.
"Nananda cut off her arm," he said.
Nananda was the master's first and so far only dharma heir.
"Metaphorically you mean," I said.
"Nananda cut off her arm!" the master repeated.
It was clear that this was the master's final statement on the matter. I understood that the master would make no concession to metaphor.
I was silent.
We all were. We all understood that Nananda had given up her life, that is, the way she had previously lived, to study with the master. In that sense, yes, she had given everything, I could acknowledge. But all of us who were present knew that she had not cut off her arm. From his cushion the master gazed out over our small assembly to see if there were more questions.
There were none.
I didn't press the matter. The master was immovable, adamant, stubborn, defiant, in the mode I would call borderline insulting. One more question and the master, I felt sure, would call it or me or both stupid.
Had Nananda cut off her arm?
No.
Not if language meant anything at all.
No.
But perhaps the master intended to break the language or somehow to demonstrate its limits.
I was hung up.
Nananda had given up everything for the teaching, yes, she had.
Had she cut off her arm?
No.
It was all so interesting. I wanted to ask the master about the medieval Christian monks who had castrated themselves for God but the time wasn't right. The dharma talk was over.
The master placed his palms in gassho, I struck the big rin, the keisu, and we all recited the simple eko and the four vows of the bodhisattva. In front of the main altar the master offered three full prostrations as we watched. I rang the inkin and we all bowed in shashu and I rang the inkin and we all bowed once more as the master left the room. We brushed grit and the hair of the temple cat and dog from our zabutons and we fluffed our zafus and stacked both mats and cushions neatly in their assigned spot in the corner of the buddha hall. The shoten had prepared the pastry, tea, and coffee which waited for us now in the kitchen. As we strolled to the rolls and doughnuts Edward pulled me gently to the side.
He grinned and, feigning confidentiality, his eyes twinkled.
I waited.
"Why did you have to choose my arm as your example?"
We laughed.
Over our pastry and beverages we made small talk of Christmas and Christian prejudice and in general of holy days and their observance. That afternoon I received an email from Esther.
"I admit I was too chicken to speak up after the way the master responded to you," Esther wrote. "Neither did I understand how cutting off an arm proved that the monk had the right stuff to study under the teacher. Huiko, though, certainly did get his attention! But the master never did explain in what way Nananda had cut off her arm yet the master also said that the cutting off of her arm was not symbolic."
In my three years at the temple I had heard more than a few people say that because they felt intimidated by the master they had not said or not asked what they had wanted to say or ask. More than once the master had let me know that he himself knew this was true. Yet the master seemed to interpret their intimidation as a sign of weakness on their part; and it seemed to me that often the master's response to such weakness was increased contempt. When I got home from the temple I sat down at my computer and recorded my thoughts of what had just transpired.
Had Nananda cut off her arm?
No!
No.
A thousand times no!
But still I had learned, as I always did, from the master's answers.
Every Tuesday I served as doan at evening zazen and every Tuesday night we ended zazen by chanting the Fukanzazengi, the Universally Recommended Instructions for Zazen. Near the beginning of the text is this passage: "Therefore put aside the intellectual practice of investigating words and chasing phrases and learn to take the backward step that turns the light and shines it inward." Then—just a few lines further on—this: "Put aside all involvements and suspend all affairs. Do not think good or bad. Do not judge true or false. Give up the operations of mind, intellect, and consciousness. Stop measuring with thoughts, ideas, and views."
When I arrived home I looked up the story of Bodhidharma and Huiko in Zen Flesh, Zen Bones, the slender anthology of Zen stories and Zen koans compiled by Paul Reps. There the two stories of the teacher Bodhidharma and his disciple Huiko are combined into one. The postulant Huiko stands in the snow and offers his arm, his turmoil, and his question to the teacher Bodhidharma. But in Zen Flesh, Zen Bones the story is followed by this comment from the medieval monk Mumon: "Bodhidharma remained years in China and had only one disciple and that one lost his arm and was deformed," says Mumon. "Alas," Mumon concludes, "ever since he has had brainless disciples!"
