In effect then, in the discipline of Zen, when you finally convince the master that you are stupid enough to be accepted as a student,
 because you've persisted and because you've defined yourself as someone having a problem,
 he has warned you well in advance that he has nothing to teach.
 But he says, "Now I will ask you a question."
 There are many ways of asking this question, but they all boil down to one common theme.
 And that is, "Who are you?"
 You say you have a problem.
 You say you would like to get out of the sufferings of life.
 You say you would like to get one up on the universe.
 I want to know who's asking this question.
 Show me you.
 Only they put it in such ways as,
 "Before your father and mother conceived you, what was your original nature?"
 Questions like that.
 And they'll say, "Now, look, I want to be shown. I don't want a lot of ideas about who you are.
 I don't want to know who you are in terms of a social role, you know, that you have such degrees or you have such professional qualifications and such a name and such a family.
 All that's the past.
 I want to see you genuinely now."
 It's like saying to a person, "Now, don't be self-conscious. See?
 I want you right this minute to be completely sincere."
 "There was a young man who said, 'Though it seems that I know that I know, what I would like to see is the eye that knows me when I know that I know that I know.'"
 And so this is the Zen trick.
 It's to put you into this situation in a very crucial way.
 To think about, thinking about, thinking about, thinking about.
 Or, just the same thing, to make a very strong effort not to think.
 That's Zazen.
 Sit, let your senses operate and be responsive to whatever there may be around, but don't think about it.
 But now this is already thinking.
 I'm thinking about not thinking.
 How will I stop thinking about not thinking?
 So there you are. See? You're all caught up.
 It's like somebody came to you and they put tar in one hand, molasses, feathers in the other, slapped the two hands together, rubbed them around, said, "Now pick off the feathers."
 In Zen, the double bind is put on you deliberately, knowing how stupid it is.
 The teacher is well aware of everything he's doing and what tricks he's playing on you.
 Because he has behind it all the compassionate intent of getting you into such a fierce double bind that you will see how stupid it is.
 So then, what happens is this.
 He gives you the double bind.
 Be genuine. I want to see you do something that is the real you.
 I had a friend who was studying Zen and he was given some koan like this to work on.
 And when he was one day going for his interview, he walked through the garden that connected the sodo, or the monk's study quarters, with the master's place.
 And there was a big bullfrog.
 Bullfrogs in this country are rather tame. People don't eat them.
 And so he swept up the bullfrog and dropped it into the sleeve of his kimono.
 And when he got in front of the teacher to answer the koan, that is to say, to do spontaneously, produce his genuine self, he produced the bullfrog.
 And the teacher looked at it and shook his head and said, "Mmm-mmm. Too intellectual."
 Or, as we might say, "Too contrived, too studied."
 That's not yet you.
 Now do you see the bind in this?
 It's like being told that everything is alright at this moment so long as you don't think of a green elephant.
 So try not to think of a green elephant.
 Now as he works at this, as he tries to produce the genuine you,
 the teacher really strings him out on this and makes him work and work and work over a period of many months,
 until he comes to the point of seeing this.
 There is nothing you can do to be genuine.
 The more you do, the phonier you are.
 But at the opposite extreme, there is nothing you can not do.
 That is to say, you cannot give up trying to be genuine.
 You can't relax, you know, and be completely passive,
 and say, "Well, let's forget about it.
 Let's think about practical matters and forget all these spiritual concerns."
 The moment you do that, your abandonment of trying is itself an insidious form of trying.
 The way of Buddhism is to let go of yourself,
 to see that you live in a universe in which nothing can be grasped.
 Therefore, stop grasping.
 So here's the problem.
 I come and say to the teacher, "Teach me not to grasp."
 He'll say, "Why do you want to know?"
 And he shows you that the reason why you want to stop grasping is that it's a new form of grasping.
 You feel that you will beat the game by being unattached.
 Zen is not merely a cult of impulsive action.
 The point is not to eliminate reflective thought, but to eliminate blocking in both action and thought,
 so that the response of the mind is always like a ball in a mountain stream,
 one thought after another without hesitation.
 There is something similar in this to the psychoanalytic practice of free association
 that is a technique to get rid of obstacles to the free flow of thought from the unconscious.
 The simplest cure is to feel free to block, so that one does not block at blocking.
 When one feels free to block, the blocking automatically eliminates itself.
 It is like riding a bicycle.
 When one starts falling to the left, one does not resist the fall by turning to the right.
 One turns the wheel to the left, and the balance is restored.
 Blocking is perhaps the best translation of the Zen term "nyen," as it occurs in the phrase "wu-nyen,"
 "no thought," or better, "no second thought."
 Taekwon points out that this is the real meaning of attachment in Buddhism,
 as when it is said that a Buddha is free from worldly attachments.
 It does not mean that he is a stone Buddha with no feelings, no emotions, and no sensations of hunger or pain.
 It means that he does not block at anything.
 Thus it is typical of Zen that its style of action enters into everything wholeheartedly and freely,
 without having to keep an eye on itself.
 It does not confuse spirituality with thinking about God while one is peeling potatoes.
 Zen spirituality is just to peel the potatoes.
 As the fish swims in the water but is unmindful of the water,
 the bird flies in the wind but knows not of the wind,
 so the true life of Zen has no need to raise waves when no wind is blowing,
 to drag in religion or spirituality as something over and above life itself.
 This is why the sage Fa-jung received no more offerings of flowers from the birds
 after he had had his interview with the fourth patriarch,
 for his holiness no longer stood out like a sore thumb.
 It is often said that to be clinging to oneself is like having a thorn in the skin,
 and that Buddhism is a second thorn to extract the first.
 When it is out, both thorns are thrown away.
 In the moment when Buddhism, when philosophy or religion,
 becomes another way of clinging to oneself, so seeking a spiritual security,
 the two thorns become one.
 And how is it to be taken out?
 This, as Bang Kai said, is "wiping off blood with blood."
 Therefore, in Zen, there is neither self nor Buddha, to which one can cling,
 no good to gain and no evil to be avoided,
 no thoughts to be eradicated, no mind to be purified,
 no body to perish and no soul to be saved.
 At one blow, this entire framework of abstractions is shattered to fragments.


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