Nirvana is difficult to write about because it is only ever experienced by individuals. It is not a public performance, or a moment that can be shared socially. It doesn’t make news. No one understands someone else’s Nirvanic experience. At the same time, Nirvana is the field of gold we all share — the very ground and basis of our existence.

As if that weren’t enough, many people think of Nirvana as a rock band. Even those who have some inkling that it has vaguely to do with spirituality believe it to be a kind of spaced-out condominium in the sky, an Eldorado or Pure Land for the mystical. Few understand its central position in the lives of all of us.

It is certainly true that Nirvana has not been explained with any precision in the West: the terms “extinction” and “blown out” do little justice to the reality. It has also been regarded as a protected realm by a small clique of initiates, and by the high priests of the ancient mystery religions who regarded it as a proof of life after death.

Despite too the dismissive attitudes of orthodox science, “Nirvanic” experience is part of our empirical knowledge. It is not, however, observed by the five familiar physical senses, or by the mind, but by another means of knowing which I once called Nirvanoception.

Currently, this is a dark region for science, though near-death experiences and the theory of morphogenic fields are opening up this whole area to fresh inquiry.

The notion of a single “substance”, or ground, underlying all things is not new. The presocratic Greek philosopher, Thales, thought that all matter was composed of water. His later colleague, Anaximenes, suggested that air was a more likely candidate. In a purely material reality this seems absurd. But if we were able to see the world in the manner of extended still-frame photography, one picture every ten years, say, over a period of several million, even the most solid mountain range would appear to move and flow. In fact it would be indistinguishable from the sea.

Any being living at that frequency of thought would see rocks as water. It is a sobering idea that such beings would drink mountains. Water itself would be too volatile to register in such a slow-coach consciousness.

Next : The three modes of knowing.

A Life of Dogen by John M Evans. In the Zen Masters Series.

Dogen was born in the year 1200 to an aristocratic family from Kyoto, the capital of Imperial Japan. When his mother died, he was adopted by the Regent. It was certain that he could look forward to a bright future at Court. Consequently, he was given the wide-ranging education necessary for a nobleman, and acquired many of the worldly skills of a high-ranking gentleman.

At the age of thirteen, however, some inner prompting forced him to abandon his political connections and seek the protection of an uncle who was an influential figure in the Buddhist Tendai school. A year later he was ordained and learning the syncretic and socially-aware doctines practised by this school.

That Dogen was not totally convinced by the Tendai teachings is borne out by the fact that within a year he was consulting Eisai, the Zen master who had introduced the Rinzai school into Japan. It is also said that he was pointed in the direction of Zen by a Tendai priest, no doubt spotting an incipient impatience with the school’s more elaborate doctrines and rites.

It says much for the basic unity of the Buddhist schools in Japan at that time that he continued to study Tendai contemplation methods, even after he had become formally associated with Rinzai Zen. In his later teaching phase, however, Dogen was to drop the rituals of esotericism from his own school of Zen. He described his early training and its set-backs in a lecture to an assembly of his student monks:

When I was quite young, the realization of the
transiency of this world stirred the mind towards
seeking the Way. After leaving Mt. Hiel, I visited
many temples during my practice of the Way, but until
I arrived at Kenninji I had yet to meet a real
teacher or a good friend. I was deluded and filled
with erroneous thoughts. The teachers I had seen
had advised me to study until I could be as learned
as those who had preceded me. I was told to make
myself known to the state and to gain fame in the
world…But on opening (books of biographies) and
on learning about the great priests and Buddhists
of China, I could see that their approach differed
from those of my teachers…By even thinking about
fame, I would be disgracing the old men of wisdom
and the men of good will to come, while earning a fine
name among inferior persons of this period. If I
wanted to emulate someone, it should be the former
sages and eminent priests of China and India,
rather than those of Japan…My physical and
mental makeup changed completely.

After Eisai’s death, he continued his connection with the Zen school through Myozen, the master’s successor, and finally became his disciple some three years later, at the age of eighteen. Such was his talent and application that, at twenty-one, Dogen was recognized as Myozen’s successor in the Oryu branch of the Rinzai Zen school.

There followed a visit to China, at that period the land of the Holy Grail, with his master, Myozen. It seems though that they were rather restricted by the political conditions then prevailing and could not travel much outside the Eastern part of the Empire. It is possible that this did not weigh too heavily on Dogen as he soon realized he had nothing to learn from any of the Zen masters there. It was a classic case of the pupil outstripping the teachers. He decided to return to Kyoto.

In the end he was persuaded to see one more master, Nyojo, and found his final teacher, staying on in his monastery for two years. His enlightenment came during this period of study and intensive meditation. Given his early preoccupation with words, it is perhaps not surprising that the trigger for his realisation came in the form of a rebuke by Nyojo to a sleeping monk.

“The study of Zen requires the shedding of body and mind.”

At this Dogen achieved great enlightenment. In his twenty-eighth year he returned to Japan having “completed his life’s study”.

Now Read Part 3

A Life of Bankei by John M Evans. Part of the Zen Masters Series.

Read Part 1

Another disciple was concerned about his wandering mind. He could not concentrate on the Unborn all the time without his mind sloping off to other thoughts. Bankei insisted, however, that he was never separated from the Buddha-mind. If you were, he said, you would not be asking this question now. Your mind is not really somewhere else. It is just that you have not yet learned correctly about it. You do not know your own self. Instead of just dwelling in it, you change and distort it into other things. When you are in this state, your mind is at a low level of efficiency and you cannot absorb information or function at your maximum potential. You are not absent-minded, just tying up part of your mind by making it do things which it would not normally do.

The psychological aspect in Bankei’s teaching is paramount. This is because he laid so much stress on practice and actually living in the Unborn. Theory, theology and metaphysics take a back seat in the exposition of Unborn Zen. Even the psychology is narrowed down and sharply focused: “Your self-partiality is at the root of all illusions. There aren’t any illusions when you don’t have this preference for yourself.” And, of course, without illusions one lives in the Unborn as an enlightened Buddha.

The Buddha-mind has wonderful illuminative wisdom, he constantly taught. All past experiences and actions are fully reflected in it. It is good spiritual practice, therefore, not to fix onto these reflecting images. If you do, you are creating illusion. Originally, these thoughts had no substance, so the prudent way of dealing with them is to ignore them, whether they are rising or stopping. Then, no matter how many thoughts there are, it is the same as if none had arisen. The tyranny of memory and past conditioning is broken, and with it, neurotic behaviour patterns and other psychological problems.

Brushing off thoughts which arise is just like
washing off blood with blood. We remain impure because
of being washed with blood, even when the blood that
was first there has gone — and if we continue in this
way the impurity never departs. This is from ignorance
of the mind’s unborn, unvanishing, and unconfused
nature. If we take second thoughts (normal thinking)
or an effective reality, we keep going on and on
around the wheel of birth and death. You should
realise that such thought is just a temporary mental
construction, and not try to hold or to reject it.

A close examination of most religions reveals a hefty weight of self-partiality, myth, and dubious authority; so much so that the underlying impulse to reveal God/the Unborn is lost in a welter of forms and ceremonies. The absolute makes an appearance only in distorted or anthropomorphic terms, rarely in its suchness.

The impression left after a reading of Bankei’s talks is that of religion, philosophy, and psychology, merged and distilled down to the finest essence, until all that remains is the bare, ungarnished truth of the non-dual Unborn, fully revealed in the consciousness of each individual.

The conscious act of steadfastly being in the Unborn, is the basis of many Japanese art-forms and activities, including Zen archery, flower arranging, landscaping and gardening, the tea ceremony and brush drawing and calligraphy. The practitioner, by concentrating his mind, submerges himself in the Unborn, where the seer, the seeing and the seen, subject and object, dissolve one into the other and into effortless, non-dual activity.

Dr. D.T. Suzuki, who trained in the Rinzai Zen school, wrote this about Japanese artistic expression: “How does a painter get into the spirit of the (subject)? The secret is to become the (subject) itself…The discipline consists in studying the (subject to be painted) inwardly with his mind thoroughly purified of its subjective, self-centred contents. This means to keep the mind in unison with the emptiness or suchness (of the subject)…and transform himself into the (subject) itself.”

The result is an elegant, artless performance, devoid of ego and self-partiality, in which the Buddha-mind expresses itself with perfection as the True Man of the Way.

Bankei always claimed that he was the only master to give proof that the Unborn Buddha-mind was, as he declared, the sole ground of human consciousness.

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A Life of Bankei by John M Evans. Part of the Zen Masters Series.

It is interesting that the issues we now associate with the term “political correctness” arose even in Bankei’s day.

At one public meeting a woman stood up, unintimidated by the eminence of the master. She spoke with some heat: “You know that women are not allowed to climb the sacred mountains,” she said. “And we are not allowed into the precincts either. Why is it said that women have deep karma and that this bars us from such things?”

Bankei sensed he was now in the realm of politics not spirit, so he passed it off with a jest. “You know,” he said to the woman, “that there is a nunnery in Kamakura?” She nodded. “Unfortunately, it’s closed to men!”

Women, he knew, were often treated badly by institutionalized clergy who liked to carve a cosy exclusive niche for themselves. But Bankei was aware that enlightenment was barred to no-one. However, as an administrative problem he could only give a view and hope that it would have some effect on others.

A rather stern, middle-aged monk addressed him from the floor. “In the past,” he began, “great masters like Engo and Daie used koan to lead their students to enlightenment. Why do you not do so?”

Bankei used a stock reply, he was often asked this one. “Did the great masters before the two you name also use koan?” The monk sat down discomfited. It had been a long day, despite the bright weather. Bankei brought the session to a close, thanked the visitors for their efforts in coming to see him and urged them all to take very good care of themselves.

Bankei’s enlightenment eventually came after fourteen years of unremitting labour. In the final days, as did the Buddha before him, he brought himself to the brink of death before nature relented and gave him the vision he had so long sought.

From the day he had been asked to leave his home at the age of eleven, the young Bankei had looked in vain for a competent Zen teacher. In the absence of one, he had tried a number of other options, including the constant repetition of the name of Amida Buddha. This had induced a temporary samadhi, but brought him no nearer to “clarifying his bright virtue”.

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