Chapter 2
This chapter is pretty simple, and yet I spent longer than I anticipated chewing on it.
The opening line:
As to performing the six pāramitās and vast numbers of similar practices, or gaining merits as countless as the sands of the Ganges, since you are fundamentally complete in every respect, you should not try to supplement that perfection by such meaningless practices.
Simple enough, right? This is a fundamental zen thing, we all have Buddha nature, there is nothing to do its always just there.
That’s not to say that Huang Po’s message is to reject all the practices outright. Rather, the message is more not to get attached to the practices themselves.
When there is occasion for them, perform them; and, when the occasion is passed, remain quiescent. If you are not absolutely convinced that the Mind is the Buddha, and if you are attached to forms, practices and meritorious performances, your way of thinking is false and quite incompatible with the Way.
During and after high school, I played guitar with a buddy of mine who was entirely self-taught. But not self-taught in that he read books and learned on his own. No, when he was a young kid he got his hands on a guitar and just started making sounds with it, figuring out what worked and what didn’t. Basically, reinventing the wheel. He was obsessive and played constantly, but the time I was jamming with him he had been playing for probably a decade, couldn’t read music, knew a few chord names, but that was the extent of his knowledge. He was an incredible guitar player, technically proficient, but more importantly he always played with “soul” and could come up with fantastic riffs or solos or melodies like it was nothing. After jamming with him for a while, I went to college and decided to major in jazz guitar. My buddy and I often talked about whether a formalized music education was valuable, or whether the rigid structures you learn would take away the “soul” of your music.
In my jazz program, I met and played with some incredible guitar players who were the complete opposite of my buddy. They were steeped in music theory and constantly trying to push boundaries, playing off of medieval scales in solos and the like. While interesting and technically impressive, I never found what they played to be “enjoyable” to listen to. It had the flavor of someone trying to impress you with their vocabulary by throwing around a bunch of big words, with whatever message they were trying to convey being lost in the process.
I’d still go and jam with my self-taught buddy, and I’d give him little primers on theory, or show him different chord forms. He was able to take that stuff and use it in his own way. The knowledge he gained from him didn’t limit the “soul” of his playing, it just gave him new tools to play with.
I’m not sure there is a great point to this story, but I was reminded of it while chewing on this chapter. There are technical zen teachings which you can use to further your own understanding of Mind. You don’t necessarily need them, you can be self-taught like my friend. Indeed, that is what the Buddha himself did. But its reinventing the wheel, and needlessly forgoing available knowledge that can be beneficial. On the other hand, you don’t want to cling so tightly to teachings and practices, and end up missing the point. I always feel like this is a cop out response, but perhaps the “middle way” is the answer.
If we take Huang Po’s argument seriously, the only conclusion I can come to is that I should immediately put down this book and stop reading it. Because what do I have to learn from this at all, as my focus should just be on realizing the true nature of mind, not reading his sermons. Even knowledge of what I “should” be doing is probably too much. But realization is not something that is easy to come to naturally. I, like probably most people, need some kind of preparation for my mind to get to that place of realizing itself. Otherwise, I’d just go about my life concerned with the this and that of ordinary things, continuing with all the associated attachments. So, reading and thinking about and writing about this book is part of my practice, as listening to his speech here was part of his own student's practice. Perhaps I should not cling to Huang Po’s words, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use them and find value in them.
And I think that is important to keep in mind as well, that his students would have come to him having studied Buddhism in various traditions for years before seeking him out. They would have been very experienced practitioners. His message was to them, not to lay people reading his words over 1,000 years later. His audience would have been like the students I played with in college, obsessed with forms and technical knowledge. His message to them was to not lose the “soul” in their playing. But as lay people reading Hung Pao centuries later, its easy to take that message too far and think that Huang Po was saying that there is no value in practice at all, that we should avoid it at all costs.