When Yun Men was asked for the ultimate secret of Buddhism, he replied, "Dumpling!"
 The attitude of wu-tzin is by no means an anti-intellectualist exclusion of thinking.
 Wu-tzin is action on any level whatsoever, physical or psychic, without trying at the
 same moment to observe and check the action from outside.
 The same is true of the relationship between feeling and action, for feeling blocks action,
 and blocks itself as a form of action when it gets caught in this same tendency to observe
 or feel itself indefinitely, as when, in the midst of enjoying myself, I examine myself
 to see if I am getting the utmost out of the occasion.
 Not content with tasting the food, I am also trying to taste my tongue.
 Not content with feeling happy, I want to feel myself feeling happy, so as to be sure
 not to miss anything.
 Whether trusting our memories or trusting the mind to act on its own, it comes to the
 same thing.
 Ultimately, we must act and think, live and die, from a source beyond all our knowledge
 and control.
 In the end, the only alternative to a shuddering paralysis is to leap into action regardless
 of the consequences.
 Action in this spirit may be right or wrong with respect to conventional standards, but
 our decisions upon the conventional level must be supported by the conviction that whatever
 we do, and whatever happens to us, is ultimately right.
 In other words, we must enter into it without second thought.
 But to act without second thought, without double-mindedness, is by no means a mere precept
 for our imitation, for we cannot realize this kind of action until it is clear beyond any
 shadow of a doubt that it is actually impossible to do anything else.
 Now this impossibility of grasping the mind with the mind is, when realized, the non-action,
 ouwe, the sitting quietly doing nothing, whereby spring comes and the grass grows by itself.
 Social conditioning fosters the identification of the mind with a fixed idea of itself as
 the means of self-control, and as a result man thinks of himself as "I," the ego.
 As soon as it becomes important for me to be spontaneous, the intention to be so is
 strengthened.
 I cannot get rid of it, and yet it is the one thing that stands in the way of its own
 fulfillment.
 It is as if someone had given me some medicine with the warning that it will not work if
 I think of a monkey while taking it.
 While I am remembering to forget the monkey, I am in a double-bind situation where "to
 do" is "not to do" and vice versa.
 "Yes" implies "no," and "go" implies "stop."
 At this point Zen comes to me and asks, "If you cannot help remembering the monkey, are
 you doing it on purpose?
 In other words, do I have an intention for being intentional?"
 Suddenly I realize that my very intending is spontaneous, or that my controlling self,
 the ego, arises from my uncontrolled or natural self.
 At this moment all the machinations of the ego come to naught.
 It is annihilated in its own trap.
 I see that it is actually impossible not to be spontaneous, for what I cannot help doing
 I am doing spontaneously, but if I am at the same time trying to control it, I interpret
 it as a compulsion.
 As a Zen master said, "Nothing is left to you at this moment but to have a good laugh."
 In this moment the whole quality of consciousness is changed, and I feel myself in a new world
 in which, however, it is obvious that I have always been living.
 As soon as I recognize that my voluntary and purposeful action happens spontaneously, by
 itself, just like breathing, hearing, and feeling, I am no longer caught in the contradiction
 of trying to be spontaneous.
 There is no real contradiction, since trying is spontaneity.
 Seeing this, the compulsive, blocked, and tied-up feeling vanishes.
 It is just as if I had been absorbed in a tug-of-war between my two hands and had forgotten
 that both were mine.


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