Seppō's Grain of Rice

Engo's commentary on the case

Changqing asked Unmon, “When Seppō spoke this way, was there still some point from which he could not get his head out?” Unmon said, “There was.” “What was it?” “You cannot make everything into a wild-fox spirit's understanding.” Seppō himself said, “Matched above, it falls short; matched below, it has something to spare. I will entangle you in vines once more.”⁴ He raised his staff and asked, “Do you see Seppō?” Then he shouted. The king's command had grown somewhat strict: no one was permitted to seize the market out of turn. Dawei Zhe said, “I will add mud on top of soil for you.” He raised his staff. “Look! Seppō is defecating right in front of you.” Then he shouted. “Why don't you even know that excrement stinks?” Seppō had told the assembly, “Gather the whole earth up into a grain of millet.” The ancients had extraordinary ways of meeting beings and benefiting life, but they worked exceedingly hard. Seppō ascended Touzi three times and visited Dongshan nine times. He kept a lacquer bucket and wooden ladle and served as cook wherever he went, all to break through this matter.⁵ Once, while he was cook at Dongshan's monastery, Dongshan asked, “What are you doing?” “Washing rice.” “Do you wash out the sand and remove the rice, or wash the rice and remove the sand?” “I remove sand and rice together.” Dongshan asked, “What will the assembly eat?” Seppō overturned the basin. Dongshan said, “Your affinity lies with Tokusan,” and directed him there. As soon as Seppō arrived, he asked Tokusan, “Does this student have a share in the matter of the ancestral vehicle?” Tokusan struck him and said, “What are you saying?” From this Seppō gained an insight. Later, when snow detained him on Aoshan, he said to Gantō, “When I was under Tokusan's staff, it felt as though the bottom had fallen from a bucket.” Gantō shouted, “Haven't you heard? What enters through the gate is not the family treasure. It must flow from your own breast, covering heaven and earth; only then is there a little correspondence.” Seppō suddenly awakened. He bowed and said, “Elder brother, only today have I realized the Way on Aoshan.”⁶ People today keep saying that the ancients deliberately staged such things to give later people rules to follow. To say that slanders the ancients; it is called drawing blood from a buddha's body. The ancients were not careless like people today. How could they take half a phrase to be the business of an entire life? When they upheld the ancestral teaching and continued the Buddha's life, half a phrase naturally sat and cut off every tongue beneath heaven. It left no path for you to set your attention, generate an interpretation, or enter by way of doctrine. Look at this instruction of Seppō's. Because he had met genuine experts, he possessed an expert's hammer and tongs. Whenever he uttered half a phrase, it did not come from the ghost cave of mental calculation. It stood out from the crowd, cut off past and present, and allowed no deliberation. All his activity was like this. One day he said, “On South Mountain there is a turtle-nosed snake. Every one of you must look after it carefully.”⁷ Dōgo Leng stepped forward and said, “If so, many people in this hall will lose body and life today.” At another time Seppō said, “The whole earth is a mendicant's single eye. Where will you people defecate?” Again he said, “I have already met you at Wangzhou Pavilion. I have already met you at Wushi Ridge. I have already met you in front of the monks' hall.” Hofuku asked Ehu, “Set aside the meeting before the monks' hall. What about the meeting at Wangzhou Pavilion and Wushi Ridge?” Ehu strode quickly back to the abbot's quarters. Seppō regularly instructed the assembly with sayings like these. Take “Gather the whole earth up into a grain of millet.” At that moment, can you calculate it through discriminating consciousness? You must break the enclosing net, drop gain and loss, right and wrong all at once, and stand free and unencumbered. Then you naturally pass through his snare and see where he functions. Tell me: where was Seppō's intent? Many people form an interpretation: “Mind is lord of the ten thousand things; the whole earth is in my hand at once.” Happily, that has nothing to do with it. Here you must be genuine. The instant you hear it raised, see through to bone and marrow without falling into thought, conception, or imagination. To a true patch-robed pilgrim, even Seppō speaking this way is already a great deal of trouble undertaken for others. Look at Setchō's verse. Setchō naturally saw the ancient. He needed only one thrust at the lifeline to bring it out in verse: The ox's head sinks; the horse's head turns back. Tell me: what does this say? To someone who sees through, it is as ordinary as eating gruel in the morning and rice at noon. Out of compassion, Setchō smashes directly with one hammer and cuts off with one phrase. It remains forbiddingly steep—like sparks struck from stone, like lightning. It shows no blade or point and gives you nowhere to approach. Can you search it out beneath the faculty of thought? These first two lines have said everything at once. With the third line Setchō opens a single thread of a road and exposes a little of the pattern. Already he has descended into the weeds. The fourth line descends further still. If you produce words from words, phrases from phrases, and meanings from meanings—constructing explanations and understandings—you burden this old monk and betray Setchō as well. Though the ancients' words are like this, their intent is not confined to the words. They never construct a principle with which to bind people. “In Sōkei's mirror, every mote of dust is gone.” How many say, “The quiet mind is the mirror”? Happily, that has nothing to do with it. If you keep constructing conceptual principles, when will it end? This is speech of the fundamental matter. This mountain monk does not dare depart from it: The ox's head sinks; the horse's head turns back. Setchō has spoken distinctly. People simply do not see. So he goes to such trouble in the verse: Beat the drum: come look— yet you do not see. Can a fool see? Setchō tells you further: When spring comes, for whom do the hundred flowers open?⁹ He has flung open the windows and doors, opened all eight characters at once.¹⁰ When spring comes, the hundred flowers burst open in secluded valleys, wild ravines, even places where no one is present. Tell me: for whom do they open?