The Highest Way Is Not Difficult

Engo's commentary on the case

Jōshū regularly raised this saying, especially “It only shuns picking and choosing.” It comes from the Inscription on Trusting the Heart, attributed to the Third Patriarch: The highest way is not difficult; it only shuns picking and choosing. Only do not hate or love, and all is openly clear. The moment there is right and wrong, there is choosing and there is clarity. The moment you understand it that way, you have missed. Riveted and glued—what use is that? Jōshū said, “That is choosing; that is clarity.” People now investigate Zen and ask about the way. If they are not sitting in picking and choosing, they immediately sit down inside clarity. “This old monk is not within clarity. Do you still treasure it or not?” Since you people are not within clarity, tell me: where is Jōshū? Why does he tell people to treasure it? My late teacher Wuzu would say, “Lowering a hand and coming seems to go beyond you.” How do you understand that? What is the place of lowering a hand? Recognize the intent at the hook; do not mistake the fixed mark on the scale.⁴ The monk who came forward was remarkable. He caught Jōshū at an empty place and pressed him: “Since you are not within clarity, what is there to treasure?” Jōshū did not use a blow or a shout. He only said, “I don't know either.” If it had been anyone but this old fellow, the monk's press might have made him forget what came before and lose what came after. Fortunately, Jōshū had freedom to turn, so he answered as he did. Zen practitioners now, when questioned, also say, “I don't know; I don't understand.” But what can be done? It is the same road, but different wheel tracks.⁵ This monk had something remarkable. He knew enough to ask, “Since you don't know, why do you say you are not within clarity?” Another good press. Someone else might have been unable to explain himself. Jōshū was an expert. He only said, “Asking about the matter is fine. Bow, then withdraw.” The monk still could do nothing with the old fellow. He had to swallow his breath and stifle his voice. This is a great-handed teacher. He does not argue mystery or subtlety, mechanism or situation with you. He consistently receives people with the essential matter. Thus it is said: When curses are traded, I allow you to answer back. When spit is traded, I allow you to splash water.⁶ People do not realize that this old fellow never used blows and shouts to receive anyone. He used only ordinary speech, yet people throughout the world could do nothing with him. Throughout his life he carried little calculation. He could pick it up sideways and use it upside down, go against or go along, and gain great freedom. People now do not understand. They only keep saying, “Jōshū did not answer. He did not explain it for people.” They do not realize they miss him face-to-face. Setchō knew where Jōshū came down, and so he versified the case this way. After “The highest way is not difficult,” he immediately says, “Speech comes straight; words come straight.” “If I raise one corner and he does not return with the other three…” Setchō says, “One has many kinds; two have no two modes,” as though returning the three corners with one.⁹ Tell me: where is the place where speech comes straight and words come straight? Why does one have many kinds, while two have no two modes? If you do not have eyes, where will you feel your way? If you penetrate these two lines, then—as an ancient said—you are beaten into one piece. Still you see mountain as mountain, water as water, long as long, short as short, heaven as heaven, earth as earth. Sometimes call heaven earth and earth heaven. Sometimes call mountain not-mountain and water not-water. Ultimately, how do you become settled? Wind comes and trees move. Waves rise and the boat lifts. Spring gives birth and summer grows; autumn gathers and winter stores. With one level disposition, quietly exhausted of itself, the first four lines suddenly come to an end. Setchō had talent left over, so he separated the matter and bound it up. Yet when you reckon it, he merely set another head atop his head: The highest way is not difficult. Speech comes straight; words come straight. One has many kinds; two have no two modes. Though there are not all these affairs, when the sun rises at the horizon, the moon descends. When the mountains deepen before the rail, the water grows cold. Here speech comes straight and words come straight. Everywhere is the way; every thing is wholly real. Is this not the place where heart and objects are both forgotten, beaten into one piece? Setchō's head is far too solitary and steep, and at the end he leaks a great deal. If you investigate through and see through, it is naturally like the finest flavor of ghee. If emotional interpretation is not forgotten, everything splits into seven flowers and eight fragments. You certainly cannot understand this kind of speech. “In the skull, consciousness exhausted—where could joy stand? / A dragon sings in the dead tree; the sound has not died away.” This is precisely the interwoven place. The monk questioned Jōshū as he did, and Jōshū answered as he did. This is an old case of asking about the way. Setchō drags it over, strings it through in one strand, and uses it to verse “The highest way is not difficult; it only shuns picking and choosing.” People now do not understand the ancients' intent. They only bite words and chew phrases. When will that ever end? Only an expert open in every direction can distinguish this kind of speech. Have you not seen how a monk asked Kyōgen, “What is the way?” Kyōgen said, “A dragon sings inside a dead tree.” The monk asked, “What is the person within the way?” Kyōgen said, “Eyes inside a skull.” Later the monk asked Shishuang, “What is a dragon singing inside a dead tree?” Shishuang said, “It still carries joy.” “What are eyes inside a skull?” “They still carry consciousness.” The monk then asked Sōzan, “What is a dragon singing inside a dead tree?” Sōzan said, “The blood pulse is not cut off.” “What are eyes inside a skull?” “Not completely dried out.” “Who can hear it?” “Across the whole earth, there is not one who does not hear.” “I do not know what verses the dragon sings.” “Whoever hears them is lost.”¹⁰ There is also a verse: A dragon singing in a dead tree truly sees the way. In a skull without consciousness, the eyes first become clear. When joy and consciousness end, all news ends. How could that person distinguish the clear within the muddy? Setchō can be said to have considerable ability. He interwove all of it and versified it for you at once. Even so, there are not two modes. At the end, where Setchō serves people, he says, “Difficult! Difficult!” You must pass through even this “difficult, difficult.” Why? Hyakujō said, “All speech, mountains, rivers, and the great earth—each and every one turns and returns to oneself.” With every lift and set-down, Setchō must finally return to oneself.¹¹ Tell me: where does Setchō serve people? Picking and choosing, clarity—you must see for yourself. After finishing his vine-spinning verse, why does he say, “You must see for yourself”? Luckily he lets you see for yourself. Tell me: where does his intent come down? Do not say that you people cannot understand. Even when this mountain monk reaches here, he too simply does not understand.