The major problem of each of these disciplines is to bring the student to the point from
 which he can really begin.
 Herigel spent almost five years trying to find the right way of releasing the bowstring,
 for it had to be done unintentionally, in the same way as a ripe fruit bursts its skin.
 His problem was to resolve the paradox of practicing relentlessly without ever trying,
 and to let go of the taught string intentionally without intention.
 His master, at one and the same time, urged him to keep on working and working, but also
 to stop making an effort.
 For the art cannot be learned unless the arrow shoots itself, unless the string is released
 wu xin and wu nian, without mind and without thought.
 The same is true in learning to use the brush for writing or painting.
 The brush must draw by itself.
 This cannot happen if one does not practice constantly, but neither can it happen if one
 makes an effort.
 Similarly, in swordsmanship, one must not first decide upon a certain thrust and then
 attempt to make it, since by that time it would be too late.
 Decision and action must be simultaneous.
 This was the point of Dogen's image of firewood and ashes, for to say that firewood does not
 become ashes is to say that it has no intention to be ash before it is actually ash, and then
 it is no longer firewood.
 Dogen insisted that the two states were clearly cut, and in the same way Herigel's master
 did not want him to mix the two states of stretching and releasing the bow.
 He instructed him to draw it to the point of fullest tension and stop there without
 any purpose, any intention in mind, as to what to do next.
 Likewise, in Dogen's view of zazen, one must be sitting just to sit, and there must not
 be any intention to have satori.
 The sudden visions of nature which form the substance of haiku arise in the same way,
 for they are never there when one looks for them.
 The artificial haiku always feels like a piece of life which has been deliberately broken
 off or wrenched away from the universe, whereas the genuine haiku has dropped off all by itself
 and has the whole universe inside it.
 Because zen does not involve an ultimate dualism between the controller and the controlled,
 the mind and the body, the spiritual and the material, there is always a certain physiological
 aspect to its techniques.
 Whether zen is practiced through zazen or chano-yu or kendo, great importance is attached
 to the way of breathing.
 Not only is breathing one of the two fundamental rhythms of the body, it is also the process
 in which control and spontaneity, voluntary and involuntary action, find their most obvious
 identity.
 So-called normal breathing is fitful and anxious.
 The air is always being held and not fully released, for the individual seems incapable
 of letting it run its full course through the lungs.
 He breathes compulsively rather than freely.
 The technique, therefore, begins by encouraging a full release of the breath, easing it out,
 as if the body were being emptied of air by a great leaden ball sinking through the chest
 and abdomen and settling down into the ground.
 The returning in-breath is then allowed to follow as a simple reflex action.
 The air is not actively inhaled, it is just allowed to come, and then, when the lungs
 are comfortably filled, it is allowed to go out once more.
 The image of the leaden ball giving it the sense of falling out is distinct from being
 pushed out.
 But just as there is no need to try to be in accord with the Tao, to try to see, or
 to try to hear, so it must be remembered that the breath will always take care of itself.
 This is not a breathing exercise so much as a watching and letting of the breath, and
 it is always a serious mistake to undertake it in the spirit of a compulsive discipline
 to be practiced with a goal in mind.
 This way of breathing is not for special times alone.
 Like Zen itself, it is for all circumstances whatsoever, and in this way every human activity
 can become a form of Zazen.
 In its own way, each one of the arts which Zen has inspired gives vivid expression to
 the sudden or instantaneous quality of its view of the world.
 The momentariness of Sumi paintings and haiku, and the total presence of mind required in
 Chan-o-yu and Kendo, bring out the real reason why Zen has always called itself the way of
 instantaneous awakening.
 It is not just that Satori comes quickly and unexpectedly, all of a sudden, for mere speed
 has nothing to do with it.
 The reason is that Zen is a liberation from time.
 For if we open our eyes and see clearly, it becomes obvious that there is no other time
 than this instant, and that the past and the future are abstractions without any concrete
 reality.
 Till this has become clear, it seems that our life is all past and future, and that
 the present is nothing more than the infinitesimal hairline which divides them.
 From this comes the sensation of having no time, of a world which hurries by so rapidly
 that it is gone before we can enjoy it.
 But through awakening to the instant, one sees that this is the reverse of the truth.
 It is rather the past and future which are the fleeting illusions, and the present which
 is eternally real.
 (soft music)
 (soft music)
 (gentle music)


{END}
Wait Time : 0.00 sec
Model Load: 0.63 sec
Decoding  : 0.41 sec
Transcribe: 533.79 sec
Total Time: 534.84 sec