One day Master Jinfeng was in the monastics’ hall where sesame rice cakes were being served. He took one of them, and from the teacher’s end of the platform he rolled it into the assembly.1 Seeing this, the assembly of monastics joined their hands palm to palm.2 Jinfeng said, “Even if you had picked it up, you still would have only half of it.”3 When Jinfeng gave instruction later that evening a monastic said, “When you rolled the rice cake, seeing the monastics join their hands you said, ‘Even if you had picked it up, you still would have only half of it.’ Please Master, say it all for me.”4 Jinfeng held up a rice cake and said, “Do you understand it?”5 The monastic said, “No, I don’t.”6 Jinfeng said, “I have expressed only half of it.”7[View Footnotes] Zen ancestors have always understood that explaining the teachings inevitably results in a mire of words in which the truth sinks away. Jinfeng thus took up a rice cake and rolled it into the assembly. The monastics, not knowing how to take it, responded like a herd of trained seals. The master, trying to press the matter further said, “Even if you had picked it up, you still would have only half of it.” Half of what? Later, when asked by a monastic to please say it all, he held up a rice cake, but the monastic did not understand. Again he said, “I have expressed only half of it.” Why didn’t he express it all, as the monastic had asked? If you say it cannot be expressed, then why did he bring it up in the first place? If you say that it can be expressed, then show it now. After all, if there’s one half here, there must be another half somewhere.The Commentary
The Capping Verse
If you wish to understand it all,
then look at September, look at October.
The golden wind, heavy with autumn’s fragrance
enters the mouth of the valley.
Footnote: *300 Koan Shobogenzo is a collection of koans gathered by Master Dogen during his study in China. The koans from this collection, often called the Chinese Shobogenzo, appear extensively in the essays of Dogen’s Japanese Shobogenzo. These koans have not been available in English translation but are currently being translated and prepared for publication by Kazuaki Tanahashi and Abbot John Daido Loori. Abbot Loori has added a commentary, capping verse, and footnotes to each koan.
This great universe is boundless and each of us is unlimited
in our potential. If we wish to pass through the barriers of habit and
convention, and cut free from delusive attachments, we must first trust that to
do this is within our power. The truth which is beyond thinking must become the
subject of most serious inquiry. When we are clear, we are free whether we are
on the road or in the mountains. When we are in doubt, we hesitate; the wordly
truth prevails and we become entangled in the forest of brambles. What is the
truth that is beyond thinking? This koan investigates this question.
There’s not much known about Jinfeng except that he was a dharma heir of Caoshan (Jap. Sozan), who in turn was a successor of Dongshan and the co-founder of the Soto school of Zen. Jinfeng comes from a line of outstanding teachers, so he must have been a formidable master himself.
In this koan we meet him as he offers the teachings to his monastics during one of the meals. One day Master Jinfeng was in the monastics’ hall where sesame rice cakes were being served. He took one of them, and from the teacher’s end of the platform he rolled it into the assembly. In Japanese monasteries the altar is placed at the center of the meditation hall, and all around it is a platform called tan. It’s raised about three feet off the ground, and on it sits a row of tatami mats six feet long by three feet wide. That mat is the monastics’ home. That’s where they sit, that’s where they eat, that’s where they sleep. In it they store all their worldly possessions: their robe and bowl. Along the edge of the platform runs an eight-inch board where the monastics place their oryoki bowls during the formal meals.
Jinfeng was sitting at the head of the tan. He took a nice, round rice cake and rolled it down the length of the tan. As it went by, the monastics put their palms together in gassho. Since that was their reaction Jinfeng needed to stoke the furnace a little bit more, so he said, Even if you had picked it up, you still would have only half of it. Just in case they didn’t get that he was teaching them, he announced it. He wasn’t rolling around the rice cake just for fun; it was not a casual gesture. This is not a casual koan. Master Dogen collected the three hundred koans because of their teaching value, not because they might be fun to read. So what is going on here? What is the point of this rice cake rolling down the platform? What is the point of the teacher saying, Even if you had picked it up, you still would have only half of it. Half of what? He obviously wasn’t just talking about the rice cake, so it must have some significance beyond itself. What is it?
When Jinfeng gave instruction later that evening a monastic said, “When you rolled the rice cake, seeing the monastics join their hands you said, ‘Even if you had picked it up, you still would have only half of it.’ Please Master, say it all for me.” Jinfeng held up a rice cake and said, “Do you understand it?” The monastic said, “No, I don’t.” Jinfeng said, “I have expressed only half of it.” What is the rice cake? What is the significance of Jinfeng saying, Even if you had picked it up, you still would have only half of it. What is the whole thing? Is there a whole thing? If there is, why didn’t he say it? Most importantly, if you were in that assembly, how would you avoid acting like a trained seal?
I added some footnotes to clarify this case. One Day Master Jinfeng was in the monastics’ hall where sesame rice cakes were being served. He took one of them, and from the teacher’s end of the platform he rolled it into the assembly. The footnote says, He wants to feed the whole congregation all at once. What is his dharma food? Seeing this, the assembly of monastics joined their hands palm to palm. Footnote says, What is wrong with them? I’m afraid they’ve all fallen into the same pit. That’s why I say they responded like a herd of trained seals.
It seems that one of the pervasive human characteristics is to follow and imitate others. It’s the monkey-see, monkey-do mentality. In general, we tend to respond to situations the same way as others around us. Nobody wants to step out of the norm. It’s conditioning that starts very early on in life, from the time that, as children, we let ourselves be dominated by our peers. Kids imitate each other in the way they dress, the way they act, even the way they talk. Twelve-year-old girls have a certain inflection — a kind of drawl — and it’s there no matter what part of the country they’re from. Boys’ speech is sharper, more clipped. They want to sound tough. But the important thing is that at the bottom of all this imitation is a desperate hunger for affirmation and approval. That’s the nose ring, and it’s not just for kids, but for all of us. I worry about it here at the Monastery. I wonder whether I am training seals, because it’s very easy to be a seal. We all bow together, we turn to the right, we turn to the left, but how many people know what they’re doing? If they don’t know, they should demand to know. Nothing we do is arbitrary. Every little gesture has a specific reason that has to do with training and realization. It’s not there because someone forgot to take it out. It’s there because it’s relevant.
I’ve always had a very difficult time with Japanese culture because of the great value placed on uniformity. Everyone acts the same. Nobody rocks the boat. Yet when I went to Eiheiji and Sojiji monasteries I was delighted to see that even the youngest monastics who were in charge of serving guests expressed freedom and individuality. They had confidence in who they were, which is a testimony to the possibilities of Zen training. But if we’re not careful, practice can be just training students to respond automatically, like Pavlov’s dog.
Jinfeng said, “Even if you had picked it up, you still would have only half of it.” The footnote says, Hoping for a sign of life he stirs the pot again. When Jinfeng gave instruction later that evening a monastic said, “When you rolled the rice cake, seeing the monastics join their hands you said, ‘Even if you had picked it up, you still would have only half of it.’ Please Master, say it all for me.” The footnote says, A live one has appeared. Not all is lost after all. Who is the live one? It’s someone who is willing to take a chance, to go to the edge. It’s someone who is willing to put themselves on the spot and ask. That’s the only way that this teaching can take place. No matter how well you memorize the sutras or understand the form or follow the precepts or do any of the hundred thousand things we do, the truth still needs to be realized. That realization is based on the teacher-student interaction. Nobody does it alone. The teacher can’t do it alone. The student can’t do it alone.
Jinfeng held up a rice cake and said, “Do you understand it?” The footnote says, The entire teaching of countless generations is right in his face. A rice cake is the teaching of countless generations? Obviously there is something to this rice cake. Rice cakes come up a lot in the koans. “Yunmen said to the assembly, ‘Hear the sound and be enlightened. See form and clarify the mind. What is hearing sound and being enlightened? What is seeing form and clarifying the mind?’ He raised his hand and said, ‘Avalokiteshvara has brought some money to buy a rice cake. If she put it down it’s by origin a bean cake.’” That’s one of the cases in the Book of Equanimity. In another case a monastic asked Yunmen, “‘What is the talk that transcends the buddhas and ancestors?’ Yunmen said, ‘Rice cake.’” So what is the meaning of this rice cake?
Jinfeng asked the monastic if he understood and the latter said, “No, I don’t.”Footnote: Too bad. After all, the teacher can’t do it alone. The teacher can’t transmit the dharma alone. The student can’t receive it alone. Of course it’s always possible that somebody spontaneously becomes realized, but the probability of it happening is very slight. The only case I know of in the Zen tradition is that of the Sixth Ancestor. All of the other masters became enlightened in relationship with their teachers. That’s not the same as a self-appointed guru. It’s very easy to approve oneself. Nobody checks on you so you decide, Okay, now I’m enlightened. It’s a trap. Be careful of it. The last line says, Jinfeng said, “I have expressed only half of it.” The footnote says, Although you bump into it everywhere, it’s still hard to talk about it. Bump into what?
The commentary says, Zen ancestors have always understood
that explaining the teachings inevitably results in a mire of words in which the
truth sinks away. Jinfeng thus took up a rice cake and rolled it into the
assembly. The monastics, not knowing how to take it, responded like a herd of
trained seals. The master, trying to press the matter further said, “Even if you
had picked it up, you still would have only have half of it.” Remember the
Buddha on Mount Ghridrakuta. He held up a flower in front of the assembly,
revealing the family secret. Mahakashyapa alone smiled. Therefore, he did not
conceal it.
Later, when asked by a monastic to please say it all, he held up a rice cake, but the monastic did not understand. Again he said, “I have expressed only half of it.” Again, the question is, why didn’t he express it all? The obvious answer is it can’t be expressed. I hear it all the time in the dokusan room. I ask people, What is Mu? They say, It can’t be said. It’s been a koan since the time of Zhaozhou; thousands of people have passed through it; thousands of people have expressed it. Obviously, there must be a way of expressing it. He held up a rice cake but the monastic didn’t understand. Jinfeng said, “I have expressed only half of it.” What is he looking for?
I like this koan because it shows how important it is for the student to be awake, to be willing to ask. For example, here at the Monastery we are constantly cutting new ground. Whatever we do is happening for the first time in this kind of context, but sometimes we forget that. When we first started the entire sangha was new. They didn’t know anything about Zen so I needed to explain some very fundamental matters, like how the teacher-student relationship works, what the liturgy is, what the precepts mean. After a while, giving talks again and again and repeating the same thing, I realized that the sangha was maturing and they understood the things I was explaining, so I started to explain less. But new people keep coming all the time, and they end up not getting that basic information. By their nature, new people tend to be a bit shy so they don’t ask, and as a result they never find out the answers to their questions. Or, worse yet, they ask somebody that they think is a senior and they get a wrong answer, so when someone asks them the wrong answer goes even farther into left field and after a while it’s not even recognizable as being the dharma that we’re practicing here. As our sangha grows we need to really look at how to keep new people informed.
One of the things that should be part of the regular training is the dynamics of the teacher-student relationship. All the time people come in and ask me, How do I use this time in dokusan? The most important thing to understand is that the teacher can’t do anything if the student does not create an imperative. How do we do that? Through zazen. During sitting things that need to be dealt with bubble up to the surface. Students create an imperative through their own doubt, their questions, their faith, their determination. They create an imperative by asking a question and giving an answer. But this process of give and take can’t take place unless both student and teacher understand the rules of the game. Otherwise, it just doesn’t work.
There are several stages to the teacher-student relationship.
First the teacher is like a parent, then they become a spiritual guide, then a
spiritual friend and equal, and finally they become the child while the student
becomes the parent. They reverse roles. But there can’t be a parent-child
relationship to begin with if the student feels like they’re an orphan. A
teacher can’t be a spiritual guide unless the student is prepared to be guided.
The teacher says, If you go this way you’ll fall into a swamp; you need to go
this way. The student says, No, I want to go in that direction. Okay,
have a nice trip. The spiritual friend can’t arise unless the relationship is
friendly. The spiritual equals cannot exist unless both student and teacher
recognize their equality.
I have only expressed half of it. Why didn’t Jinfeng express it all, as the monastic asked? If you say it cannot be expressed, then why did he bring it up in the first place? Obviously he wasn’t just jousting with windmills. He brought it up because there was something he wanted to bring out into the light of day. What was it? If you say that it can be expressed, then show it now. After all, if there’s one half here, there must be another half somewhere. It makes sense. Where is the other half? What is it? Together they make the whole thing. How? Shakyamuni revealed the secret. Mahakashyapa did not conceal it.
A teacher dies for the kind of student that hops and jumps in order to get the teachings. It’s very hard to work with a lethargic student — it’s hard to work with a corpse. That’s why we need to be careful about explaining too much. When we pin things down with words, at worst we kill the truth and at best we miss the subtlety of the teaching. The teachers of old were always looking for new and vibrant ways of communicating, like the rolling of a rice cake.
The capping verse:
When you walk into the woods in the fall and all the leaves and pine needles are lying on the damp ground there is an incredibly sweet fragrance that pervades everything. If you wish to understand it all, then look at September, look at October. It’s all there; nothing is missing. It’s all in that rice cake, if you can see it. It’s all in the flower held up on Mount Gridhrakuta. It’s all in Jinfeng’s rice cake, and in Yunmen’s bean cake. Why does Jinfeng say only half? Where will you find the other half? How will you make it whole? That’s what you need to find out.
1. He wants to feed the whole congregation all at once.
2. What is wrong with them? I’m afraid they’ve all fallen into the same pit.
3. Hoping for a sign of life he stirs the pot again.
4. A live one has appeared. Not all is lost after all.
5. The entire teaching of countless generations is right in his face.
6. Too bad. After all, the teacher can’t do it alone.
7. Although you bump into it everywhere, it’s still hard to talk about it.
John Daido Loori, Roshi is the abbot of Zen Mountain Monastery. A successor to Hakuyu Taizan Maezumi, Roshi, Daido Roshi trained in rigorous koan Zen and in the subtle teachings of Master Dogen, and is a lineage holder in the Soto and Rinzai schools of Zen.
[Main Case] [Index of Dharma Discourses] [Mountain Record Subscription Information]
©2003 Zen Mountain
Monastery
mountains & rivers order | training in the mro |
zen mountain monastery | fire lotus zendo |
dharma communications | zen environmental studies
institute | society of
mountains & rivers | the
monastery store | wzen.org | contents | contact us |
All words and images on these pages are protected by
copyright